“That’s okay,” I said for the third time. “I’ll talk to you later.”

The line went dead, and I tossed my phone on the cushion next to me as I stared blankly at the comedy still playing on the TV. My favorite part of watching movies, of reading books, was getting lost in a story that wasn’t mine. A feel-good story that inevitably had a happy ending. It was the only way I was going to live one, vicariously through others.

Because despite outward appearances, a happy ending wasn’t in my cards.

*   *   *

I woke to a noise, my eyes popping open as I lay on the couch, having fallen asleep sometime during my fourth movie. Another residual effect from my teenage years—the ability to sleep light as a feather, the softest sound enough to wake me. Without moving an inch, I quickly took in my surroundings. The TV was frozen on the menu screen, the movie having long since stopped, not a sound coming from anywhere. I lay as still as I could and listened for any movement. What I’d heard was probably nothing more than a tree branch scraping a window or the house settling, but I couldn’t write it off immediately.

After minutes of listening for any further noise and finally confident that it’d just been something trivial, I sat up and reached for the remote to turn off the TV, then grabbed my cell phone from the cushion next to me and stood. I checked the screen, seeing it was close to five A.M., and breathed a sigh of relief that it was Saturday, and I had nowhere to be. The hallway light upstairs lit a muted path as my feet slapped against the hardwood, heading in the direction of my room and the bed I hoped would allow me peaceful dreams.

I was three steps from the stairs when a creak sounded from the floor at the same time a hand reached out from the shadows and connected with my arm.

Without thinking, without taking a moment to second-guess myself, I snapped into action, my foot going back and connecting with a solid mass of muscle at the same time I spun around, my other arm coming down hard on his and causing his grip on my arm to loosen. I used his surprise to my advantage, not staying to fight but instead twisting from his grasp and running toward the kitchen. Toward my keys and the door that would lead me to freedom.

I’d thought about this day countless times over the past five years. How it would happen. When it would happen. If Eric would be home when it did. Because I knew it was inevitable. I knew I couldn’t run forever, that at some point, someone would find me. I just didn’t know which bad guy I’d left behind would be the one breathing down my neck.

But in all the times I’d thought about it, in all the times I’d played this scenario out in my head, I’d always gotten away. I’d always managed to get to the door in time, managed to grab my keys and get into my car before the intruder could reach me.

Never once did I end up forced face-first against a wall, the cold drywall biting into my cheek as someone pressed along my back, my arms bound tightly to my sides as his wrapped around me, the solid weight of him holding me in place.

Even then, I didn’t stop struggling. Even then, when all the odds were stacked against me, I couldn’t blow out the fire burning inside of me, and I fought. Against the weight pressing into my back, against the restraints holding my arms down, I struggled to get free—always struggling to get free—but I was pinned. Trapped. With no way out.

Just like so many times before.

My breaths started coming in quick, sharp gasps, buried childhood memories creeping along my spine as I was transported back to a place I didn’t want to go. A place I never wanted to go, but one my cruel mind took me to without permission.

Drawn curtains and scratchy sheets and darkness and silence. Always silence, except for the muffled sobs I couldn’t seem to help.

“Stop fighting.” The male voice was low and harsh, frustrated. His breath brushed my ear, and I froze, my flashback evaporating in the blink of an eye. I froze because though I hadn’t heard it in years, I knew that voice. I recognized it as sure as I’d recognize my own face. Because it was a voice I’d heard in my dreams too many times to count. When my dreams were dreams and not the nightmares that so frequently plagued me, it was his face I saw. His voice I heard. His body I felt.

It was him. It was always him.

The one person who could make me feel better, the solace to my pain. My sanctuary when I’d needed escape. And I’d needed escape more often than not. More often than I’d ever let on. Because admitting that I’d needed an escape would mean admitting the truth, and I hadn’t ever been ready to do that.

I still wasn’t ready to do that.

“Stop fighting,” he repeated, though I’d gone still at his first words. “It’s me.”

My breathing was harsh, Riley’s matching mine as his chest rose and fell against my back, his breaths puffing against the side of my face. And despite the situation, despite the terror that still gripped my throat, I became aware of every inch of him pressed against me.

Judging by the bulk of him along my back, he’d grown a couple inches since I’d last seen him and had filled out, no longer the somewhat scrawny kid I’d known. I always wondered if he’d changed much over the years, but I’d never allowed myself to look. I’d never allowed myself to ask Ghost or Aaron about him, thinking it was better for everyone—me especially—to have a clean break. To forget about him as best I could.

But it was painfully obvious now, as that low hum of awareness I’d always felt around him buzzed through my veins, that I hadn’t forgotten an inch of his body. Hadn’t forgotten the sound of his voice.

Hadn’t forgotten how safe it felt to be held in his arms.

Chapter Four

As quickly as the thought had come to me, it fled, replaced by a wave of anger, my helplessness and fear transforming into aggression in the blink of an eye.

“Get off me,” I said, enunciating each word and pushing as much force into my voice as I could.

“Are you going to be a good girl and not fight?”

His tone, so carefree and steady, almost patronizing, only pissed me off more. “I said,” I spat, twisting my head around until our noses were only an inch apart, “get off me.”

He stared at me, his eyes flitting between mine in the muted light spilling down from upstairs. Then slowly, oh so slowly, he started relaxing his grip on me until, finally, he stepped back, the weight and heat of his body stolen from mine. I closed my eyes, resting my face against the wall, and breathed a sigh of relief as I tried to get my bearings.

When I once again had the mask in place, I pushed off from the wall and turned to face him. And even though I’d taken the time I’d needed to get myself in character, it hadn’t helped. I might as well have done nothing at all as the shock of seeing him once again after so long with only my memories to keep me company hit me full force, a roundhouse kick to the chest.

I’d been right—he had filled out since eighteen. While still not as bulky as Ghost, Riley had grown, his once lanky body transforming to something lean and muscular. His hair was longer than it’d been when I’d known him, no longer the buzz cut he’d once favored. The sides and back were trimmed close now, but the top was grown out a bit more and shaggy. His eyes, even in the dim light, were still just as piercing as they’d always been, the crystal-clear blue of the ocean reflecting back at me. His jaw was shadowed with a day or two’s worth of stubble—something he’d never done back when he was a kid. It made him look older, harder, harsher—another thing he’d never been in all the time I’d known him. Though he’d tried, though he’d put on a front because he looked up to his brother and wanted to be like him—something I knew he’d never admit to—he hadn’t ever really fit in with the crew. He was too laid back, too easygoing, too happy to truly fit in with a group of people who broke the law for a living.