They didn’t ride far.

Once Colt warned them, Jaxon made the call in seconds. He threw their essentials into a duffel bag, grabbed his stash of cash from under the floorboards, and had Delilah on the back of the bike before the engines even got close.

The safehouse was outside the next county line, tucked behind a broken sign and camouflaged by overgrown trees. It wasn’t much—just a cabin with no neighbors, no Wi-Fi, and no questions. But to Delilah, it felt like something stolen from another life. A quieter one.

Inside, it was all worn wood and mismatched furniture. There was a small kitchen, a fireplace with soot-stained stone, and one bed. Only one.

Jaxon walked in first, dropped the bag, and exhaled like he hadn’t breathed since they left.

Delilah hovered at the doorway, suddenly unsure what to do.

“You okay?” he asked, glancing back at her.

She nodded, but her body didn’t move.

“You don’t have to act brave here,” he said gently. “There’s no cameras. No staff. Just… me.”

That made her laugh, but it came out sharp. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

He shrugged, lips tugging into a smirk. “Well, I can offer you a lukewarm shower and half a mattress.”

“I’ll take it.”

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

For the next hour, neither of them spoke much. Jaxon poked at the old stove until it coughed out heat. Delilah found an old towel and locked herself in the bathroom. When the door shut, she looked into the mirror—and almost turned away.

The real scars always surprised her. Not the emotional kind, the ones she wore like quiet shame, but the physical ones she hadn’t seen in a long time. A faint white line along her shoulder from the time she fell down the stairs. A small mark on her hip, still there after Gregory “accidentally” pushed her into a doorframe during one of his rages. She used to believe he didn’t mean it. That he was stressed. That she had provoked him.

Now, she knew better.

The water from the shower was lukewarm at best, but it washed away the road grime. She took her time, letting herself feel normal. Like any girl in any house, just tired from the day.

When she stepped out, wrapped in the towel, Jaxon was in the kitchen pouring whiskey into two mismatched mugs. He looked up, then quickly looked away.

“Sorry. Didn’t know you were—”

“It’s okay,” she said, her voice soft.

He turned his back and offered her one of the mugs without looking at her again.

She took it and slipped into the oversized flannel shirt he’d left folded on the bed. It smelled like motor oil and leather. Comforting. Honest.

“You clean up,” he said, finally meeting her eyes. “Still not blending in, though.”

She smiled and sat on the couch beside the fireplace. He joined her, a respectful distance away.

They sat in silence for a while, sipping their drinks and watching the flames dance. Outside, the wind moved through the trees, a sound that made her feel safe and haunted all at once.

“Do you ever wish your life turned out different?” she asked, surprising even herself.

Jaxon leaned back, his mug resting on his knee. “Every damn day.”

She looked at him sideways. “You regret the club?”

He hesitated. “Not the club. The choices that got me there.”

There was a quiet pause between them. Her fingers tightened around the mug.

“I used to think I had everything figured out,” she said. “I was going to marry someone powerful. We were going to do charity work. Host dinners. Travel. I would look beautiful standing next to him, and everyone would admire me for being the perfect wife.”

Jaxon was quiet, listening.

“And then one day,” she went on, her voice lowering, “I woke up and realized I was a prop. A silent, smiling, obedient little trophy. And if I ever cracked—if I ever said anything real—he’d break me.”

Jaxon turned to her, his eyes softer than she’d ever seen them.

“Did he… ever hurt you?”

She swallowed hard. “Not in a way that left bruises. Not always. But… yeah. In all the ways that matter.”

She didn’t mean to do it, but the flannel slipped off her shoulder slightly. The faint scar there caught the firelight just enough.

Jaxon noticed. His jaw tensed.

“That from him?”

She nodded once.

“I’ll kill him.”

The words were quiet, flat, and terrifyingly sincere.

Delilah blinked. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough.”

The air between them shifted. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t lean closer. But there was something between them now. A fragile thread neither of them wanted to break.

“Why are you helping me?” she whispered.

He looked into her eyes, steady and calm. “Because someone should have. Before it got this far.”

Delilah looked away, blinking back the weight in her chest. The emotions pressed against her ribs like a dam ready to crack.

“I’m tired, Jaxon.”

He nodded toward the bed. “Get some rest. I’ll take the couch.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

Still, he stood and grabbed the blanket from the bed, tossing it onto the couch like a line he wouldn’t cross.

Delilah watched him settle into the cushions, one arm behind his head, staring up at the ceiling like it held answers.

She slid under the covers, her mind whirling too fast to sleep. After a while, the silence between them started to hum—soft, warm, full of something unsaid.

“Jaxon?” she called quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Do you believe in second chances?”

He turned his head, meeting her eyes in the glow of the fire.

“I do now.”

Her heart thudded.

They didn’t say anything else.

The fire died slowly, casting flickering shadows across the walls. And just when Delilah thought she might finally sleep, there was a sound outside.

A twig snapped.

She sat up, heart skipping.

Jaxon was already on his feet, eyes sharp, his body tense.

There was another sound. A soft crunch of gravel.

He moved silently toward the window, pulled back the curtain just an inch.

Then he froze.

“What is it?” Delilah whispered.

He didn’t answer. Just reached for the gun hidden under the couch.

“Jaxon?”

He turned to her, eyes deadly calm.

“They found us.”