Page 11 of Jax & Knox

I force myself to breathe slowly. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. Shallow breaths. Anything deeper makes the pain flare white-hot.

My cheekbone throbs with a dull, persistent ache. I reach up carefully and touch it, wincing at the heat radiating from the bruise. The skin is tight and swollen, and I know without looking in a mirror that it's ugly. Purple. Yellow around the edges. A map of violence written across my face.

Every muscle in my body aches. My shoulders. My back. My thighs. Even my hands hurt from gripping the steering wheel so tightly yesterday, from holding Owen, from trying to hold myself together.

I turn my head slowly, carefully, and my heart stutters in my chest until I see him.

Owen.

He's asleep in the makeshift crib, a laundry basket lined with soft blankets, right next to the bed. His little chest rises and falls in that perfect, steady rhythm that only babies have. His dark curls are a mess against his forehead, his chubby fists curled near his face. He looks peaceful.

I exhale a breath I didn't know I was holding.

He's okay. We're okay.

For now.

I sit up slowly, every movement deliberate, and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cold under my bare feet. I stand, ignoring the way my body screams in protest, and move to Owen's side. I reach down and rest my hand on his back, feeling the warmth of him, the life of him. He stirs slightly but doesn't wake.

"We're okay," I whisper.

I don't know if I'm trying to convince him or myself.

The room is small but clean. A bed, a dresser, a chair in the corner. There's a window with bars on it and I don't know if that makes me feel safer or more trapped. The walls are plain, the floor scuffed. It's not much, but it's more than I had yesterday.

More than I've had in a long time.

I move to the window and peer out through the curtains. Bright morning light casts long shadows across the parking lot. I can see motorcycles lined up in neat rows, a few trucks, the main building of the clubhouse looming in the distance. It's quiet out there. Peaceful, almost.

But I can't relax. I can't let my guard down.

Justin is out there. Somewhere. Hunting.

I press my forehead against the cool glass and close my eyes. My hands are shaking. They haven't stopped shaking since I left. Since I grabbed Owen and ran. Since I realized that staying meant dying, or worse, watching Owen grow up in that hell.

I can still feel Justin's hands on me. His fists. His voice in my ear, low and venomous, telling me I'm nothing. That I'm worthless. That no one will ever want me. That Owen would be better off without me. That he'd make sure I never saw my son again if I tried to leave.

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, trying to block it out, but it doesn't work. It never works.

The memories are always there, lurking just beneath the surface. Waiting to drag me under.

I force myself to breathe. In through my nose. Out through my mouth.

A soft whimper pulls me back.

Owen.

I turn and see him stirring, his little face scrunching up in that way that means he's about to cry. I move as quickly as I can, which isn't very quick at all, and scoop him up before he can fully wake. Pain shoots through my ribs and I bite down hard on my lip to keep from crying out.

I hold him close to my chest, breathing through the pain. He settles immediately, nuzzling into me, his tiny hand gripping my shirt.

"Hey, baby," I whisper, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Mama's here. You're okay."

He blinks up at me with those big brown eyes, my eyes, and smiles. It's a sleepy, gummy smile that makes my chest ache in the best way.

This. This is why I ran. This is why I'll keep running if I have to.

For him.