Page 115 of Breaking His Exile

“I called for help.”

“I know. Walker told me. Over the radio, while we were driving. Brandt had comms.” She squeezed his wrist. “You asked.”

The word sat between them. Heavy. Final. He had asked. After eight years of believing that needing people gave them power to hurt or abandon him, he had picked up a satellite phone and called Walker Nash and said I need your help.

Rainey’s hand moved to his face. Her palm cupped his jaw. Her thumb traced the line of his cheekbone where the beard grew in rough, and he leaned into the touch without meaning to, without deciding to, his body moving before his mind caught up.

“I love you,” he said.

The words came out quiet. Raw. Unpracticed. He hadn’t rehearsed them. Hadn’t planned to say them here, against a fallen pine in the cold, with gunshot residue still hanging in the air and blood on both their clothes. They just arrived. Three words he had carried since the mountain, since the fever, since the night he’d held her in the guest room and written a note instead of speaking.

Rainey’s eyes filled. She didn’t cry. The tears gathered and held, bright and unshed, and her mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“Again.”

“I love you, Rainey.”

She pulled him down. Her mouth found his, careful of her split lip, and he kissed her with his hand cradling the back of her head and his cracked ribs protesting and nothing in the world mattering except the warmth of her against him and the three words he would never take back.

Tilly whined. Pressed harder against Rainey’s hip. Rainey broke the kiss, laughing through the wince, and scratched the dog behind the ears.

“She’s jealous.”

“She’s concerned.” Evander rested his forehead against Rainey’s. Their breath mingled in the cold air. “I left her with you. She takes that seriously.”

“Smart dog.”

“Better judgment than her owner.”

Radio chatter cut through the trees. Brandt’s voice, clipped and authoritative, directing his team through the scene. Evander caught fragments—evidence collection, vehicle searches, weapons secured. The federal case building itself one piece at a time.

Footsteps approached. Deliberate. Unhurried. Brandt emerged from the timber, his dark suit jacket open, a radio in one hand. He took in the scene—Evander kneeling beside Rainey, Tilly pressed close, the blood, the swollen temple—and his expression didn’t change. He’d seen worse. Probably much worse.

“Ms. Beckett.” Brandt nodded to her. “Medical’s on its way. Bear’s coming up the road.”

“How bad is it?” Rainey asked.

“Hobbs is dead. Single gunshot to the head. Execution-style. Creed’s work, from the positioning.” Brandt’s voice was matter-of-fact. No drama. Just information. “Mal and the woman escaped on the motorcycle. Gemma’s injured—your dog did significant damage to her face—but she was conscious when they left. Riding pillion. Mal driving.”

Evander’s jaw tightened. Mal. Gone. The man who had put a gun to his head, who had threatened Rainey, who had orchestrated every piece of this from the moment Rainey walked out of his clubhouse. Riding east on County 14 with a bleeding woman behind him and the whole of federal law enforcement about to land on his organization.

He should have felt rage. Should have wanted to run. Should have been halfway to Greta’s truck already, chasing taillights, because that was the pattern. That was what he did. Men hurt the people he cared about, and he pursued them until something broke.

He looked at Rainey. At the blood in her hair. At the way she held his hand like she was afraid he might let go.

He stayed on his knees.

“Creed?” Evander asked.

“Missing.” Brandt checked his watch. “Blood trail leads northeast from the turnout. Significant volume. He took at least one round, possibly more. The trail disappears near a secondary access road about a quarter-mile out. No vehicle tracks. No body. He either walked out under his own power or someone picked him up.”

“Mal’s people.”

“Or his own.” Brandt’s gaze held Evander’s. “You want to pursue?”