Page 145 of The Ache That Stayed

And then it hit me. The pieces started fitting together. Tiny details lining up. The way she’d held her phone—too tight. The way the colour had drained from her face. The way she had shut me out too fast. Damage control.

My grip tightened around the glass.

“Shit.”

I was already on my feet before the thought finished forming. I didn’t remember leaving. Didn’t remember getting back on the bike. Just the way everything narrowed into one clear line of instinct that I had ignored for too long.

She hadn’t pushed me away because she didn’t want me there. She had pushed me away because she couldn’t afford me there. And like the bastard I was, I had walked.

The cottage door was unlocked, the lights still low—exactly how I’d left them.

“Roxanne.”

No answer. The silence inside felt wrong. Too still. Too empty. I moved through the space quickly, tension coiling tight in my chest, every instinct on edge. It didn’t take long to find her.

She was on the floor. Curled in on herself, one arm tucked beneath her, the other limp at her side like she had dropped mid-step and never made it back up.

For a second—just one—everything in me went still. My breath caught.

“Rox.”

I dropped beside her, fingers at her neck, checking her pulse—there. Weak, but steady enough to keep me from losing it completely. Her skin was warm. Her lashes damp. Her face red and swollen. She’d been crying. A dark and protective streak twisted low in my chest.

I slid an arm under her, lifting her carefully, her body soft, unresisting, like she had nothing left to fight with. She didn’t wake. Didn’t even stir. I carried her to the bed, laying her down slower than necessary, my hand lingering at the back of her neck for a second longer than it should have.

“Roxanne,” I said, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.

Nothing. My jaw clenched. I stepped back, forcing myself to think. That was when I saw her phone on the table. I picked it up, bringing it to her face. The screen unlocked. Her messages were already open by the time I registered what I was looking at.

Darius Uncle.

The name alone was enough.

I scrolled.

Location. Time. Instructions. And then—the picture.

Her. With me. Outside the motel. Too close. Too clear.

A slow, dangerous clarity settled in.

“So that’s what you’ve got on her,” I muttered under my breath.

Blackmail. Not just her.

Marcello. Everything.

My grip tightened around the phone as I read it again, slower this time.

Tomorrow. Three. Warehouse.

I looked back at her, at the way she lay there—drained, spent, like she had already gone through hell and was about to walk into it again. Alone.

“No,” I muttered under my breath.

Not happening. I stepped back toward the bed, crouching slightly as my hand came up to her hair, brushing it back gently—softer than I allowed myself to feel.

“You don’t get to do this alone,” I said quietly. “Not anymore.”