Page 225 of Rogue Riders Duet

Roofs?

“I had a good life,” she continues, voice smaller. “A loving husband, a sweet boy, a home that felt full, and then one morning, I woke up, and there was a letter beside me. A goodbye.” She swallows hard, her eyes turning glossy. “He was just like Luc,” she shares. “Adrenaline in his blood, always chasing the next thrill. I guess… I guess that’s how he wanted to go.”

She looks past me, like she’s somewhere far away now.

“He jumped off a bridge. I think he wanted to feel alive one last time. I ask myself every day if that last jump gave him joy or dread.”

I can see it too easily. Luc’s dad, alone, wind rushing past him, choosing that fall, choosing finality. Élise, finding a letter instead of a husband, and a young Luc, waking up in a house with one less heartbeat.

They didn’t deserve that pain.

This woman, who brought me into her home without hesitation and put her arms around me.

Luc, who held me while I broke, who pulled me into his chest like it was the safest place in the world.

Luc, who lost his father because he chose to leave.

And I’m planning to do the same damn thing to him.

To all of them.

Flashes of the people I love finding me gone fill my mind.

Élise, waking up to the news. Luc, reliving the silence he already had to survive once. And Dane.

God, Dane.

I told myself it would be a relief for him. That he’d finally be free after giving up everything for me—his choices, his dreams, the years of his life he sacrificed trying to hold me together. I convinced myself I was a burden he’d finally be able to set down.

But now, seeing what that kind of loss actually looks like?

Leaving him wouldn’t be freedom. It would destroy him.

Just like it would break Luc. It would hollow out Piper and Mason, and Finn would never be able to live guilt-free again.

And my dad, who just said he loved me for the first time in my life.

The idea of being that kind of pain in someone else’s life.

Fuck.

My insides turn to water, and my skin suddenly doesn’t fit right as my stomach churns violently, and before I can even process what’s happening, I’m on my feet and stumbling into the kitchen.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe.

I barely make it to the trash can before I’m heaving, but nothing but bile and breathless panic comes out.

Élise is there in an instant, her hand on my back, stroking gently. “It’s okay,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry. That was probably too much.”

“No.” I gasp between breaths. “No. Don’t be sorry. It’s not you.”

Because it’s not. Not really.

It’s everything.

It’s me.