Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Ugh. I hate the men who took me.
My minds wanders to the other women who were there. So many lives lost to the underbelly of this trafficking ring. I want to find them. Free them. And then burn that building down to the ground.
I step into the shower, letting the hot water scald my skin. It feels so good. My body comes alive as I think about Ozzy. So big and strong. The mohawk and neck tattoo do it for me. Who knew I’d be into that sort of thing. But it’s more than that. It’s not just about the way he looks. It’s about the way he makes me feel.
Safe. In a way I don’t think I’ve ever felt before. Sure, I was safe living with my drunk mother. Or was I?
I don’t think I’ve ever felt this safe in all of my pathetic excuse of a life.
I wash up, rinsing the conditioner out of my long dark hair, and shut the water off. I step out, pulling a towel around my body and glance at myself once more in the fogged mirror. First things first, we need to buy some makeup. Some skin lotion. Things that will make me feel more human.
I tug on dry leggings and a sweatshirt from the duffel Juno gave me.
As I’m pulling my hair into a messy bun, my mind flashes backward—creek laughter, water splashing, Ozzy’s hand bracing me when I slipped. The way he moved like his body didn’t even ask permission.
Protective.
He’s all protectiveness. All instinct. All I’m here.
And the thought that I needed him last night slams into me again. The nightmare. The thrashing. Me waking with panic clawing my throat, whispering his name like it was a prayer. I press my palms to my face, mortified all over again.
Get it together, Salem.
You are not a damsel.
You are not a helpless girl.
You are—unfortunately—a woman with feelings and a nervous system that apparently has decided Ozzy Oliver is Safe Person Number One.
Which is… annoying. And kind of terrifying. Because safe people can leave. Safe people can become unsafe. Safe people can die.
I step out into the hallway, forcing my shoulders back, chin up. Normal. Fine. Just a woman living her best life in a hidden safehouse because the world is garbage.
Ozzy’s in the kitchen, towel around his neck, hair damp again—apparently he rinsed off too—leaning over the counter like he’s studying something.
When I get closer, I see it’s a notebook. A literal notebook with a pen.
I stop short. “Is that… paper?”
Ozzy looks up, eyes flicking to my face with immediate attention. “Yeah.”
“Are we… writing in the ancient ways?”
He grins. “We are. Because it’s harder to hack paper.”
I step closer, intrigued despite myself. “What are you doing?”
Ozzy taps the pen against the page. “Making your list.”
“My list?”
“Your list,” he confirms, like he’s explaining something obvious. “Things you’ve never done before.”
I blink. “Why?”
“Because you’re going to do them,” he says simply with a shrug to his shoulders.
My stomach flips, and it’s not hunger this time. I glance at the notebook. At the top, he’s written:
SALEM’S LIST (NO EXCUSES EDITION)
Underneath are a few bullet points already:
Creek day (repeat, with snacks)
Movie night (with popcorn)
Coffee and hot chocolate concoction
Skate spot / board situation
“Coffee and hot chocolate?” I ask.
“Don’t knock it until you try it.”
I nod, lips curving into a small, dangerous smile, then let my gaze drag to the very last item. Our eyes lock. My heartbeat hammers loudly in my chest. “Board situation,” I say, my voice lower than I mean it to be.
Ozzy’s mouth gives the tiniest twitch, the corner lifting in that way that always feels like a dare. “That’s… a very technical term.”
“You’re adorable,” slips out before I can catch it. It’s soft, unguarded, and almost fond.
He freezes. Just for a heartbeat. Then something shifts in his stare: the playful glint hardens into something darker, hungrier. Heat coils behind his pupils like a lit fuse.
My pulse kicks hard against my throat. My cheeks burn. I hate how easily he does that to me. I wrench my eyes away first, force a scoff, fall back into the familiar armor of sarcasm because if I don’t, I might do something reckless like climb across this table.
“So,” I say, tapping the notebook a little too sharply, “you’re out here making me a fucking bucket list like it’s no big deal.”
His gaze doesn’t leave my face. If anything, it drags slower now—down my jaw, my throat, back up—like he’s memorizing every place my skin flushed. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice rougher than before, “keep calling me adorable and I might start thinking you mean it.”
The air between us feels thinner. Hotter. Like the next person to speak is going to be the one who breaks first.
I swallow. Tilt my head. “Would that be so terrible?”
His eyes flare. He leans in one slow, deliberate inch. “Keep talking like that,” he says quietly, “and we’re gonna find out.”