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)
When I finish, I wash my bowl, and dry my hands. Then I turn to him. The question I've been carrying since we left HQ finally spills out. "What are we going to do?" My voice is careful. "Like… today. Here. What's the plan?"
Ozzy leans his forearms on the counter, gaze steady on mine. "Plan is you recover. You eat. You sleep. You breathe."
"That's not a plan," I say, because stillness feels like surrender.
His eyes narrow just a fraction. "It is."
I huff. "What if I go insane?"
He tilts his head. "You bored already?"
"No," I say too fast. "I'm just…" Restless. Wired. Terrified the second I stop moving, the memories will catch me.
Ozzy watches me like he hears every word I don't say. Then he offers, "We can do anything we want. Within reason."
I blink. "Anything?"
"Anything." He nods. "We're lowkey, not locked down. Just don't make waves."
I glance toward the window, toward the woods and the distant shimmer of water. "I saw a creek on the drive up," I say, surprised by how badly I want it. "Is it close?"
His gaze follows mine. "Yeah. Ten-minute walk."
"Could we…" I hesitate, hating how small I sound. "Could we go?"
Ozzy straightens instantly. "Yeah. We can go."
My chest loosens. "Swimming?" I ask.
"It's cold," he warns.
"I'm tougher than cold," I say, chin up.
His mouth curves. "I'm not arguing toughness with you. I watched you weaponize stationery."
"Good." I smirk. "Then let's go."
He pushes off the counter. "Get dressed. Shoes. Jacket. And—" His eyes meet mine, serious now. "If you feel weird out there, we come back. No pressure."
I swallow hard, and nod once. "Okay," I whisper.
He holds my gaze, and then heads for the door. I watch him go, my brain still short-circuiting between safe and wanting and I can't believe this is my life now. Then I grab my jacket. Because for the first time in weeks, I'm not just surviving. I'm choosing. And if Ozzy thinks he can keep me tucked away in a safehouse without me at least trying to take back my body, my joy, maybe even my future— he's about to learn something important.
I don't fold.
I don't stay broken.
And I definitely don't say no to a creek when it means feeling alive again.
EIGHT
OZZY
The creek hits me before I even see it.
We push through the last line of trees, and there it is: not some postcard-perfect babbling brook, but a real, living thing. No dramatic roar, no white-water theatrics, just this steady, endless rush over rounded stones that have been polished smooth by decades, maybe centuries, of the same water doing the same job. It doesn’t pause. It doesn’t care. It’s been carving this shallow channel long before I was born, long before Salem was dragged into hell, long before any of the monsters we’ve both met decided the world was theirs to break.
I stop at the edge of the bank, boots sinking slightly into the damp moss, and just listen.
The sound fills the space between my ribs. Persistent. Unapologetic. Like the creek knows exactly what it’s supposed to do and has zero interest in anyone else’s opinion. There’s no judgment here, no pity, no questions about why Salem’s shoulders are still tight or why my hands keep flexing like they’re waiting for the next fight. The water just moves. Forward. Over every obstacle. Wearing stone down without ever raising its voice.
I like that.
More than I expected to.
It’s the kind of indifference that feels like mercy.
Salem steps up beside me, close enough that I catch the faint clean-laundry scent of her borrowed hoodie mixing with pine and wet earth. She’s staring at the creek like it might tell her something, like maybe if she listens hard enough it’ll explain how to feel normal again.
I don’t say anything yet. I just stand there with her, letting the rush of water drown out the leftover noise in my head—the echo of gunshots, the creak of that basement door, the way her voice cracked when she asked me to stay last night. The creek doesn’t give a damn about any of it, and right now that feels like the most honest thing in the world.
I glance at her profile. Her jaw is set, chin lifted just enough to say she’s daring the cold to try her. Her hands are shoved deep in her pockets, but I can see the faint tremor in her fingers. Not fear, exactly. More like everything inside her is still vibrating from the last few weeks and hasn’t figured out how to settle yet.
“You good?” I ask, keeping my voice low so it doesn’t compete with the water.
She nods once, quick. “Yeah. It’s… louder than I thought.”
“Same,” I admit. “Not angry. Just… doing its thing.”
She exhales through her nose, a small sound that’s almost a laugh. “I like that. That it doesn’t care.”