My body recognized her before my brain caught up. We were laughing—Damon mouthing off about something, Will flicking a bottle cap at his face—just regular shit before heading inside The Sticks.

Then everything stopped.

I turned my head and—

Fuck.

It was her.

Walking like her legs weren’t hers, like she didn’t know where she was going, only that her body had dragged her here. To me.

I was moving before I could think, ignored Micheal calling after me. All I could hear was the sound of my shoes hitting the pavement, the pounding in my chest, the way my lungs locked up when I saw her hand.

Blood. Dried, flaking off her skin in rust-colored trails. Fingers trembling. A jagged cut across her palm.

My hands found her waist.

“Hey. Hey, baby,” I said, breathless, gentle, like if I touched her too hard she’d shatter. “You walked here? From the City?”

Hour drive and she walked.

She looked at me with those glassy eyes like I was the first thing she’d seen in a thousand years.

I sat her on the hood of my Jeep and stepped between her knees. Her fingers ghosted over my face, dragging blood and dirt and whatever the fuck she’d been through across my cheekbones, my jaw, the bridge of my nose.

Didn’t care.

Didn’t fucking blink.

“It’s okay now,” I whispered, pressing my hands to her thighs, keeping her steady. “You’re okay now, little one. You’re with me.”

Her lip quivered but she didn’t cry.

I slid her hair off her forehead with the side of my hand. “Did she hurt you again?” I asked, voice low, quiet, dangerous.

I’m not entirely sure why I asked because of course she fucking did.

I exhaled through my nose, trying to ground myself and her. “I got you, kid.” I murmured.

I kissed her forehead. Felt the salt of dried sweat, maybe tears, I don’t know. What I do know is that she shouldered too much Probably enough to make MMA fighters hit the mat.

My head twitched to the side, leaning into her palm, nose grazing the cut and eyes locked onto hers. “You got me, okay? But you gotta come back to me first.”