Chapter 1: The Back Road Rescue
The rain didn’t fall so much as it slammed down, a solid sheet of water that turned the highway into a black mirror. Beneath a flickering streetlight, its rusted cage throwing a palsied glow, the asphalt gleamed like wet obsidian. The air was thick with the smell of wet tar and gasoline.
She was a blur of movement at the edge of the light, a stumble in the darkness.
Chase saw her first as a shape. Then as a woman. Then, as his high beams swept over her, as Aubrey.
His foot jammed the brake before his mind fully processed it. The car hydroplaned for a heart-stopping second, tires squealing against the sheen of the road. He cranked the wheel, fighting the skid, and brought the sedan to a jerky halt on the gravel shoulder twenty yards past her.
He didn’t remember unbuckling or opening the door. The rain hit him like a cold slap. “Aubrey?”
She was frozen, one arm raised against the glare of his taillights. Her pale blue dress was plastered to her skin, torn at the shoulder. Her hair, usually so sleek and blonde, was a dark, tangled rope across her face. She took a wobbling step toward him, and her shoe—a ridiculous, strappy heel—sank into the mud.
“Chase?” Her voice was a scratch, swallowed by the drumming rain.
He was already running, his own shoes filling with water. “What are you doing out here? Are you hurt?” He reached for her, his hands closing around her upper arms. She was trembling violently, a fine, constant shudder he could feel in his bones.
“He… he shoved me.” The words were simple, stark. “Out the back door. Into the… the rain.” She looked down at her hands, and Chase followed her gaze. Her left knuckle was bleeding, the skin split. Her wedding ring, a modest diamond solitaire, was twisted sideways, the band digging into the swollen flesh. It looked like a trap.
A cold, specific anger settled in Chase’s chest. It had a name: Teigan.
“Okay,” he said, his voice low, forcing calm into it. “Okay, come on. You’re getting hypothermic.”
She didn’t move. She just stared at his car, her hazel eyes wide and unblinking against the rain. “I didn’t know where else to go. My phone’s in the house. I just ran.”
“You came to the right place.” The statement felt dangerous, too loaded. He pushed it aside, focusing on the practical. “Can you walk?”
She nodded, but her legs buckled as she tried. He caught her, his arm sliding around her waist, pulling her tight against his side. Her weight was slight, insubstantial. He half-carried, half-dragged her to the passenger side, yanked the door open, and maneuvered her into the seat. The interior light made her look ghostly. He saw the mud streaking her calves, the bruise already purpling on her collarbone, just above the tear in her dress.
He slammed the door, ran around the hood, and slid behind the wheel. The sudden silence of the car was a roar. The only sounds were the hammering of rain on the roof and her ragged, too-quick breathing. He cranked the heat, blasting it, and reached into the backseat for the gym sweatshirt he kept there.
“Here.” He handed it to her. She took it with numb fingers, staring at it as if she didn’t know what to do.
“Aubrey. Put it on. You need to get out of that wet dress.”
The directive, the implication, seemed to snap something in her. A choked sound escaped her lips, and then the tears came. Not delicate, but great, heaving sobs that wracked her whole body. She hunched over, the sweatshirt clutched to her chest.
Chase sat, helpless, his hands gripping the steering wheel. He wanted to touch her, to smooth her hair, to kiss her temple. He had wanted that for years. A secret, shameful want, buried under layers of loyalty and lies. Seeing her like this, broken on his passenger seat, didn’t feel like an opportunity. It felt like a crime scene.
He put the car in drive and pulled back onto the empty highway. The wipers beat a frantic rhythm.
Ten minutes later, he guided the car into his driveway. The condo was dark, a simple two-bedroom box he’d never bothered to make feel like home. “We’re here,” he said, his voice quiet.
She had cried herself out. Now she was just still, hugging the dry sweatshirt, watching the rain trace paths down the window.
He came around, opened her door. She let him help her out. Inside, he flipped on lights, revealing the clean, sparse living room. “Bathroom’s down the hall. There are clean towels in the cupboard. I’ll… I’ll find you some clothes.”
She stood dripping on his hardwood floor, a puddle forming around her. She looked at the space, at the neutral walls, the functional furniture. A safe, blank canvas. “He called me useless,” she whispered. “Because I burned the chicken. He said I was too stupid to be trusted with the grocery money. He took my card.” She looked at Chase, her eyes searching his. “He’s never shoved me before. He’s just… said things. But he meant it this time. I saw it. He meant to hurt me.”
Chase’s jaw ached from clenching. “You’re staying here tonight. You’re not going back there.”
“Where else would I go?” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of her world. Teigan was her world.
“Right here,” Chase said, the words leaving him before he could cage them. “For as long as you need.”
She finally shrugged off the ruined dress, letting it fall to the floor in a sodden heap, and pulled the oversized sweatshirt over her head. It swallowed her, hanging to her mid-thigh. The sight of her in his clothes, vulnerable and small, sent a jolt through him that was equal parts protective and possessive.
He brought her a pair of his sweatpants, rolled at the ankles, and a glass of water. She took it, her fingers brushing his. The contact was electric.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice firmer now. “For coming. For seeing me. I was just… in the dark.”
He nodded, unable to speak. The storm outside was easing, fading to a steady patter. The storm inside the room was just beginning. She finished the water, set the glass on the coffee table with a soft click. She looked at the guest room door, then back at him.
“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” she said, and it was more than a confession. It was an invitation to cross a line they’d spent years meticulously drawing.
Chase looked at her—the bruise, the haunted eyes, the way her body curved under the soft gray cotton of his sweatshirt. Every rule of loyalty, every thread of restraint, snapped at once.
“You’re not,” he said, and took a step toward her.