Chapter: 5 The Hunt In Amarillio

The highway stretched out ahead, endless black ribbon cutting through the pale Texas horizon. The sun hung low, painting the sky in harsh streaks of red and gold, while the Harley’s engine roared steady beneath Rhett. Every mile marker that passed only wound him tighter, until the vibration in his hands wasn’t just the bike — it was the rage simmering in his veins.

He hadn’t told anyone where he was going. Not Grim. Not Ghost. Not even Emily. Especially not Emily.

Ghost’s words still rang in his head: Amarillo. A girl running scared, dark hair, no sleep in her eyes.

It wasn’t much. Most men would have tossed it aside, called it a dead lead. But Rhett wasn’t most men.

Emily’s hollow stare haunted him. The way her body had gone rigid when he touched her neck. The sound of her strangled breath. It had cut deeper than any blade.

And now he knew — someone had put that fear there. Someone had carved it into her bones.

Rhett Maddox wasn’t about to let that man keep breathing.

The road bled him of hours, and by the time he reached Amarillo, night had begun its crawl across the sky. The neon glow of gas stations and truck stops lit the edges of the city, buzzing and flickering like broken beacons.

Rhett slowed as he passed the first strip of dive bars. Men clustered outside, smoking, laughing, shouting across the parking lots. He parked the Harley, its engine coughing once before settling into silence, and tugged his cut straight across his shoulders.

The weight of the Black Vipers patch did more than mark him — it announced him. And in places like this, that meant people paid attention.

The bar he chose stank of cigarette smoke and spilled beer, the neon sign above the door sputtering with half-lit letters. Inside, the air was thick with country rock from an old jukebox and the low hum of voices.

Eyes flicked to him the moment he stepped inside. Men in trucker caps, oil-stained jeans, and boots worn through at the soles. None of them Vipers, but they knew the look. Knew the cut. Knew better than to test him.

Rhett walked straight to the bar, the wood sticky under his hands as he leaned against it.

The bartender looked up — wiry man, tattoos crawling up his neck like ivy. His eyes narrowed. “What’ll it be?”

“Information.” Rhett set a bill on the counter, sliding it forward with two fingers. “Couple weeks back. Girl. Seventeen. Dark hair. Didn’t look like she’d slept in days.”

The bartender’s brow furrowed, lines deepening. He glanced at the cash but didn’t touch it yet. “Son, you just described half the runaways that crawl through here.”

Rhett leaned closer, his voice dropping to something sharp and dangerous. “I’m not asking about half.The bartender swallowed, eyes darting away before he finally snatched the cash. He poured a drink, slid it across, and said, “Might’ve seen her. Quiet kid. Kept to herself. Didn’t stay long.”

Rhett’s hand clenched around the glass. “And?”

“She didn’t leave alone.” The man’s eyes flicked toward the far corner of the room, like the memory itself unsettled him. “Tall guy. Mean look about him. Trucker type. One of those bastards that runs freight back and forth through Amarillo. Had her out the door in a hurry.”

Rhett’s gut went cold. “Where’d they go?”

The man shook his head. “Didn’t see. Just know it didn’t sit right. Thought about saying something, but…” His eyes flicked to Rhett’s cut again. “Didn’t figure it was my business.”

Rhett slammed his fist onto the bar, the glass rattling. Every head in the room turned. “It’s your business now.”

The bartender raised his hands quickly. “Look, I don’t know his name, alright? I just know the look. Tall, heavyset, wore a jacket with one of those freight company patches on it. Gray beard. That’s it.”

It wasn’t enough. But it was something.

I’m asking about her.” The bartender swallowed, eyes darting away before he finally snatched the cash. He poured a drink, slid it across, and said, “Might’ve seen her. Quiet kid. Kept to herself. Didn’t stay long.”

Rhett’s hand clenched around the glass. “And?”

“She didn’t leave alone.” The man’s eyes flicked toward the far corner of the room, like the memory itself unsettled him. “Tall guy. Mean look about him. Trucker type. One of those bastards that runs freight back and forth through Amarillo. Had her out the door in a hurry.”

Rhett’s gut went cold. “Where’d they go?”

The man shook his head. “Didn’t see. Just know it didn’t sit right. Thought about saying something, but…” His eyes flicked to Rhett’s cut again. “Didn’t figure it was my business.”

Rhett slammed his fist onto the bar, the glass rattling. Every head in the room turned. “It’s your business now.”

The bartender raised his hands quickly. “Look, I don’t know his name, alright? I just know the look. Tall, heavyset, wore a jacket with one of those freight company patches on it. Gray beard. That’s it.”

It Outside, the night air felt heavier, choking. Rhett lit a cigarette, dragging smoke into his lungs, but it didn’t calm the fire burning in his chest.

Emily hadn’t just been running. Someone had been hunting her.

The thought had his hands trembling. He dropped the cigarette, crushed it under his boot, and scanned the street.

He walked. He asked. He pressed.

At a truck stop diner, a waitress with tired eyes shook her head. “Plenty of scared girls come through here, honey. Some with bruises, some without. Can’t keep track of ‘em all.”

At a garage, a mechanic shrugged. “Might’ve seen her. Might not have. Not my problem.”

At a second bar, a man laughed when Rhett described her. “You just described every runaway I’ve seen in the last ten years. What makes this one so special?”

Rhett’s fist slammed into the wall beside the man’s head, plaster cracking. “Because she’s mine.”

The man stammered a denial, backing away, eyes wide with fear. Rhett stormed out, blood pounding in his ears.

wasn’t enough. But it was something. By midnight, Rhett had taken a cheap motel room off the highway. The place smelled of mildew and stale smoke, but it was somewhere to sit, somewhere to think.

He dropped into the chair at the small wooden table, phone in hand. His contacts list glowed back at him, dozens of names, most of them debts owed to the Vipers.

He hovered over one — a man tied to freight and trucking. Someone who owed Grim. Someone who knew the names of the long-haul drivers who didn’t ask questions about who rode shotgun.

Rhett’s thumb hesitated only a second before he hit call.

The line clicked. “Yeah?” The voice was gruff, annoyed.

“I need information.” Rhett leaned back, staring at the peeling paint on the wall. “Long-haul truckers, Amarillo runs. The ones who pick up girls that don’t want to be picked up.”

A pause. Then a humorless chuckle. “That’s a dangerous list you’re asking for, son.”

Rhett’s eyes burned. His voice dropped cold. “Good. Dangerous is exactly what I’m looking for.”

Sleep didn’t come. Rhett sat in the dark, the glow of his cigarette the only light in the room. His mind kept circling back to Emily — the way her body had gone rigid, the way she’d shoved him like he was the monster himself.

It wasn’t him she feared. He knew that. But it didn’t matter. Because in her eyes, she wasn’t with Rhett in that moment. She was back there — with him.

And Rhett didn’t even have a name yet.

The anger twisted in his gut, hot and bitter. He wanted blood. Wanted to see the man’s face break under his fists, hear him beg before Rhett silenced him for good.

But all he had was a ghost of a lead.

All he had was silence.

________________

He dragged a hand through his hair, staring at the ceiling. Grim had always told him his fists couldn’t fix everything. But this? This was the one thing Rhett knew his fists could fix.

If Emily’s abuser was still breathing, then the nightmare wasn’t over. And Rhett Maddox wasn’t about to let her live another day in fear.

The only question now was how soon he could find him.

And how fast he could make him disappear. The clubhouse was alive that night — pool balls cracking, boots thudding against the floor, laughter rolling like thunder. Emily sat at the edge of it all, her back against the wall, her hands curled tight around a mug of coffee that had long since gone cold.

Rhett’s chair was empty. His Harley still gone from the lot.

Every hour he stayed away, the hollow inside her deepened. Maybe he’d decided she wasn’t worth the trouble. Maybe the panic, the tears, the broken edges of her had been too much.

She pressed her lips to the mug to hide the way they trembled.

________________

“Hey, you’re the girl, right? The one Rhett brought in?”

Emily startled, lifting her eyes. Two young women stood by the bar, both not much older than her.

The taller one had dark hair in a braid and sharp eyes that glittered like they’d seen too much and dared you to comment. She grinned, hand on her hip. “I’m Sierra. My dad runs freight with the club. I grew up here.”

The other — smaller, with light brown hair tucked behind her ears — gave a softer smile. “Kayla. My cousin’s patched. Don’t let her scare you.”

Sierra rolled her eyes. “I don’t scare people. I just don’t sugarcoat things.” She looked Emily up and down, smirk tugging at her mouth. “You’re quieter than I expected. Thought Rhett’s type would have more bark.”

Heat flushed Emily’s face. “I’m not—” she stammered. “I’m not his type. I’m just…” She trailed off, not sure how to finish.

Sierra snorted. “Sure. And I’m just here for the pool table.”

Kayla nudged her friend with an elbow. “Leave her alone. Not everyone’s been living in this madness since they were kids.”

Emily blinked, caught off guard. “You… like it here?”

Kayla shrugged. “It’s family. Loud, messy, sometimes terrifying — but family. You get used to it.”

Sierra smirked again, but her tone softened a little. “Stick around long enough, you’ll figure out who to trust, who to avoid, and who’ll bleed for you without a second thought.” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “And spoiler — Rhett’s in that last category.”

Emily’s stomach twisted, the words landing too close to the ache already gnawing at her chest.

________________

Later, sitting at the bar with Sierra and Kayla nearby — Sierra playing pool, Kayla sketching absentmindedly on a napkin — Emily caught herself almost laughing at one of Hawk’s ridiculous stories. Almost. But the weight of Rhett’s absence dragged her back down.

That was when Ghost appeared, silent as a shadow, his pale eyes landing on her.

“You still think he doesn’t want you,” Ghost said flatly.

Emily stiffened. “I never—”

“You don’t have to say it.” His voice was quiet, gravel-deep. “I can see it.”

Her throat closed. She stared down at the bar. “He left. Didn’t say anything. He’s probably done with me.”

Ghost shook his head, slow and sure. “Boy’s not done with you. He’s out there right now bleeding himself dry trying to fix something he can’t yet name. That’s not a man walking away. That’s a man at war.”

Emily looked at him, uncertain.

Ghost’s gaze softened, just slightly. “And when Rhett Maddox goes to war, it isn’t for himself. It’s for you.”

The words settled heavy in her chest. Too heavy to believe, but impossible to ignore.

________________

That night, back in her room, Emily curled on her bed with her knees pulled tight to her chest.

She thought of Sierra’s sharp grin, Kayla’s quiet reassurance. Ghost’s pale eyes, steady as stone.

And Rhett. Always Rhett.

Fragments clawed their way up from the past:

* A door locking from the outside.

* Fingers biting into her wrist until she bruised.

* A voice in the dark, sharp and cruel: “Who else is gonna want you?”

Her chest tightened. Tears burned her eyes.

Maybe she was too broken. But maybe… just maybe… Ghost was right.

Maybe Rhett was out there fighting for her already. Morning came with the smell of bacon and coffee drifting up the hall. Emily stirred but didn’t get out of bed until the knock came.

“Hey, new girl. You alive in there?”

It was Sierra’s voice, bright and impatient.

Emily opened the door a crack. Sierra leaned against the frame, braid falling over her shoulder, smirk already in place. Kayla stood just behind her, hands tucked into the pockets of her hoodie.

Sierra tilted her head. “We’re grabbing breakfast. You coming, or you planning to keep hiding in here like a ghost?”

Emily hesitated, nerves buzzing.

Kayla’s voice was softer. “It’s okay if you don’t want to. But it might be nice to sit with someone who isn’t three times your age and covered in tattoos.”

Emily almost laughed at that, a weak sound, but it loosened something in her chest. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll come.”

________________

The kitchen was chaos — men eating fast, slapping plates down, Tank arguing with Hawk over whether syrup belonged on eggs. Sierra waved Emily over to the corner table, where a couple of plates were already waiting.

“You don’t have to fight for food if you know who to ask,” Sierra said with a wink, sliding a plate toward her.

Kayla sipped her coffee, watching the men bicker. “Sometimes it feels like living in a zoo,” she murmured.

Emily glanced between them, surprised by how easily they spoke, how comfortable they seemed here. For her, every sound was sharp, every shadow heavy. But for Sierra and Kayla, it was just life.

“You really don’t mind it?” Emily asked quietly.

Sierra shrugged. “These guys raised me. Loud, rough, loyal to the bone. They’d lay down their lives for us. What’s there to hate?”

Kayla nodded, though her smile was smaller. “It’s not always easy. But it’s safe. Safer than anywhere else I’ve ever been.”

Safe. The word clung to Emily like a fragile hope.

________________

After breakfast, Sierra dragged her toward the lounge. “We’re not letting you mope. You need music.”

Emily found herself perched on the couch while Sierra flicked through a stack of vinyls by the old record player. Kayla stretched out on the rug, sketching lazily in a notebook.

Sierra dropped the needle, and the room filled with the crackle of rock ’n’ roll, the guitars loud and alive.

“See? Better already.” Sierra grabbed an empty beer bottle, pretending it was a microphone, and started lip-syncing dramatically, her braid swinging as she leaned into Emily’s space. “Sing, new girl!”

Emily ducked, laughter bubbling up before she could stop it. Real laughter, sharp and sudden.

Kayla looked up, smiling. “See? Told you she could.”

Emily pressed her hands over her face, cheeks burning. “I haven’t laughed like that in… forever.”

Sierra plopped onto the couch beside her, eyes glinting. “Then you need to stick with us. We’ll make sure you remember how.”

________________

The moment stretched warm, but then the memories pressed in, uninvited. A flash —

* Fingers digging into her arm.

* A voice snarling: “Shut up, or I’ll make you.”

* The sound of her own laugh cut off too fast.

Emily’s chest tightened, the laughter dying in her throat. She gripped her knees, forcing her breaths slow.

Kayla noticed, sitting up. “Hey. You okay?”

Emily nodded quickly, too quickly. “Yeah. Just… got dizzy for a second.”

Sierra studied her for a beat but didn’t push. Instead, she tossed Emily a pillow. “Then lay back. Breathe. Nobody here’s gonna hurt you. Not while the Reaper’s watching.”

The nickname sent a shiver down Emily’s spine — but this time, it wasn’t fear. It was something steadier.

Maybe Sierra was right. Maybe she didn’t have to keep holding her breath.

________________

That night, back in her room, Emily sat on the edge of her bed. The echo of her laughter still hummed in her chest, strange and foreign but good.

She thought of Sierra’s fire, Kayla’s gentle patience. Ghost’s quiet watch.

And Rhett. Always Rhett.

The ache of his absence still pressed heavy, but for the first time, she didn’t feel completely alone.

Maybe she could survive this. Maybe she could even live

It felt strange stepping out of the clubhouse during the day, sunlight washing over her after so long hiding in shadows. Emily tugged at the hem of her borrowed jacket as Sierra looped an arm through hers, dragging her toward Kayla’s car.

“C’mon, new girl. You’ve been cooped up too long. Time for a shopping trip,” Sierra declared, tossing her braid over her shoulder.

Kayla jingled the keys, smiling softly. “We’ll keep it simple. Groceries, maybe hit the thrift store. No pressure.”

Emily hesitated. Her chest was tight, nerves buzzing under her skin. But when she glanced back, she spotted Ghost across the lot, leaning against his Lincoln, arms folded. His pale eyes met hers, unreadable, but the silent nod he gave steadied her.

She wasn’t alone.

________________

The ride into town was a blur of Sierra’s chatter and Kayla’s patient corrections.

“Seriously, you need clothes that aren’t two sizes too big,” Sierra said, drumming her fingers on the dash. “We’re fixing that.”

Emily ducked her head, embarrassed. “I don’t need—”

“You need,” Sierra cut in. “Trust me. A little confidence goes a long way.”

Kayla smiled from the driver’s seat. “Don’t worry. She means well. She just has no filter.”

“Filter’s for people who don’t know what they want,” Sierra shot back with a grin.

Despite herself, Emily laughed. Just a small sound — but real.

________________

The thrift store smelled of dust and old denim, racks crammed tight with clothes. Sierra immediately started pulling pieces, holding them against Emily with an appraising eye.

“This. And this. Ooh, definitely this.”

Kayla rolled her eyes, muttering, “She’s worse than a personal shopper.”

Emily trailed after them, feeling lighter with each moment, almost normal.

It lasted until the grocery store.

________________

They were at the register when it happened — a quick accident, nothing more. Emily fumbled a jar of pasta sauce, and it slipped, shattering across the tiled floor. Red spread across white, sharp glass glittering under the fluorescent lights.

“Hey! Watch what you’re doing!”

The voice was sharp, male, too loud. A man in line behind them scowled, his face twisted in irritation. “Christ, kids these days. No respect for other people’s time. Clean up your mess!”

The sound cut through Emily like a blade. Her breath seized, her vision narrowing. For a heartbeat, she wasn’t in the store. She was back in that locked room, a voice roaring over her, spit flying as threats pressed in close.

Her hands shook. The air disappeared.

________________

She didn’t even realize Sierra had moved until the man’s voice cut off.

“What the hell did you just say to her?” Sierra stood nose-to-nose with him, her braid swinging, her eyes blazing like wildfire. “You think yelling at her makes you a big man? Try that again and see how fast I break your damn teeth.”

The man blinked, stunned. “I—I was just—”

Sierra shoved his shoulder, hard enough to make him stumble. “You don’t just talk to her like that. Not here. Not ever. You got a problem, you take it up with me.”

The man’s face went red, his mouth opening, but then he froze.

Because Ghost was there.

Silent as death, he’d stepped up behind them, pale eyes fixed on the man with an intensity that made the air itself colder. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

The man muttered something, grabbed his bag, and bolted for the door.

________________

Emily’s chest was still tight, her pulse hammering in her ears. But Sierra turned back to her, fire still in her eyes, and softened just enough to touch her arm.

“Don’t listen to assholes like him,” she said firmly. “You’ve got us now. Nobody gets to make you feel small.”

Kayla crouched, helping sweep the shards into a dustpan the clerk had brought over. She gave Emily a quick, reassuring smile. “It’s okay. Everyone drops things. It’s nothing.”

Emily swallowed hard, fighting the tremor in her hands. She looked between them — Sierra fierce and unflinching, Kayla steady and calm, Ghost looming behind like a silent wall of protection.

And for the first time in a long time, she felt something fragile but undeniable.

Safe.

________________

On the ride back, Sierra hummed along with the radio, Kayla chatted about nothing in particular, and Emily sat in the backseat, staring out the window. Her body still trembled faintly, but the echo of the man’s shouting didn’t burn as sharp.

Because this time, she hadn’t been alone.

The ride back to the clubhouse was noisy with Sierra’s chatter, Kayla’s soft laughter, and the hum of the radio. Emily sat in the backseat, hands folded in her lap, staring out the window.

Her chest was still tight, but not like before. The man’s shouting echoed in her head, but Sierra’s fire burned louder. Nobody gets to make you feel small.

The words clung to her like armor.

By the time they pulled into the lot, Sierra was already teasing Kayla about her driving. “You brake like an old lady.”

Kayla smirked. “And yet we’re alive, aren’t we?”

Emily almost smiled. Almost.

Ghost was there, leaning against his Lincoln, waiting. His pale eyes flicked to her as she climbed out, steady as stone.

“Inside,” he said simply. “Need a word.”

________________

The girls headed inside, leaving her standing in the fading light with Ghost. She wrapped her arms around herself, nerves buzzing.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted before he even spoke. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t.” Ghost’s voice cut her off, low and firm. “You don’t apologize for being scared. You apologize when you stop fighting. And you haven’t stopped.”

Emily’s throat tightened. “It didn’t feel like fighting. It felt like… drowning.”

Ghost’s gaze didn’t waver. “That’s what it feels like when someone breaks you down long enough. You start believing the water’s stronger than you.” He stepped closer, but not too close. Just enough that his presence anchored her. “But you’re still here. You didn’t let it take you.”

Her eyes burned, tears stinging. She dropped her gaze, whispering, “I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending I’m not broken.”

“You are broken,” Ghost said simply. “We all are. Difference is whether you stay shattered, or let people help you put the pieces back.”

Emily swallowed hard, the words heavy in her chest. “And Rhett?”

Ghost’s pale eyes softened, just slightly. “That boy looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters. He’s out there right now because he’d rather bleed himself dry than watch you drown. That’s not pity. That’s love, whether either of you know how to say it yet or not.”

Her breath hitched. Love. The word terrified her, but it also lit something in her chest — a warmth she hadn’t felt in years.

Ghost gave her a slow nod, as though he could see the war inside her. “Don’t push him away because you’re scared. He’s got his own scars, but he’ll fight like hell for you. You just have to let him.”

Emily blinked hard, tears slipping free before she could stop them. Ghost didn’t reach to wipe them away. He didn’t move at all. He just stood steady, the quiet strength of a man who knew what it meant to carry pain too heavy to name.

And somehow, that steadiness was enough.

________________

Later, lying in bed, Emily stared at the ceiling. The echoes of Ghost’s words mixed with Sierra’s fire, Kayla’s calm, and the memory of Rhett’s steady eyes.

For the first time, the future didn’t feel like an endless hallway of locked doors.

It still terrified her. But maybe — just maybe — she wasn’t facing it alone anymore.

The motel room stank of cigarettes and mildew. Rhett sat at the small table, phone in hand, the glow of the screen casting harsh shadows across his face. He’d been dialing all night — truckers, mechanics, shady brokers tied to the Vipers. Each call came back thin, a trail of half-truths and shrugs.

Until this one.

“Yeah?” The voice was gravelly, thick with sleep.

Rhett leaned back in the chair, his tone sharp. “You run freight out of Amarillo.”

“Who’s asking?”

“Black Vipers.”

Silence stretched on the line. Then a low whistle. “Well, that explains the tone. What do you want with me?”

“A name.” Rhett’s knuckles whitened around the phone. “A trucker. Tall, heavyset. Gray beard. The kind of bastard who picks up girls who aren’t looking to be picked up.”

A pause. “That’s a hell of a description.”

Rhett’s voice dropped to a growl. “You got three seconds before I come down there and drag it out of your throat myself.”

Another pause. Then a sigh. “Might be who you’re talking about. Goes by Caleb Foster. Runs out of Amarillo, hauls freight south, sometimes east. Got a reputation for running his mouth, drinking too much, and keeping company that doesn’t want to be kept.”

Rhett’s chest went ice cold. “Where’s he run out of?”

“Lot behind Miller’s Diner. He parks his rig there when he’s not on the road. Won’t be hard to spot — the man lives in that truck more than he does at home.”

Rhett’s hand tightened around the phone until the plastic creaked. “You’re sure.”

“Yeah. But if you’re planning what I think you’re planning—”

The line went dead.

The lot behind Miller’s Diner reeked of diesel and cheap coffee. Rhett killed the Harley’s engine, his gaze locking on the rust-stained semi parked at the far end. The cab windows were streaked with grime, curtains half-drawn. On the dash, scrawled in grease pencil, was a single word: Caleb.

Rhett’s jaw clenched.

He approached slow, boots crunching gravel. The cab door was unlocked. A bad habit — and tonight, a fatal mistake.

Rhett hauled himself inside, the smell of sweat and stale whiskey hitting him like a wall. Trash littered the floor — fast-food wrappers, empty bottles, ash burned into the carpet. But it was the leather notebook lying open on the bunk that caught his eye.

He flipped it open.

Handwritten entries filled the pages, crude and jagged. “Picked up another one outside Wichita. Said she was running. Said nobody cared. Took her to the back. She cried, but they all do.”

Rhett’s stomach turned to stone. He flipped faster, his breath growing ragged. Each entry was the same: a girl on the road, scared, desperate — Caleb taking advantage.

Then the photos fell out. Polaroids. Faces blurred by tears, makeup streaked, eyes hollow.

Rhett’s blood roared in his ears when he saw the one near the bottom of the pile.

Emily.

Her hair tangled, face pale, eyes wide with terror. She couldn’t have been with him long — her clothes were the same ones she’d worn when Rhett found her.

His hands shook, the photo crumpling under his grip. His vision tunneled, rage burning white-hot through his chest.

“You son of a bitch,” Rhett whispered, voice raw.

The cab door creaked.

Caleb hauled himself up, eyes bloodshot from sleep, a half-smirk already curling his lip. It faded when he saw Rhett sitting on his bunk, photo in hand.

“What the—who the fuck are—”

Rhett launched forward, slamming him into the opposite wall of the cab. The photo pressed into Caleb’s face as Rhett’s fist cracked his jaw.

“You touched her.” Rhett’s voice was a growl, barely human. “You took her.”

Caleb spat blood, sneering even as his lip split. “Yeah. Picked her up outside Amarillo. Little runaway bitch. Begged me to stop. Didn’t make it any less sweet.”

The words snapped something inside Rhett.

His fists rained down, bone and flesh breaking under each blow. Caleb tried to fight back, tried to push him off, but Rhett was stronger, faster, fueled by rage that had no bottom.

“Say her name again,” Rhett snarled, blood dripping from his knuckles. “Say it and choke on it.”

Caleb wheezed, sputtering, but the smirk never left his ruined mouth. “She was nothing. Just another hole in the road.”

Rhett’s hand shot to his throat. He squeezed, fingers digging into the corded muscle. Caleb thrashed, boots kicking against the cab, eyes bulging as air choked off.

“You don’t get to breathe her name,” Rhett growled. “You don’t get to breathe.”

The struggle weakened. Caleb’s nails scraped against Rhett’s arms, then slowed. His eyes rolled back, the fight bleeding out of him until his body went slack.

Rhett held on another second. Two. Just to make sure.

Then he let go.

Caleb slumped lifeless across the seat, blood pooling from his split lip, the journal sliding to the floor beside him.

Rhett sat there, chest heaving, hands covered in blood that wasn’t his. His eyes dropped to the crumpled photo in his fist — Emily, scared, broken.

His rage burned hotter, even with Caleb dead at his feet. Because Caleb wasn’t the one who’d hunted her. Wasn’t the one who’d carved that deep, unhealing terror into her bones.

No. Caleb had just been another predator feeding on her pain.

The real monster was still out there.

Rhett stuffed the journal and photos into his cut, struck a match, and lit the rest on fire. The flames licked up the bunk, curling paper, melting plastic, smoke billowing thick. By the time he climbed out of the cab, the truck was a torch lighting up the diner lot.

He swung onto the Harley, engine roaring to life. His hands still shook, blood dripping down the grips.

Emily’s face haunted him, the photo seared into his mind.

And Rhett swore one thing into the night as the flames rose behind him.

He’d kill every bastard who’d ever laid a hand on her. Starting with the one who’d made her run.

The Harley roared down the highway, the flames of Caleb’s rig still burning behind him. The smoke climbed high into the night, a black scar against the stars.

Rhett’s knuckles were raw, split open and bleeding onto the grips. Every time he blinked, he saw her face in that photo — Emily, pale and broken, terror etched into her eyes. The rage that had fueled him inside the cab still seared hot in his chest, but now there was something else tangled in it.

The silence after.

The weight of what he’d done.

He hadn’t just beaten Caleb. He hadn’t threatened him into silence. He’d killed him. With his own hands.

And for the first time in a long time, Rhett Maddox wasn’t sure if he gave a damn what that said about him.

________________

He pulled off at a deserted rest stop, the Harley idling low as he swung off. His hands trembled as he lit a cigarette, the flame catching against the dark. Smoke burned his throat, but it couldn’t chase the image away.

The journal. The photos. Emily’s face among them.

He’d burned the evidence, but the fire couldn’t erase it from his head. Couldn’t erase the sound of Caleb’s voice, the pride in his words. “Begged me to stop. Didn’t make it any less sweet.”

Rhett ground the cigarette into the pavement, his boots crushing it to ash. His breath came ragged, uneven.

He thought killing Caleb would give him peace.

Instead, all it gave him was confirmation.

Emily had been running from something worse.

________________

The phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn’t have to look to know who it was — Grim. His father’s instincts were too sharp not to know when his son was on the edge.

Rhett let it ring. He couldn’t answer. Not yet.

What would he say? That he’d strangled a man to death in a truck cab? That he’d lit the body on fire to erase the evidence? That he’d done it for a girl who hadn’t even told him the truth yet?

Grim would understand the rage. Maybe even the act. But Emily…

No. She could never see this. Not yet. Not while she still looked at him with something like trust in her eyes.

________________

He leaned against the Harley, staring into the dark. His fists still throbbed, blood drying in cracked lines down his knuckles.

He remembered the way she’d looked at him the night of the panic — scared, but anchored by his eyes. Like maybe he was the only thing keeping her from drowning.

He wanted to be that anchor.

But tonight, he hadn’t been her anchor. He’d been her executioner.

And if she ever knew the full truth — the way he’d lost control, the way he’d killed without hesitation — would she still see him as the boy who kept her safe? Or would she see him as another shadow chasing her down?

The question clawed at him, deeper than the guilt.

________________

By dawn, Rhett was back on the road, the Harley eating up the miles between him and the clubhouse. The fire in Amarillo would be explained away — another trucker accident, another blaze in a lot no one cared to look twice at.

Caleb Foster was gone. Erased.

But the man who had really broken Emily, the one who had carved terror into her bones, was still out there.

And Rhett knew one thing as the wind tore past him, his blood still drying on his hands:

The next time he found a name, he wouldn’t stop at strangling.

He’d burn the whole world down if that’s what it took to make sure Emily never had to fear again