Page 102 of Wild Thorns

Back in the car, I ate a beignet before I even started the engine, powdered sugar coating my top.

I pulled back onto the highway, heading east toward Mississippi. The road stretched ahead, empty and inviting, heat shimmering off the asphalt in waves. I found a station playing classic rock and turned up the volume until Fleetwood Mac filled the car, Stevie Nicks singing about landslides and getting older.

I sang along, off-key and free. The wind through the window tangled my hair, and I didn't care.

This was what freedom felt like. Not just the absence of Marcus, of fear, of watching every word and measuring every breath. The presence of possibility. The open road. The ability to go anywhere, be anyone, without permission or repercussions.

My phone buzzed. Then again.

I glanced at the screen on my dashboard mount.

Jasper: Just checking in. Hope the drive is going well.

Eli: I'm here if you need to talk. Call any time.

Two different messages, both carrying that same careful weight. Jasper's warmth, his need to connect without controlling. Eli's brevity, trusting me to reach out when I was ready.

I noticed the absence like a missing note in a chord. No message from Callum. He was either too angry to text or too proud to show that he cared.

Or maybe he was showing care in his own way, by giving me the space I'd asked for.

I sent a quick voice message: "I'm fine. Just crossed into Mississippi. Beautiful morning. I'll call tonight."

The replies came immediately.

Jasper: ❤️

Eli: We'll be waiting.

Something warm bloomed in my chest. A few months ago, I'd been running from a man who monitored my every move, who demanded to know where I was at all times, who made my independence feel like a crime. Now, three men who could probably track me across continents were giving me space. Checking in without checking up. Trusting me to come back to them.

The difference was everything.

I drove through the morning, watching Louisiana give way to Mississippi.

The landscape shifted subtly, cypress swamps transitioning to pine forests, Spanish moss thinning until it disappeared entirely. Red dirt replaced black bayou soil. The billboards changed from crawfish boils to catfish suppers, from zydeco festivals to Baptist revivals.

The Alabama state line appeared in the early afternoon.

I stopped for gas in Tuscaloosa, pulling into a station near the university campus. I filled my tank, paid at the pump, and headed inside for the bathroom. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as I washed my hands, studying my face in the mirror.

The dark circles under my eyes had faded over the past months. My cheekbones were less sharp, evidence of actual meals eaten at actual tables instead of whatever I could grab between Marcus's moods. My hair needed a trim, but it was healthy, shiny in a way it hadn't been for years.

I looked like someone who might be finding her way back. Someone who might actually be okay.

The bathroom door swung open behind me.

I stepped aside, giving the person room to enter, my eyes still on my reflection.

Except it wasn't a woman.

Callum filled the doorway, his massive frame blocking the exit, his expression tight with something that wasn't anger. Something worse. Fear.

"You’ve been following me?" The words came out sharp, accusation more than a question. Hurt bloomed beneath the anger, that old familiar feeling of being tracked, monitored, controlled.

"Not you." He reached for me and I took a step back, my shoulders hitting the edge of the sink. "Serena, listen to me—"

"No. You don't get to—"