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I don’t remember the last time I begged for anything, but I’d get down on my knees right now so I don’t have to watch her drive away. If she does, I’ll never find her.

Last time she took my bike, she smashed the tracker. Tyrant didn’t think when he trained her to be his little murderous minion. He gave her all the tools to do his bidding. He provided everything she needed to do the job she gave herself. And he taught her how to become everything he should fear.

In his arrogance, he missed that. So often in this world, tyrants create the enemies who will bring them down. For Samuel Anderson, he handed those tools to his daughter the moment he decided she was simply another worthless lackey, lower than a club bunny in his eyes. That was his first mistake.

“Poppy. I don’t—” My voice cracks, my throat closing on everything I want to say.

She sways, like the corn laid out in its rows beneath the breeze. The keys drop to the wooden boards as she leans backward. I catch her, lifting her into my arms and settle us on the swing against the house wall.

And we stay there while the sun sets, and the world forgets.

Chapter Eleven

Brutality vs Loyalty

Poppy

My eyes snap open long before dawn.

For a split-second, I’m lost. Then it hits me. Habit. Samuel carved it into my bones years ago. Be first. Be ready. Never let your guard down.

Cold sweat slicks my skin, even with the farmhouse heat pressing close. The old wood groans, the air thick with the ghost of coffee soaked into the walls. Walker sleeps beside me, all leather and clean soap and the metallic bite of healing blood. Samuel is still out there, somewhere in the dark. But in here, for one fragile heartbeat, it’s just us.

His bandaged side rises and falls with each slow breath. One hand rests near me even in sleep, as if some part of him refuses to let me drift too far away. I ache to touch him. Just once. Just to prove he’s real. Instead, I slip quietly from the bed.

Stillness was never allowed. Samuel made sure of it. If I wasn’t running, fighting, cleaning, or bleeding, I was nothing.

The warped floorboards barely groan beneath my feet as I make my way into the kitchen. The farmhouse feels almost gentle in the early morning. Chipped tiles, battered enamel sink, mismatched mugs lined up like soldiers in the cupboard. It’s a place meant for living, not just surviving.

I fill the kettle, set it on the stove. My hands tremble as I scoop the coffee. Not from cold. From waiting. Every time my eyes flick to the window, it’s instinct. I’m bracing for headlights. For gunfire. For Samuel.

Peace feels like a lie. I was built for war, not mornings that taste like hope.

The coffee scorches my tongue, anchoring me to something real. Something that hurts but doesn’t kill.

“You planning on drinking the whole pot?” Walker’s voice is rough with sleep.

I turn. He’s propped in the doorway, hair wild, shirt gaping open to show the fresh bandages hugging his ribs. He looks wrecked. And so goddamn beautiful it hurts.

“You should be in bed,” I say.

“So should you.” His gaze drops to my untouched breakfast before settling on me. “You’ve been awake for hours.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“I noticed.” He limps toward the counter, reaching for another mug before pausing to glance at his side. “You changed the dressing.”

“You bled through it.”

His fingers brush the fresh bandage. “Didn’t even wake me.”

“You needed the sleep.”

For a moment, he simply watches me. Not suspicious. Not wary. Just looking. “Thank you.”

His words hit harder than they should. No one’s ever thanked me for patching them up. I stare into my mug, hiding the way my throat tightens.

“You ever stop moving?” he asks.