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Paramedics load Andrew onto a stretcher and start stabilizing him. His face is so pale beneath the dirt and blood.

“Can I go with him?” I ask, suddenly afraid to let him out of my sight.

The officer exchanges looks with the ranger, then nods. “You already showed us the crime scenes so we’ll take your statement at the hospital.”

I follow the paramedics as they carry Andrew through the woods, stepping carefully over roots and rocks. The morning light strengthens, revealing a forest that looks almost mundane now, nothing like the nightmarish back and forth of our night-long ordeal.

In the distance, an ambulance waits on a service road I didn’t know existed. As we approach, Andrew stirs slightly on the stretcher, his eyelids fluttering. His lips move, forming a word I can’t make out.

I lean closer, brushing my fingers against his uninjured hand.

“Viv,” he whispers, so faintly I almost miss it.

“I’m here,” I tell him as they load him into the ambulance. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And despite everything—the terror, the violence, the absolute insanity of how we got here—I realize I mean it.

I’m not going anywhere. No fucking way am I losing Andrew.

Chapter 12

Vivian

This is one hell of a second chance

The TV mounted in the corner of the hospital room plays footage of police cars and ambulances, their lights flashing against the dark forest backdrop. The ticker at the bottom reads:

“ESCAPED SERIAL KILLERS FOUND DEAD IN BANNAU BRYCHEINIOG NATIONAL PARK.”

They mention “a man and woman” who narrowly escaped, fighting for their lives, but thankfully leave our names out of it. I mute the volume with the remote and turn back to Andrew, who’s attacking his hospital dinner with surprising enthusiasm despite wincing every time he moves.

His left arm is encased in a cast from wrist to elbow, his shoulder immobilized by a sling. The split in his lip has been stitched, and multicolored bruises bloom across every visible inch of skin not covered by the hospital gown. He looks like he went through hell, yet somehow still manages to look gorgeous. It’s infuriating.

“I see your appetite is voracious,” I say, watching him shovel another forkful of rubbery eggs into his mouth, “even if you’re recovering from what? A split lip, broken left arm, dislocated left shoulder, and abrasions all over your body.”

He looks up at me, cheeks full like a chipmunk and attempts a grin that pulls at his stitches. He swallows with visible effort.

“My appetite is voracious for other things too,” he replies, attempting a wink that comes off more as a pained squint. “Just waiting until I’m not in this sexy hospital gown to show you.”

I roll my eyes, but can’t suppress the smile tugging at my lips. “You’re ridiculous. Ten hours ago, you were bleeding out in the forest after fighting a serial killer to the death. Now you’re making innuendos over hospital eggs.”

“Twelve hours,” he corrects, pointing his fork at me. “And they’re not great eggs, but after nearly dying, food tastes pretty fucking amazing.” He scoops up another bite, then pauses. “Besides, surviving makes me horny.”

I laugh, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly. “You’re impossible.”

“But you like it,” he says, his voice softening into something more vulnerable. “Right?”

The sudden insecurity in his eyes makes my chest tighten. This man—this tattooed rock god who fought off a murderer with his bare hands—still worries I might not want him. It’s endearing in a way I never expected.

“I like that you’re tough,” I admit, reaching across to gently touch his right arm, the one not broken or dislocated. “Most men would be crying for their mothers after what you went through.”

He sets down his fork and flexes his bicep beneath my touch, putting on an exaggeratedly proud expression. “Years of guitar playing and throwing myself around stage. Great for muscle definition. Well… and some gym time, of course.”

I trace my fingers down his arm, feeling the firm muscle beneath the tattooed skin, following the intricate Celtic patterns until I reach the veins visible on his forearm. When I reach his hand, his fingers immediately intertwine with mine, squeezing gently.

“I want a redo,” he says suddenly, his sapphire eyes holding mine with an intensity that steals my breath.

“A redo?” I repeat, confused.