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“For that cursed Halloween,” I explain. “For running instead of giving in. For fighting alongside me instead of against me. For seeing the real me beneath the wannabe kidnapper façade.” I press a soft kiss to her lips. “For loving me despite my fucked-up approach to courtship.”

She laughs softly, the sound like music to my ears. “I should be thanking you for being so terrible at kidnapping that we ended up having to work together.”

“Team Disaster from day one,” I agree, pulling her closer.

“Team Disaster forever,” she murmurs, already drifting toward sleep, safe and warm in my arms.

As her breathing evens out, I find myself staring at the ceiling, overwhelmed with gratitude.

For this woman in my arms.

For second chances.

For fate or luck or whatever cosmic force brought us back together after decades apart.

What should have been a disaster—a kidnapping gone wrong, a night of terror and bloodshed—became instead the beginning of everything I never knew I deserved. And as Vivian’s breathing deepens into sleep, her body warm and trusting against mine, I know with absolute certainty that I would go through it all again—every terrifying moment, every wound, every drop of blood—just to end up exactly where we are right now.

I press one final kiss to her forehead and close my eyes, letting sleep claim me. The last thing I register before drifting off is how perfectly we fit together—like we were always meant to be this way.

We’re finally, exactly where we belong.

And Halloween will never be the same for us.

Chapter 15

Vivian

No way, right?

Cardiff, 2006

My lungs burn with each breath, the cool October air of Cardiff slicing through my windpipe as I make my way back to the school building. Coach pushed us hard today—five miles through the muddy park trails—but I finished first. Again. Not that anyone besides Coach noticed or cared. Two years in Wales, and I’m still “that American girl” with the accent that makes people snicker behind their hands. At least when I run, when my feet pound against soil and gravel, when sweat drips down my temples and my muscles scream for mercy, I feel like I belong somewhere. To something. Even if it’s just to the rhythm of my own heartbeat.

I tug at my ponytail, tightening it as I approach the side entrance. My auburn curls are damp with sweat, plastered to the back of my neck. The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the brick building, making it look almost beautiful instead of the prison it usually feels like. I need to grab my bag from my locker, get home, and shower before the smell of teenage girl exertion permanently attaches itself to my skin.

Being transplanted from Chicago to Cardiff wasn’t my idea. Mom and Dad’s engineering jobs with a racing team brought us here when I was fourteen. They promised it would be an adventure. They didn’t mention the part where I’d feel like an alien specimen under a microscope, where girls would mock my accent and boys would fetishize it. Where I’d eat lunch alone more often than not. Where I’d become invisible except when I’m running faster than everyone else.

The distant sound of voices catches my attention as I round the corner of the building. Male voices. Harsh. Laughing. The kind of laughter that isn’t about joy but about power. I’ve heard it before—hell, I’ve been on the receiving end of it. My pace quickens unconsciously.

The scene unfolds like something from a movie I don’t want to watch. Three guys—Brad, Tyler, and Conor, the self-appointed kings of Cardiff High—surrounding a figure on the ground. A figure with dirty-blond hair splayed across the pavement, long limbs curled protectively around himself. A figure I recognize instantly, even from this distance.

Andy.

My heart rate spikes, and not from exertion. Andy Owain. The boy who sits in the back of English class, who never raises his hand but writes furiously in a notebook that isn’t for schoolwork. The boy with the gentle eyes who disappears into the music room during lunch, whose voice I’ve sometimes lingered outside the door to hear, pretending I’m just tying my shoelace or looking for something in my bag.

The boy I’ve been watching. Noticing. Thinking about.

The boy who’s now spitting blood onto the pavement as Brad’s foot connects with his ribs.

Something inside me snaps. Before I can process what I’m doing, I’m running—not the measured pace of cross-country, but the full-out sprint of someone with nothing to lose.

“HEY!” My voice explodes from my chest, louder and steadier than I feel. “Back the fuck off!”

Three heads swivel toward me. Brad’s face is flushed with the exhilaration of cruelty. Tyler looks surprised, then amused. Conor just looks bored, like hurting someone is such a mundane activity that even an interruption can’t make it interesting.

“Well, look who it is,” Brad drawls, his Welsh accent thickening as he tries to sound intimidating. “The American princess.”

I plant myself between them and Andrew, my back to him, facing down the three guys who tower over me despite my five-foot-three frame. My heart hammers against my ribcage, but my voice doesn’t betray me.