WILLOW

Acceptance wasn't something I was capable of when it came to letting them go. Acceptance meant consent, and if I'd learned anything at all from Croc, it was that consent couldn't be given under duress. But resignation, that was something entirely different. I could give them that. I could concede my defeat, give up my opposition, know when I'd been outvoted.

So, I resigned, and I made the most of what little time I had left. We danced across the deck like we had that long ago night in the bayou, only slower this time, as if by doing so we could slow time itself. I held him through the night, memorizing the feel of his arms, the sound of his heart, the rise and fall of his chest. We had breakfast as a family, then we gave them one final lesson in the water, reminding me so much of those long, blissful days in the canal.

And as the sun began to set like the last few grains of sand in an hourglass, I left to find Merle.

He was below deck in the barracks, packing a bag full of dynamite. It seemed like a lifetime ago since I'd stepped into his garage and found him doing the same. Only, instead of dynamite, he'd been packing supplies, and instead of running toward, he'd been running away. He'd seemed insane to me then too, but now. . . I'd gotten him back only to lose him again.

He looked up when I entered. "Little Bit." He set the bag down and stood, closing the divide between us in long strides.

I'd been mentally preparing for this moment, determined not to cry. But the second his arms came around me, all my reserve shattered into dust. I gripped him tight, sobbing into his chest, gasping in the scent of leather and gunpowder.

"Shh. . ." Merle rubbed his big hand over my hair, his hold secure, like a father comforting his child.

I sucked in a breath, swallowed convulsively. Time was running out, and I couldn't make the same mistake with him that I had Julia. If this were the last time I'd ever see him, I was going to make damn sure he knew exactly what he meant to me.

I pulled back just enough to see his face. For the first time since I'd met him, he looked his age. Dark circles hung beneath his sunken eyes. His face was more haggard, his lines deepened. Julia's death had taken its toll on all of us, but no one as much as Merle.

"You were the first man I ever loved," I said, forcing the words past the knot in my throat. "The first man who didn't use me. You're—" I swallowed again, took another breath. "—You're my father, Merle. Blood or no blood. You're the closest thing to a father I've ever had, and I wouldn't trade you. Not for anything."

His eyes went glassy, and his lips pursed. Then he laughed and wiped his face. "Well, Hell, Little Bit, is that all?"

I grinned through my tears. "That's all."

He laughed again, then he kissed my temple and pulled me into another crushing hug. "I'm honored." His voice was hoarse. "Just as soon as I'm done fucking the government, I'll teach you how to ride a goddamn bicycle."

I barked a laugh, then he let me go, his expression warm yet broken. "Take care of my grandbabies, will you?"

My heart squeezed, and I nodded. "I will."

"And stop acting like I'm gonna die!" He snatched up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. "They ain't managed to kill me yet; I'm not about to start letting them now."

A knock sounded, pulling both of our attentions to the bottom of the steps. Croc stood there, his expression grim. "Reggie says it's time to go."

I eyed the kitchen knives belted around his waist, feeling as if each one of them was slowly sinking into my heart. We'd already said our goodbyes. We'd used up all our time. I didn't want them to leave. I couldn't survive in this world without them.

But I didn't have a choice.

* * *
TEX

The lantern dwindled as the night ended, and my angel fell. I'd exhausted her. I'd meant to exhaust her. She thought she was coming with us, and that wasn't something I could do. Especially not now. I'd taken enough.

I laid there, eyes burning, throat working, mourning the man I'd never be. The man she saw, eternalized inside that brilliant mind of hers. Fictional. If I didn't make it back, I'd always be that man, built up by her rose-colored thoughts, tucked inside her brain somewhere between elderberries and snakeroot.

She shifted in her sleep, ran her hand across my chest, curled into me, her leg over my waist, her delicate arm draped across my ribs, and that angel's face pressed to the spot just above my heart. It swelled. She was warmth and comfort and all the things men like me didn't get to have. But I'd taken her, anyway. A bad man. A selfish man.

I couldn't stop staring at her. Every inch. I never thought I'd get to see. I'd never planned to take things this far. Now that I'd given my eyes a chance, they were greedy. Wanting more. Wanting to memorize every detail and flaw. I wanted to know her better than I knew the map, and I'd been staring at that fucking thing for years.

She was firm and smooth and shaped like a goddamn dream. Her skin reflected the light, glowing. The same freckles on her nose were spread out across the rest of her, as if she'd been sprinkled and some of them spilled. Even her scars were beautiful, as if she'd planned them intentionally to accentuate her curves. One on her knee. Another on her hip.

She was perfect. Every goddamn thing about her. Brave and smart and resourceful and strong. Kind. She was always standing, always fighting, and always for the right things.

I blew out a breath, sucked in another. My lungs rattled. She consumed me. Intoxicated me. Slithered into my mind like a snake with an apple, and unlike the holy, I hadn't hesitated. I hadn't nibbled. I'd devoured every precious bite then plucked the others from their branches. I'd stripped the tree bare, leaving nothing for the next asshole that came along. I was her first. I'd always be her first, and I'd made damn sure I'd always be her best, because I wanted to be her last. I wanted to be her only. I wanted to be whatever she needed.

As the ship carried us toward Savannah, I imagined a life where I could. A life where she slept like this. Draped across me, her breaths deep and even, kicking the blankets away the minute she found my skin. If things had been different. I would have put her to bed like this every night and woke her the same way. I would have been good to her. I knew. I'd have done anything she asked me.

My mind drifted, making deals with unknown dealers, formulating plans I couldn't carry out. I'd never wanted anything more than I wanted to back out on Savannah. Ditch the club. Ditch the men. Ditch the world and hightail it wherever the hell I could keep her.

But the sun travelled, set, and my world hadn't changed.

Reggie tapped once on the door. "It's time."

My eyes locked onto her face, and the lantern flickered, dimmed, close to dying. Close to dying. I was close to dying. My fingers ached to pull her closer. Maybe if I did I'd stop sinking into the shit. It seemed bottomless, and she had a talent for rising above it.

But I couldn't, so I didn't. I shifted her onto the mattress and slid out of the bed.

She stirred, reaching for me, tearing me to pieces. I couldn't wake her up. If I did, she'd follow, and if she followed, I'd never make it. No way would I take her there.

I'd been writing my letter to her for fucking days, but I couldn't leave it. I'd known that while I was writing it. It was a goddamn love note. How could I leave her a love note, knowing I wouldn't be around to love her? Better that she hate me. Better that she resent me. Better that she remembers me like every other woman remembers me. That way she can move on like every other woman moved on.

I dressed, then pulled the pen from my jacket pocket, the note from my jeans. I ripped it in two, giving me a fresh start to write the only words she needed to hear. Words from a better man. A man she should listen to.

I placed the slip of paper, the only goodbye I could give her, in the spot I was never meant to have.

FERN

Your Daddy was right to keep you away from the barn.

I read the words three times, heart in my throat, breaths painful and hard to take. I'd woken alone for three years, but it had never hurt as bad as this. The room was so empty. The night before, which had been beautiful, and perfect, and extraordinary, suddenly felt empty. His caresses, his I love you, his praise. All of it had been empty.

That was it? That was all he had to say after all of that? What we had was special. I didn't need experience to know that. It couldn't always feel that way. He'd felt it too. He'd said so. The way we'd fit. The way we'd moved. The way we'd synced: body, mind, and soul.

He'd left. He'd gone. He'd ingrained himself into my DNA, then slipped away, leaving me half missing. My fingers curled, crumpling the paper. What did he expect me to do? Stay with the ship? Wander the woods?

No matter where I went, I'd be alone. I'd be in solitary, remembering, replaying, revisiting. Didn't he understand? Didn't he get it? Life was so much worse than death. Life meant I had to carry the weight. Live with the memories, let them dig and dig and dig until I became more hole than human.

Stay away from the Barn, Daddy's voice echoed. The fact that Tex had chosen those words to tell me goodbye only solidified my belief that he was wrong. Staying behind couldn't save me, just like closing my eyes wouldn't make me invisible. Staying behind just made me a witness, a bystander, a victim, and I'd decided a while ago that those were things I'd never be again.

I jumped from the bed, threw on my clothes, and packed my bag with as many plants and supplies as it would hold. My bow felt right inside my hand, righter than it'd ever felt. The arrows, some old and worn, others procured from his arsenal, hung heavy across my back.

Tex didn't get to do that. He didn't get to dictate what role I played. I would help, and if we were destined to fall, then I would be among the first to plummet.

When I exited the room, Sergio jumped up from his chair. He'd been sitting on the deck as if guarding my door. "Pretty girl..." he said, expression wary.

Did he plan to stop me? Was that why he was there? Had Tex asked him to keep me onboard? It was an odd thought, given Tex's obvious dislike for him, but not something that would surprise me. He didn't have very many people to choose from. All the men would have gone with him. "How long have they been gone?" I asked, fingers tightening on my bow. Nothing was going to stop me from leaving.

"Long." He took a step toward me, cautious, one hand outstretched in welcome. As if it would curl around my shoulders, and guide me to a sitting room where we'd drink lemonade and talk about the weather. "Is better this way," he prodded gently. "I hear his plan. Is good plan, but only if Free Soldiers have heads in right places." He smiled, cajoling, like this was a tour, and I was a tough audience, and he'd dealt with me a million times because. "I will tell you a secret. Butch-minus-balls is only minus balls when pretty girl is at risk."

Balls. Balls. For the first time, I didn't like Sergio. I didn't like being called pretty girl. I didn't like listening to people go on and on about macho bravado while people were dying. While I needed to leave. While he was standing in my way. "Can I ask you something?"

He lifted a brow and nodded slowly.

"Why is it, men talk about balls, as if they're some source of strength? Does the fact that I don't have them make me weak?" I lifted my bow, aiming for his.

His eyes widened, hands lifted, and he gave a sharp bark of Russian that didn't sound anything like Santa.

I lifted my brows and smiled wide. Or, I tried to smile. It could have been a sneer. "They seem awful fragile to me. If I aimed right—"

"Is good point!" he snapped, glaring at me. "Please lower weapon. Or lift it. Aim for heart! Is preferred."

I lowered the bow an inch, but I didn't put it away. "Which direction did they head in?"