SOMEWHERE IN THE BACK of Natalie Shaw's mind, she knew that it was wrong. That every decision, breath, and step that had led her to the front door of her LA home, alone, was completely, utterly wrong.

Yet, every other part of her head was screaming at her to run — to abandon every last bond she had forged over her lifetime, in hopes of making it out alive, and in hopes of protecting what had become the centre of her universe.

Her baby.

Natalie's main reason for holding the darkness at bay, instead of letting it consume her entirely ─ the miracle that relied on her being of sound body and mind at all times, with no slip ups. None.

Running protected her family — they were hurt because of her, and they'd be much better off without having to fight the woman's battles, or put so much time and energy into caring for her. So, she'd freed them of their obligations and made sure they got to live mundane lives, without her.

It hurt the Shaw woman to do so, but staying would hurt them more.

Pulling her keys from her pocket, Natalie did her best to ignore the way her limbs weighed with a residual numbness that she couldn't shake — the sedative Doctor Feldman had given her was strong enough to blur her body, but somehow, not her mind.

She slipped the house key into the lock and twisted, waiting until she heard the familiar 'click' from beneath the jangling of the various metals. Instead of the front door swinging open to reveal warmth and furniture bathed in a comforting, familiar light, Natalie was met with nothing of the sort.

The hinges creaked as the door trailed open, louder than she had ever heard, allowing the cold to slam into her body like a wall.

Darkness enveloped the house, and not just physically — every corner, every room was shrouded in tainted memories, all of which were previously the light that the Shaws cherished more than anything.

Empty. That was the only word that Natalie could come up with; despite all of the furniture sitting exactly where it should be, with nothing having moved an inch, something was missing.

More like someone was missing.

Taking her keys from the lock with trembling hands, Natalie stepped through the doorway and placed them into the glass bowl on the entryway table; a habit so instilled into her mind that not even grief could disrupt it.

The woman gave the door a weak push, which was just enough for it to click shut. The once-soft sound echoed throughout the house, ringing in Natalie's ears like the hammering of a nail in her beloved's coffin.

Her eyes were sluggish in their movements as they drifted across the living room, snagging on different things. First, it was the white dress shirt draped over the back of the armchair — like it had been simply tossed there, ready to be retrieved after brewing a coffee or accidentally abandoned after a small distraction.

Next, it was the papers scattered across the coffee table in a seemingly disorderly fashion, but Natalie knew it was anything but: Deckard had a weird, yet systematic way of organising his files that barely made sense in her mind. Near the middle of the pile was an open book, face-down so that the page wasn't lost.

Out of Mister and Mrs Shaw, Deckard was the avid reader of the pair. Natalie had tried, time and time again, to get into reading, but she always ended up in the garage, tinkering with a car engine. Her husband used to laugh every time he found the book of choice, discarded on a nearby workbench, and Natalie covered in grease.

"Typical," he'd sigh in amusement, before shaking his head and doing his best to hide his grin, "just typical."

Maybe now it was time to give reading another go.

Tearing her eyes away, Natalie tried to keep her mind focused on her body — on moving forward one step at a time. Her boots thudded against the hardwood floors, slowly, the sedative still pulling on her limbs as though they were tethered to the ground: shackles, chains, and all. 

Natalie's feet guided her towards the stairs, before staggering to the second floor of the house and taking her to the bedroom — the one that she shared with Deckard.

Her movements were almost robotic in the way that she sat on the edge of the perfectly-made bed, completely ignoring the dust that still covered her clothes, and reached down to untie her boots.

Natalie knew that it was only a matter of time before her mind turned against her, and before her family tracked her down. She just hoped that there was enough time to hide before the storm.

Pulling off her unlaced combat boots, Natalie let them slip from her fingers and fall to the floor with a dull 'thud'. After a moment of simply staring at the discarded shoes, the woman forced herself to a stand.

The first piece of clothing to flutter to the ground was her husband's jacket — any last traces of his familiar cologne had faded, and more grey dust clung to the material, despite any attempts to wipe it all away.

Natalie's feet padded softly against the hardwood floor, leading her towards the en suite attached to the room.

Next, it was her tank top, which the woman was forced to pull over her head in a pain-staking stretch; her ribs burned with the movement, but honestly? Natalie wasn't sure that she could feel it, despite wanting nothing more than to be reminded that she was truly alive and breathing — instead of still stuck under that rubble.

Her jeans were the next to join the trail of clothing she had created, which she weakly shoved down to her ankles before stepping out of.

By the time Natalie reached the large, polished bathroom, all she was left with was her undergarments. Every bruise, scratch, and scar was on display, waiting to tell the story of her night, her life.

Her heart clenched painfully as she flicked on the bathroom light and was met with the sight of her body — what was once smooth, tan skin had become tainted by the horrors of the losses she had faced.

Natalie could've sworn her eyes were prickling with the familiar sting of tears, but when her dull, brown eyes remained dry, she determined that she must've had none left to cry.

Her vacant gaze trailed to the left side of her forehead, where a line of stitches ran from near the inner corner of her eyebrow, all the way to the outer corner. Most traces of the maroon that once coated her face had been wiped away by one of the kinder nurses, but some faint streaks of blood still remained.

The bruises across her jawline were the next to catch her eye — the right side of her jaw was marred with familiar shades of blue and purple, stretching towards her cheek like bleeding ink on a page. Natalie had no idea exactly how it had happened, but she found herself thinking that it didn't matter: the damage was already done.

She had half the mind to trace the blotches with her fingers, a feather-light touch that would send sparks skittering across her skin, but both her hands remained where they hung loosely by her sides.

Her gaze barely skimmed over the shallow cuts that littered her right shoulder before landing on her torso.

A sour feeling swirled in the woman's gut, and crept up her throat like a twisted sense of dread — the once-dark shades that made up her bruises had deepened even further, leaving her ribs in a detrimental state. The colours had begun to reach for her abdomen, worsening the sickness that built near the back of her mouth.

Without even realising, her hand had begun to move on its own accord and rested gently against her abdomen, as though the gesture would be enough to protect the miracle inside of her.

Natalie's thumb stroked soft circles over the uninjured skin, relishing in the warmth that fluttered beneath her palm. In that moment, pushing away the darkness that threatened to consume her mind came easily, and the Shaw woman knew that her child was grounding her in ways that she thought impossible — it was like Deckard was there, right next to her, once again coaxing the woman back from her state of nothingness.

"Hi, pequeño (little one)," Natalie surprised herself with the hoarse, yet somehow gentle, words that echoed against the tile of the bathroom, "I hope you're doing alright in there."

The Shaw woman couldn't tear her eyes away from the reflection of her abdomen in the mirror.

"You've been through a lot these past few days, huh?" She asked softly, her thumb still tracing the same gentle circles over her skin. Memories from the past week flicked through her mind like a film reel — fighting and shooting Hobbs, and the explosion at his office; racing through the streets of LA and the shootout that followed; tumbling down mountains in Azerbaijan; fighting the Prince's head guard at the party in Abu Dhabi; rescuing the McAllisters and battling agents from the Organisation; getting shot in her vest; not to mention the events of just a few mere hours ago with Dominic and the parking garage collapse.

Natalie paused, her thumb drifting to a halt in its movements. Danger followed her like metal to a magnet, constantly chasing her, and sometimes, she would chase it back — whether it was in the form of fruitless revenge quests, or daring, well-paid jobs, the Shaw woman couldn't escape the constant threats. Her baby wasn't even born yet, and they had been in more danger than most grown adults experience in a lifetime.

Somehow, her voice softened even further and became steeped in notes of heartbreak and grief, whilst her right hand resumed its warming, gentle motions. Natalie's left hand, which was wrapped in a brace to support her sprained wrist, reached up to grasp the wedding band still looped on a silver chain. The woman threaded her pointer finger through the ring, searching for the small, rough dips in the smooth metal.

Her finger skimmed over the familiar engraving, one that mirrored the words carved into her own wedding band: always and forever. The vow sunk into her skin and echoed through her mind, making Natalie realise that it was no longer just her and Deckard wrapped within the words — it was all three of them.

"You're strong, resilient..." Natalie listed, her voice no louder than a soft-spoken tone — if the woman knew one thing, and one thing alone, it was that her baby would always know Deckard Shaw, "just like your dad."

Despite all odds, a small, amused smile tugged at Natalie's dry lips; even a light laugh had built in the back of her throat, yet that was where it remained.

"But if you were to ask him," She hummed softly, as though she was confiding a secret that was close to her heart, "he'd say that it's me you get that from."

Without even realising, Natalie's eyes had drifted to her left thigh, and were glued to the old, jagged scar that permeated the otherwise-soft skin. Her small smile faded with a shaky sigh, before the woman tore her gaze away and returned it to her abdomen.

"You're so loved, mi vida (my life)," Natalie began speaking again, except this time, her voice was full of whispers and whole-hearted promises, and a note of fear that hadn't been there before, "and I'm going to try and be the best mother I can, alright?"

Her breath caught at the next words that flooded into her mind, yet she was unable to stop them spilling from her lips — in a sense, the woman didn't want to stop them, despite the fact that she'd spoken more about her son in one night than she had in fourteen years.

"I couldn't protect your brother..." Natalie swallowed thickly, forcing her voice to remain as steady as she could make it, "but I will sure as hell protect you with everything I have. I promise."

"It's you and me against the world." She whispered, softly rubbing her abdomen one final time and relishing in the last of the warmth beneath her palm. The woman's heart weighed heavy with all of her sweet words and promises, alongside her grief and uncertainty.

The looming darkness crept back into her mind as Natalie thought about Deckard's fate — was he alive? Dead? How close was he to her in the rubble? Could she have pulled him out? Did leaving him there seal his fate? Even if he was alive, did they take him to prison? Which one? Would they ever see each other again?

Would Deckard ever get to meet his child?

Sighing hollowly in exhaustion, Natalie turned away from the mirror — and her thoughts — to face the shower. Nausea rippled through the woman, but with a few deep, yet painful breaths, she managed to keep it at bay.

As Natalie opened the glass door and pulled the lever, allowing hot water to cascade down in strong streams, the woman couldn't help but wonder why it was called 'morning sickness' if she experienced it at any point in the day. She hadn't experienced much of it at all when she was pregnant with Miles.

Shaking her head and dismissing the random, distracting thought, Natalie stripped herself of the rest of her undergarments, along with her wrist brace, and stepped into the shower.

The boiling water stung as it poured over every cut and wound, but the Shaw woman welcomed the pain — it proved she was still there, after all; it proved she could still feel.

As the remainder of her day circled the drain in a whirlpool of scarlet and grey, Natalie knew her mind was slipping away, fragment by fragment, piece by piece; she found herself just staring at the tainted water beneath her feet, unmoving.

The familiar, dreaded emptiness clawed at her chest, begging to be released from the fragile confines it was limited to, but Natalie Shaw held on with all of her strength — for her child, and for Deckard.

THE BLENDED HUM OF the hospital buzzed lowly in the mind of the oldest King brother, intertwining with his tumultuous thoughts. Never in his life had he felt so vulnerable, sitting in a stuffy hospital waiting room and anxiously biding his time.

The only other time that compared, and was arguably worse, was when Piper was born with her umbilical cord wrapped around her neck. Those twenty-four seconds of doctors crowding over his baby girl, desperately trying to get her breathing and responsive, whilst he cradled a hysterical Wren, were the worst twenty-four seconds of his life. They still were, even as he sat waiting for the news that could either shatter his world and his family, or take the weight of the world from his shoulders and give him his mother back.

A familiar ringing began to build in his head, echoing in his ears and piercing his skull. Xavier clenched his jaw and gritted his teeth, trying to force the effects of the concussion away.

His doctor had rattled off a list of injuries, treatments, and warnings, but the man hadn't exactly made notes, nor did he care to. Xavier had nursed plenty of his own wounds before, and he saw no point in being confined to a hospital bed whilst his family needed him.

Despite the pain rattling his skull, the man did his best not to move and shift the head resting against his shoulder. Alice's flurry of blonde hair filled his peripheral vision, her soft, even breaths brushing against his shirt.

After her phone call with Wren, the King woman had joined her siblings in waiting for news on Andy — as hard as she tried to fight the exhaustion tugging at her body, Alice's head had lulled to the side and sleep overcame her within minutes. Bianca sat next to her, clutching the woman's hand and tracing shapes across the back of it, as though the simple, yet gentle, gesture could ward away any bad dreams that threatened to plague her wife. 

Similarly, in the seat on the other side of Xavier, Oliver was fast asleep, his blonde curls falling over his closed eyes and trembling with every heavy breath. The twelve-year-old was curled into Nick's side, his head resting on the man's chest.

Nick's arm was cautiously wrapped around the boy's shoulders, as though he was trying not to overstep, all in spite of the fact that Oliver had been the one to shyly ask if he could rest his head on the man.

The King man's other arm was draped around Zoey's waist, pressed comfortably between her back and the chair, whilst the woman's head laid against his shoulder. Unlike Alice and Oliver, the assassin was wide awake and tormented by the pain she had brought to the only true family she had ever known.

Not to mention the fact that whenever she tried to close her eyes, a familiar pair of empty, blue ones stared her down from the darkness, reminding her of the dark-haired boy who once protected her from anything and everything. The guilt ate Zoey alive, clawing at her gut with long, pointed talons as she pictured the sheer emptiness behind his gaze, knowing it was her fault Sebastian had no recollection of anything.

The woman's hand absentmindedly brushed through the mound of blonde curls on her lap, continuing to ward away any tension from AJ's body. He too was asleep, strewn across the hard hospital chairs and using his sister's upper legs as a pillow.

The only person that was missing was Natalie.

Between being discharged and joining his family in the waiting room, Xavier had slipped into his sister's hospital room to check on her, only to find her sound asleep. He had no idea of the news that had sent Natalie spiralling, nor the demons that plagued her, even in dreams. The man was blissfully unaware that his sister's slumber was involuntary, and that she had been stuck with the needle only minutes before his arrival.

Instead, he simply admired the rare moment of peace that enveloped her features whilst doing his best not to lose his mind over the number of marks scattered across her face — and those were only the injuries he could see.

For a moment, just a split second, Xavier didn't see his grown-up sister: no, he saw the nineteen-year-old blonde version of her, who had come to London in hopes of a fresh start and a lot less heartache. She had sort of crept up on them — at first, Natalie was the new friend Nick had brought home after finding out she needed a place to stay for the night. Slowly but surely, those one-off visits began to happen twice a month, then once a week, and then it wasn't long before she would stay for days at a time. With every moment Natalie spent with them, their love for her grew, and soon, it was as if she had simply been born into the family right from the very beginning.

Xavier perched on the edge of his sister's bed, wanting nothing more than to just hear her soft, even breaths alongside the steady beep of the heart monitor: both reassured him that Natalie, the girl he had protected and loved for over a decade, was still there.

He gently pushed a stray curl away from Natalie's battered face, failing to hide the frown that tugged at his lips. Xavier wished more than anything that he could siphon his family's pain — being the oldest sibling meant living with his heart on the outside of his chest, constantly vulnerable and destined to do everything to protect the younger ones who looked up to him.

Giving his sister one final glance, Xavier climbed from his place on the bed with a muffled groan: determination and a little sheer luck didn't take away the ache deep-rooted in his bones.

The ringing of multiple pagers dragged the man from his thoughts and back to the waiting room, where the bustling staff had trailed to a stop.

Xavier had half the mind to ask what all of the muttering was about, but when he caught wind of muttering about a "Code Yellow", he assumed it was just some sort of hospital drill, and settled further into his seat.

It wasn't until Jakob appeared, hair tousled and eyes red, that Xavier's body stiffened and an awful feeling enveloped his gut: one that weighed him down and ate away at any security he thought he had left.

The rest of the Kings (save for Alice, who was still sleeping soundly) caught sight of Jakob just moments after Xavier, their bodies tensing in almost an identical manner.

Zoey lifted her head from its place on Nick's shoulder, her eyes finally drawing into focus and taking in Jakob's appearance — there was only one thing, one person, in that building who could elicit such a reaction from the man.

"What happened?" She asked lowly, her hidden question more than obvious: what happened to Natalie?

Swallowing thickly, Jakob resisted the urge to run his fingers through his dishevelled hair for the umpteenth time that night. The words lodged themselves in his throat, but with a moment of persistence, they spilled from between his lips.

"She ran." He revealed remorsefully, with his voice hoarse and on the brink of breaking. "Natalie's gone."

Xavier could've sworn heart stopped dead in his chest, and that all of the air had been sucked out of the room. To his surprise, boiling anger began to bubble beneath the surface of his skin, ready to break through the surface at any moment. With freakishly calm movements, the man shifted Alice's body so that she now leant on Bianca.

The street racer didn't hesitate to wrap an arm around her wife, whilst Alice remained sound asleep and nuzzled her face into the familiar warmth of her beloved's neck.

Climbing from his seat, still eerily calm for someone who was just told their sister is missing, Xavier ignored the residual pain burning in his muscles and stood eye to eye with Jakob.

"The fuck d'you mean 'she's gone'?" He all but seethed, his gaze still set firmly on the Toretto man's red-rimmed eyes.

Jakob maintained eye contact the best that he could, despite its intensity. He knew that his answer wasn't gonna satiate the hunger the family had for an explanation, but it was all he could give.

"She—uh, she completely vanished from her room." Jakob started, resisting the urge to anxiously clench his jaw. "Took all of her personal effects with her. She also hotwired my car in the parking lot."

Xavier couldn't suppress the scoff that built in the back of his throat. Deep down, the man knew it wasn't Jakob he was truly angry at, but he wasn't used to feeling so helpless all at once. Not only was his mother hanging on by a thread, but now his sister was missing — and Xavier knew what that meant.

He knew her.

Natalie Shaw was a ticking time bomb, waiting to go off at any moment, and Deckard wasn't there to defuse it. No, instead, it was down to the group of people fortunate enough to call her their sister, who had no idea which wire to cut or how to even read the timer.

Running a coarse hand roughly over his face, Xavier forced his breathing to remain even.

"This isn't good." He muttered under his breath, just loud enough for those around him to hear. The man was half tempted to pace, but he knew a few simple steps couldn't quell the nervous energy thrumming in his body.

"Xav, please, just take a breath—" Bianca tried intervening, knowing that her brother-in-law's protectiveness could spiral into a potent rage very quickly, but was unintentionally cut off by Jakob.

"Look, Letty's already out looking for her." He said gently, yet the underlying firm tone was clear. "I'm about to go too, I just─ you deserve to know what's going on."

Jakob sighed in exhaustion. "We both know how well she can hide, but hopefully, finding her shouldn't take more than a few days."

"She doesn't have a few days, dammit!" Xavier snapped. "Jakob, with all due respect, you have no idea how bad this is."

Nick sensed the change in his brother's demeanour immediately, knowing the man's tells better than he knew his own. He quickly yet carefully lifted Oliver's upper body from where it rested against his chest, and rose from his seat. Still holding the sleeping boy, Nick carefully picked him up and placed him in the man's previous chair.

Zoey didn't hesitate to wrap an arm around her kid brother's shoulders, whilst Oliver relaxed into her side. Now knowing that the boy was still soundly asleep, Nick turned and placed himself in the middle of the shortening gap between Xavier and Jakob.

"Don't you fuckin' say that!" The Toretto hissed, jabbing his finger towards the pair of brothers. "What're you tryna tell me, that I don't know Natalie Toretto?"

The emphasis on the woman's former last name made Xavier scoff, prompting a hard stare from Nick, who was facing him.

"Calm down." The younger brother muttered firmly, trying to catch Xavier's gaze but finding it glued to the Toretto man over his shoulder. "He's her brother too, and just as scared as us. Remember that, Xav."

Nick's words went in one of Xavier's ears and out of the other, despite the amount of reason they held. 

"No, I'm saying you don't know Natalie Shaw, dickhead." The older brother rebutted, his chest burning with a fierce protectiveness. "Where've you been the last six years, hm?"

Pushing past an exasperated Nick, Xavier analysed the way that Jakob's tension and rage faltered. He'd hit a nerve. Guilt pooled in his gut, but Xavier couldn't turn back now — Jakob needed to realise that Natalie's coping methods were nothing short of completely self-destructive.

"Where were you when our sister thought Letty was dead, and didn't speak for a year?" The King man continued, fire blazing in his eyes. "When she didn't— no, couldn't take care of herself, for an entire fucking year?!"

"Xavier, that's enough!" Nick snatched his brother's upper arm into a tight grip, trying to pull him away from Jakob — or at least just hold him back. Yes, Jakob had missed a lot over the past six years, but nobody deserved to have that thrown back in their face in the way that Xavier was doing so. For once, the usually level-headed, calm older brother was out of line. Nick honestly thought it was the end of times.

"The only reason she survived was Deckard!" Xavier dug himself deeper and deeper into the hole he was in, and despite the return of the ringing in his skull, words continued to slip from his lips faster than his rattled brain could comprehend. "And guess what? He's gone! She has nothing, no one to hold on to this time round."

It was then that a paling Jakob murmured something under his breath, having been silent throughout Xavier's outburst. No one caught the words he uttered, leaving the oldest King sibling to sigh in exasperation.

"What was that?" He asked tiredly, his anger quickly fading and regret weighing like lead in his stomach. He already wanted to take back every single word, or at least have the chance to say them with less anger and yelling.

"I said, Natalie has something to hold on to." Jakob repeated, except loud enough for the family to hear.

"If you say some stupid bullshit like 'the power of friendship', I will smack the everloving shit outta you—"

"She's pregnant."

He might as well have sucked all of the air out of the waiting room. Through their haze of shock, the King brothers knew that their sister's pregnancy could go two ways: one, it could be just the push she needed to keep her mind safe, or two, it could push her further towards the edge at an unprecedented rate, completely eradicating any sense of a timeline they possessed before.

They didn't want to consider number two.

PLACING THE HAIRDRYER BACK onto the bathroom countertop, Natalie sighed. The sight of her natural, albeit slightly frizzy, curls staring back at her was a jarring one, considering she couldn't remember the last time she hadn't straightened them first thing in the morning.

If the Shaw woman had the energy, or the circumstances were drastically different, maybe she would've done the routine that really defined the curls she had long since seen.

Reaching for the hairbrush to her left, Natalie ran it through the untamed hair only a few times before catching sight of the reflection of her hand — it was entirely bare, her ring finger missing its usual eye-catching glint. It felt far too light, and she mourned the weight it used to bear from her wedding rings.

A sharp pain stabbed at her chest, over and over, leaving the woman breathless. Heartbreak was no small fight: hell, it was a battlefield that reaped innocent casualties and showed no mercy. Even her siblings were hurt by her pain, by her loss-fuelled actions, and that just drove her even further out of their comforting holds.

Natalie wanted all of the pain and the suffering to stop, but most of all, she wanted her husband back — she wanted the love of her life, the father of her child, the man who healed her in so many unbroken ways, the other half of her soul.

But she had let him down, and now?

Now, Deckard Shaw had become another victim in the tragedy that was 'the life of Natalie Toretto'.

The woman slammed the hairbrush back onto the countertop, as though it had burned her, despite the pain that shot up her arm: she'd forgotten her wrist was sprained from her earlier fall on the roof of the parking garage. Gently shaking out the pain, she reached for her mane of hair with both hands. The strands threaded between her fingers as she quickly and efficiently braided them, pulling the pieces taut.

Natalie had hours of practice, not only from doing her own hair, but also from doing Mia's: the years of french and dutch braids, and not to mention the crown braid hairstyle that the younger girl had asked for for her school dance one year.

And then, all of her experience was used with Alice, who was only fifteen years old when Natalie unofficially became a King. Yes, Andy herself had plenty of skill in that department, but Alice loved asking her new older sister to help with things like hair and makeup — it gave them a way to bond, and both girls loved it more than anything.

Grabbing a hair tie from the container in front of the mirror, Natalie tied off the tight braid with nimble fingers. The stitched-up wound on the back of her head burned, but she knew that it would be okay as long as she was careful.

The Shaw woman let the braid fall from her grasp, allowing it to rest against the white dress shirt she wore — one of Deckard's. It still held the combined scent of their laundry detergent and his cologne; the fresh, rich, earthy aroma grounded Natalie, and made her feel as though Deckard Shaw was still there, with his arms wrapped around her in a strong, unwavering embrace.

The first few buttons were undone, revealing the silver chain and wedding band resting against her upper chest. The bottom of the shirt was tucked into the waistband of her dark blue bootcut jeans, making it seem less oversized.

Natalie had rolled the long sleeves up, so that they rested at her elbows. It left her black wrist brace on full display, not that she cared.

The only thing left to take care of was covering up the bruises that decorated her jaw.

As though she was on autopilot, Natalie reached for both her makeup sponge and concealer, which were in her little cosmetics bag of essentials — she hadn't needed to do this in years, not since she was trapped in that house with him.

NOVEMBER 1999

The sponge dabbed frantically at the discoloured skin, desperate to conceal all of the vibrant marks scattered around the woman's face.

Natalie, only eighteen years old, tried to force her trembling hands to steady, even just the slightest amount. Yet, they continued to violently shake as she attempted to apply the concealer.

Her heart was practically pounding out of her chest, the adrenaline from a few minutes ago still rushing through her body. It thrummed in her ears, almost drowning out the sound of heavy footsteps downstairs. Almost.

She knew whose steps they were.

Blowing out an unsteady breath, Natalie pressed the sponge further against her skin. The harsh pressure instilled an ache, deep in her cheekbone, but she didn't care. She pushed harder.

The concealer was patchy, allowing shades of red, black, and blue to shine through, and that sent the girl hurtling over the edge.

A crackly, broken sob burst from her lips, followed by the familiar sting of tears coating her eyes like a glossy film. She weakly tossed the makeup sponge at the mirror in front of her, before slamming her hands down onto the dresser: once, twice, three times.

Natalie's violent sobs were anything but quiet, instead they were harsh, jarring sounds that grated at her throat and tore into her chest. It sent fire skittering across her upper body, crashing over every bruise, scrape, and mark that had been inflicted by his hands.

She was sick of living this way — hell, was it truly even living?

Desperately pressing her shaking hands to her mouth, Natalie stumbled away from the dresser and into the foot of her bed. The girl's sobs fought against her palms, ultimately seeping between the cracks of her fingers and continuing to reverberate throughout the bedroom.

Natalie knew what her tears would warrant, and she knew that she'd need a hell of a lot more concealer to deal with it.

Except, instead of the pounding footsteps growing louder and harmonising with her hammering heartbeat, the eighteen-year-old's entire body flinched from the violent crash of the front door — it had been slammed shut, taking the seething, violent man with it.

The house walls shook from the force, and the only coherent thought that Natalie could form was 'at least it wasn't her that took that blow'.

Sliding from her seat on the edge of the bed to the hardwood floor, the girl leant her head back so that it rested against the bed frame. She closed her eyes and pressed a firm hand to her shuddering chest, all in hopes of steadying her breaths.

Though, her heart skipped a beat when her bedroom door creaked open: had he come back? How didn't she hear him? What mood was he in? Was this her final time facing him before he finally finished the job?

Natalie lifted her head to face who she thought was Daniel, only to have her bottom lip tremble at the sight of her other half.

Leticia Ortiz swallowed a gasp and her tears at the sight of her best friend, curled up on the floor, marked by the one who was supposed to love her the most — blossoming bruises, which were clearly fresh, ran the length of her cheekbone and reached for her eye; various older marks of a yellow tone littered the skin of her neck and lower arms, whilst the rest of her body was shielded from sight.

"Lia..." She whispered, not hesitating to drop to her knees in front of her best friend.

Even in the presence of her best friend — the girl who knew her better than Natalie knew herself — the eighteen-year-old steeled her face and hid any remaining traces of weakness: Natalie's expression hardened, and her hands instinctively reached up to wipe away any remaining traces of tears.

"Help me cover this up before Mia gets home, please." Her voice was hoarse and gravelly from the cries that had torn at her throat. "Please, Letty."

The Ortiz girl shook her head, and gently reached for Natalie's hands, taking them in her own. "We need to find a way to get rid of him. You can't live like this, Lia... you'll end up dead."

Natalie immediately squeezed her eyes shut, and threw her head back against the bed in frustration. Letty didn't understand — she didn't know that if Natalie wanted freedom, it would cost Mia her life — through no fault of her own.

If Natalie told anyone, well, it wouldn't just be her and Mia's lives on the line: she had no idea what Daniel was capable of anymore.

"I need to borrow your concealer." She repeated again, firmer this time. Natalie lifted her head from its place against the mattress and met Letty's eyes, which were swimming with concerns she couldn't bring herself to voice. "Mia can't see me like this."

Letting out a soft sigh, the Ortiz girl gave a conceding nod, before climbing to a stand from her crouched position and offering Natalie a hand.

The battered girl ignored the pain that stabbed at her shoulder and ribs as she took Letty's hand and pulled herself up. A small wince slipped from her lips, almost inaudible, but Letty caught it. She always did.

As the Ortiz girl helped Natalie into her room, only one thought circled in her mind: something had to change, fast.

With parts of her face strategically painted in concealer, Natalie trailed from the bathroom with heavy, exhausted steps. She switched off the light as she went, but paused in the doorway.

Her dirty undergarments already rested in her arms, and the Shaw woman didn't want to leave the house a mess, so she carefully leant down to grab the rest.

First, it was her jeans, then her tank top, and finally, her — or rather, Deckard's — jacket. Each time she reached for an article of clothing laying on the floor, her ribs screamed in protest, begging for her to just simply remain still; the Shaw woman refused.

Snagging the final article of clothing, she let out a heavy breath of relief and returned her posture to normal. Natalie allowed the pain to fade as she slowly traipsed towards the laundry basket, which sat idly in the corner of the room.

If somehow, some way, Deckard Shaw climbed from the rubble, just as she had, Natalie didn't want him to return home only to find the house a complete and utter disaster. Or maybe, it was the woman's way of pushing her grief to the back of her mind and returning it to its iron cage — maybe it was her temporary way to cope.

Having dumped her clothes into the basket, the Shaw woman redirected her thoughts and her movements to the wardrobe. It held many shirts, trousers, pairs of shoes — some hers, some Deckard's — but she knew what she was after.

Natalie retrieved her favourite pair of knee-high boots with a sigh: the black leather was worn and creased, marking every step she had taken and every place she had been since she was twenty-three.

They had been an expensive birthday gift from Andy, all those years ago, and Natalie had fallen completely in love with them. She wore them every day for weeks after getting them, and cared for them with the utmost attention.

None of the Kings understood why she cherished them so, but Andy eventually spoke with Natalie about them, and everything fell into place.

"Back home, we could never really afford expensive gifts." She had said gently, a soft, reminiscent smile tugging at her lips. "Dad did the best he could, but one income split between five people? It didn't stretch far."

Andromeda had listened intently, not missing a single word.

"After he—uh, after he passed," Natalie averted her gaze to the boots in her hands, swallowing thickly at her own words, "I made sure that my siblings had everything they wanted, especially on holidays. Even if it meant working as many jobs and shifts as I could get."

The woman's gaze returned to the warmth of Andromeda's.

"They deserve the world, and I'd be damned if I didn't do everything I could to give it to them." She said earnestly, toying with the zip of one of the boots. "I-it just didn't leave much — or any — spare for me, and I was okay with that."

"I'm not used to having such nice things, or genuine gifts." Natalie spoke in a small voice, the urge to come clean about Daniel overwhelming her — though, a small voice in the back of her mind reminded her that her history could very well scare the Kings off, and then she'd have no one. So, she bit her tongue and bided her time.

Sitting herself down on the edge of the large bed, the Shaw woman tugged the bottom of her jeans up, allowing her to slip her beloved boots on. Natalie swiftly zipped them up in turn, before lowering the fabric of her jeans over the leather material.

Wasting no time, Natalie climbed to her feet, finding herself steady on the familiar, thick heels. She snagged a large duffel bag from the bottom of her wardrobe and laid it out open on the bed.

Natalie forced her hands to remain steady as she packed the essentials — clothes, along with all of the irreplaceable things that held sentimental value. The mental inventory list she had made in her head was quickly being ticked off.

Essential toiletries. Check. Undergarments. Check. A pair of her jeans. Check. A pair of Deckard's sweatpants. Check. Some of Deckard's shirts. Check, check, and check. One of his hoodies. Check. A small bottle of Deckard's cologne. Check.

The Shaw woman just needed enough supplies, enough of him, to tide herself over until she settled down someplace new.

Rubbing her palms anxiously against her jeans, Natalie swallowed the nauseous feeling creeping up her throat — no matter how many times she ran and disappeared, it never got easier...even when it guaranteed the safety of those that mattered most to her.

The woman pushed herself to return to the wardrobe; except instead of grabbing more clothing, her hand reached for the concealed button, which was just by the rim of the frame.

The doors of the wardrobe slid closed, only to open the opposite way and reveal the ultimate stash of gear: a variety of guns, knives, passports, wigs, phones, and legal documents, all organised fanatically by Deckard. Each weapon was secured to the back wall, and all six shelves were organised in the exact same manner, making for an easy and quick getaway. The entire space was lit up by small, white lights, which were attached to the bottom of each piece of wooden shelving.

Each shelf held an identity for both Natalie and Deckard — half of the space was taken up by a wig for the Shaw woman and the relative passport, phone, keys, and forged documents, whilst the other half held the same for her husband (minus the wig, of course).

Natalie felt herself drawn to one of the newer identities; one that was only made a few months ago, one that her family wouldn't recognise: Esme Espinosa, a former deep sea diver who'd taken some time off work for family. Oh, the irony.

The Shaw woman quickly snagged the passport and brown packet of documents, consisting of a birth certificate, a driving license, property deeds, among other things. Both were carefully tucked into the duffel bag, with the passport going into an outer pocket for easy access.

Next were the keys, sitting idly next to where the passport once laid — the silver keyring held two car keys, along with a handful of house keys: some were for safe houses, and some for specific properties registered under that alias.

Natalie wasted no time in tucking them into the same pocket that held her passport, before returning to the wardrobe for the phone. Given that it was fully charged and then powered off only three months ago, the Shaw woman hoped that it would have a decent amount of charge.

Although, as she cradled the sleek, black mobile in her healthy hand, a gut-wrenching thought creeped up on her: who did she have to call?

Not Deckard, not her family...

She had no one.

Darkness crept back into her mind, escaping its narrow confines in spite of the will that Natalie possessed. A familiar, paralysing fear inched itself down her spine, forcing the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end.

The last time she was forced to grieve alone, it almost killed her. The woman spiralled into a very dark place, one that consumed every inch of her being and nearly pushed her to the edge — one that she couldn't come back from.

Thankfully, Nick and Hattie were there to pull her back and hold her close when it mattered most.

Natalie refused to go there again, not when it posed a risk to her child — she had already failed Miles, her Milo, and the woman would rather die than fail the miracle inside of her too.

Flexing her injured hand in hopes of feeling something, anything, Natalie gritted her teeth when a familiar, sharp pain shot up the length of her left forearm. She was still there. Still alive. The darkness hadn't won, not yet.

The Shaw woman forced the phone into the back pocket of her jeans with a firm shove. All she had to do was keep moving. Keep running.

Pushing herself back over to the wardrobe, Natalie snatched one of the wig caps from the shelf and began to gather her braid, twisting it into a swirl and pressing it flat against the back of her head. She stretched the material over her hair, and adjusted it until it covered all of her brown strands.

Then, much more delicately than her previous actions, the Shaw woman lifted the wig from its place on the spherical, styrofoam stand, and pulled it on over the wig cap.

The loose waves were a shiny jet black, and fell to Natalie's mid-chest area. Bangs swooped just below her eyebrows, successfully covering the long line of stitches on the left side of her forehead. It suited her perfectly, but not as much as her natural hair style and colour.

Adjusting the wig in the mirror one final time, Natalie sighed at the reflection staring back at her — she didn't recognise the exhausted, broken woman holding her gaze, nor the unfamiliar dullness of her dark eyes.

It made her heart pound rapidly in her chest, as though it was trying to break free from the ribs and flesh that confined it. She was sick of feeling vulnerable and completely uncomfortable in her own skin; the Shaw woman had only been experiencing it for a few hours, but those few hours were enough to make her skin crawl and stomach churn.

Natalie pulled herself away from the mirror, quickly finding the concealed button and returning the gear to its hiding place. The wardrobe doors slid shut on their own; Natalie darted towards the bed and snagged the duffel bag into her grasp, before zipping it closed in one fluid motion.

Wasting no more time in the bedroom, the Shaw woman picked up the bag with her good arm and lugged it out of the room, not even sparing a moment to turn back and admire the once comforting, warm space.

Her boots clacked against the hardwood stairs, the sounds quick from her rushed movements. The Shaw woman passed the living room in order to get to the front door, but something stopped her in her tracks: the worn book, face-down on the coffee table and surrounded by scattered papers.

Letting the bag strap slip from her fingers, the duffel slammed to the ground with a heavy 'thud'. Natalie's steps were gentler this time, more hesitant, as she approached the living room. It was almost like she was scared to disrupt one of the last places Deckard had been; the Shaw woman wanted to cling to every last glimpse of him, even if that meant leaving his dress shirt draped over the back of a chair, or refraining from touching the systematically scattered files.

Natalie cautiously lowered herself onto the couch, which was positioned right beside the coffee table, and rubbed her hands anxiously against the fabric of her jeans ─ an anxious habit that she was quickly growing irritated with.

With her eyes glued to the book, the woman retrieved it with a delicate touch, as though it would simply wither in her touch. The swirled, golden letters 'Sense and Sensibility' stared back at her, the metallic element of the script somehow catching the minimal light.

The copy was worn, having been read at least a dozen times whilst in the possession of Deckard Shaw. It was one of his favourites, and as much as Natalie wished she could sit down and bury herself in the world that was Jane Austen's literary masterpiece, she never managed to get past the first few pages.

An ache clenched her heart in its grasp, and before she knew it, the woman was grabbing a spare piece of paper to mark her husband's page and grabbing one for herself — maybe reading the novel would bring her closer to the person who was the furthest out of reach.

Cradling the book in her hands, Natalie went to stand and retrieve her bag, but a familiar scrawl caught her eye; moving the pages had revealed a brown packet, labelled 'Nat's B-Day 2015'.

The Shaw woman's brows furrowed at the sight of her husband's familiar scrawl staring up at her. Natalie's birthday wasn't until January, which was five months away. As absolutely perfect as Deckard's gifts for her were, she was sure he didn't plan over five months in advance.

The curiosity gnawing at her insides got the better of her, prompting the Shaw woman to place the book down on the couch cushion beside her, and carefully grab the envelope.

She wasted no time in opening it with a delicate touch, and retrieving the papers inside.

Natalie's breath caught in her throat like a car with the brakes slammed — staring back at her was the most stunning property she had ever laid eyes upon. The glossy image showed a large, wooden lakehouse, with both modern and traditional elements combined in the architecture. Tall, looming pine trees surrounded the structure, but instead of making it seem enclosed, or suffocating, it simply added to the cosy, safe feel of the house.

There was a porch that wrapped itself around the property, and held various items of garden furniture to lounge on in the early mornings; the mornings that you cradled a mug of tea and watched the sunrise through heavy blinks.

The lake shimmered under the sunlight, enchanting the area and emanating a charm impossible to replicate. A comforting warmth engulfed Natalie's chest, almost like her body knew.

Carefully placing the picture down, she examined the rest of the stack in her hands: papers that confirmed Deckard had bought the lake house and some of the surrounding land, along with multiple documents stating the contracts for refurbishments and renovations, all sporting different dates going back months.

Tears stung at the Shaw woman's eyes, glossing them over and gathering at her waterline — he'd been planning this for almost a year.

Natalie forced herself to move the contracts out of the way, only to reveal the property deed, which confirmed that the idyllic, dreamy home was just that: their home. Stuck to the deed was a post-it note, and Natalie lost her breath for the second time in two minutes.

'Your late night talks of a lakehouse, hikes, and lakeside picnics made me realise that this is exactly where we need to be. Happy Birthday, darling. It's time to stop running, and I hope this is everything you ever dreamed of when we spoke of settling.

Forever yours,

Deck.'

Natalie's lip trembled violently at the sight of droplets splattered onto the page, her tears staining the deed and tainting her husband's words. She wiped them away with a shaky hand, before pressing that same hand to her mouth.

Even though Deckard was gone, he was still anchoring her in ways no one could even imagine — it flooded her with a dangerous amount of hope, hope that maybe her child would get to meet their father and survive, despite the mental battlefield that Natalie was having to navigate with every second he was gone.

Now, the Shaw woman knew that there was only one place she stood a chance of surviving in, one that was bound to be steeped in Deckard's personality and little touches.

Their home.

HAYLEY WRITES...
...hi guys 🧍‍♂️

this update should've been
posted way sooner, and i'm
so sorry it wasn't. i had mock
exams, which were really
important because they
basically determine which
uni's i can go to, so they had
to be my priority this past month
(unfortunately)

my summer break starts next
friday, and then i'll have as much
time to write as i want, so hopefully
yall will be fed with the updates lol.

what did you think of this chapter?
i'd love you hear your thoughts :))

i also wanna hear predictions on
how you think act three is going
to go... it's gonna be the longest
act so far chapter/content-wise,
and my least favourite oc is
going to make an appearance
(iykyk)

also, what if i told you that the
identity nat picked out is actually
the main oc for the 'the meg' fic
i have in the works?? is that something
yall would be interested in? it would
kinda expand nat & deck's little
multiverse, as jessica alba would
also be the face claim and the love
interest is jonas taylor (jason statham's
character). let me know!!

also just posted a new tiktok for this
book!! does it hint at some of
act three... maybe 👀

until next time, lovelies :)