Page 42 of Unleashed
The last place. That’s what this is. My last place. My last hope.
It shouldn’t be this hard to think of where to go or who to turn to. But the truth is, I don’t have anyone. Not really. There are the constant calls from Anthony, calls I ignore because why should I answer? He already knows where I am. He’s always known—except for the island, and only because Isaia made sure of it.
Two powerhouses. Two men who could split the earth open if it meant pulling me to their side. I used to think it was protection. Now I know better. It’s possession. A war disguised as devotion, and I’m the battleground. For both of them.
At least Isaia never lied about who he was. From the start, he showed himself to be obsessive, jealous, over the top in waysthat terrified me, consumed me, broke me open. He never once pretended to be anything else. And as hard as it was to live inside that storm, at least I knew it was real.
And now? I miss the storm.
I miss the way his eyes locked on me like I was oxygen. The way his hand at my back felt like both a cage and an anchor. The way his love—if you can even call it that—burned so hot it made the rest of the world fade to ash. It was too much, too intense to be legal. But I got high on it, over and over again.
He didn’t love me in pieces. He didn’t ration it out or keep it neat. He devoured. He demanded. He destroyed. And God help me, I never felt more alive than when I was caught in his fire. It scared me. Of course it did. But it also steadied me. Because for all the ways he broke me open, he never once let me doubt that I was his.
Anthony never scared me like that. He was careful. Respectful. Always the safe choice. But safety looks different now. Safety feels like phone calls I don’t want to answer, secrets passed to my mother without my permission. Safety dressed up as loyalty, but now I know it’s always been a leash.
Now, I find myself longing for Isaia’s madness, because at least in the wreckage of him, I never wondered where I stood. And sitting here now, staring into a mug of cold coffee, I’d give anything to feel that again. To feel something that real—even if it burns. But this is no longer just about me, about what I want. It’s about something more. I place a hand on my stomach.Something precious.
Reality slides in, and I push the coffee away then lean back in my striped vinyl seat, hating that I’m alone.
After spending years not growing roots, after many friendships I let wither before they got too close, I’m finding myself in a place where the idea of being alone feels unbearable. I don’t want to do this alone. I can’t, which is why I chose to risk it by reaching out.
Across the diner, a little boy leans over the table, face smeared with chocolate, as his dad slides a spoonful of ice cream into his waiting mouth. The mom laughs, her hand resting on the father’s wrist, and for a moment, the whole booth feels lit from the inside out. They’re just sharing pie, eating sundaes, but the warmth between them is a universe.
My throat tightens. That’s what I want—for this baby. A family. A safe place. A reason to laugh without fear of what waits on the other side of it. But I’m not sure if I’ll be able to give my child that.
The door creaks open, and my pulse spikes, traitorous. My head jerks up before I can stop it. For a second, my heart hammers like maybe it’ll be him—broad shoulders, dark eyes, leather jacket, storm walking straight toward me. Part of me wants it to be. Part of me still hopes he’ll come through every door I look at.
But it’s not Isaia.
It’s the one person who managed to slip past my walls, who kept showing up even when I tried to shove her out. A friend I never thought I deserved, never thought I needed—until right now, when she’s standing in the doorway like some kind of lifeline I forgot I had.
“Molly.” Her name splinters out of me, raw, broken, and the tears come hard and fast. She doesn’t hesitate. She rushes toward me, and by the time I’m on my feet, I’m already sobbing.Her arms close around me, tight, certain, warm in a way I haven’t felt in what feels like forever.
Who knew the waitress I worked with at Ember & Bean would turn into the only lifeline I have left.
“Oh, Everly,” she coos, her hands in my hair as I soak her denim jacket with my tears. “It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.”
She leans back, gaze locking with mine, steady and unflinching. “I’m going to help you through this, okay? You’re not going through this alone. I promise.” Her thumb sweeps across my cheek, catching tears I can’t stop. “You need me to be soft, I’ll be soft. You need me to fight, I’ll be the fucking sword. Whatever it takes.”
I choke on a sob. “You don’t know what you’re promising. This life—it eats everything. Everyone. It won’t spare you just because you care about me.”
“Honey,” she whispers, lips quirking into the tiniest smile, “I don’t scare easily. And if I do, I sure as hell don’t run. If the fire comes, we’ll burn together. But you’re not doing this by yourself.”
Something shifts inside me then. A jagged crack, but not the hollow kind. It’s the tiniest sliver of light. Hope.
We slide into the booth by the window, the seats squeaking under us. The family across the diner is still laughing, forks scraping against plates, the little boy smearing chocolate across his cheek while his parents grin like the mess is the best thing they’ve ever seen. My chest aches watching them.
Molly follows my gaze but doesn’t comment and stirs her coffee instead. “Tell me everything, and don’t leave anything out.”
So I do. I tell her everything. I cry, I swear, I get angry, I get scared—and still the words keep pouring out. I tell her about my father cheating on my mother, about Michele blackmailing me into marrying Anthony. About my mother always choosing my stepdad’s side. About how Anthony’s friendship carried me through the darkest years of my life. I tell her about Isaia storming the church, the gunshot that shattered everything, the island where he kept me close enough to breathe for both of us. Every secret, every bruise, every lie—I give it all to Molly, not holding anything back. I’m done with lies. Done with secrets.
And not once does she flinch. Not once does she look at me with judgment—even when I tell her the worst part—the part where I forgave Isaia for killing my best friend. Forgave him without reason, without logic. Forgave him in a way I can’t explain, because I don’t even understand it myself.
“But this,” I say, my fingers knotting in the napkin, twisting until it threatens to tear, “I’m not sure I can forgive him for lying to me about Anthony. And even if I do, what does that say about me?”
She shrugs. “That you’re human. You breathe, you bleed, you love. There’s no rulebook that says you have to do things a certain way.”
I cock a brow. “It’s called the Bible.”
