Page 113 of Truck Stop Titan

“Mim used to wear a necklace that her Mom had given her. But a few weeks ago, she took it off. I haven’t seen it since. He wanted the necklace. That’s all I know.”

Eyes narrowed, he stared right through me. “I had an unpleasant conversation with their president. Only thing I got out of him was that Hammer had dug himself an early grave. Turned on his brothers.”

Surprisingly, the hows and whys didn’t bother me, my only concern was that the right people were still breathing on the other end of the horrible ordeal.

The elevator doors opened. We cleared one hallway, then another, my nerves spiking with every room we passed.

Tango stopped at number 411, and I started to tremble. He pushed me inside.

Dane was sitting up, his chest bare but bandaged, rising and falling in slow rhythmic pulses. He had an IV attached to his left arm. He looked peaceful, his eyes closed, jaw slack.

“I want what he’s having,” I joked, though feeling not an ounce of humor.

Tango kissed my forehead again. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Thank you.”

When the door clicked behind me, I wheeled closer to Dane, not trusting my legs to hold me. His hand was warm, a reminder that blood pumped through his precious veins. I kissed his fingers, one by one, then pressed his palm to my face, roughing the calluses over my skin, desperate for his touch.

“Are you mad at me?” came his gruff voice. My hero’s voice.

I couldn’t contain my joy, a garbled laugh escaping my chest. “How could I possibly be mad at you?”

He groaned, his head rolling to the side, his eyes peeling open. “I brought that piece of shit into your life.”

“You saved Rocky’s life.”

“I put you and Mim in danger.”

“You saved us.”

He stared, long and hard, eyes glassy, then whispered, “I love you.”

His proclamation slammed my chest, a sneak attack, battering my bruised heart. When I should’ve been celebrating, kissing him dizzy, giving him those very words back—I love you—I only avoided his gaze, staring at a smudge on the window.

“Moriah,” he rasped.

“I lost the baby.”

A sharp inhale. He reclaimed his hand. Swiped at his face.

Painful silence swelled between us, minutes passing with silent tears and sniffs.

“Are you mad atme?” I forced the words through gritted teeth.

“Moriah,” he sobbed. “Fuck. No. God, no.” He offered his hand again. “C’mere. I need to hold you.”

I pushed to my feet, crawled into his bed, and tucked into his uninjured side. Then I let the tears fall. His fell, too, wetting my hair. And there was something cathartic and healing, holding each other through our grief.

He fell asleep, his arms around me going slack, but I stayed in his bed, content to hear his heart beating. So thankful that I hadn’t lost him. So effin’ thankful.

# # #

Mim squeezed the blood from my fingers, her grip tight, while she led me across the lawn, a garden shovel tucked into the back pocket of her shorts.

“What are we doing here, sweet pea?”

She shot me a fretful glance and tugged my hand to hurry me. When we reached the willow tree at the edge of the grass, she squatted, then started to dig.

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