The silence stretches like a rubber band about to snap. For one brief, foolish moment, I think he might take it—might let me walk away. Then his laughter shatters the night, echoing off concrete walls and sending chills down my spine.

"You think an extra grand's gonna buy you out?" He pushes off the car, closing the distance between us. His eyes glitter with malice in the dim light. "Sullivan, you've got more money than this pathetic little offering. I mean, doesn't your dad pretty much own the entire town?"

"I don't have anything to do with him." The words taste like ash. "Take the money, Monty."

I barely register the movement before pain explodes in my ribs. The first blow sends me stumbling, and the second drives the air from my lungs in a violent rush. I hit the ground hard, concrete scraping skin from my palms. Then they're on me—a pack of wolves tearing into prey—fists and boots coming from all directions.

Monty's voice cuts through the symphony of pain. "I gave you a lot more credit than you deserved, Preppy. But turns out you're a fucking idiot." His face appears inches from mine, breath hot and reeking of nicotine. "I own your ass now, Sullivan."

I try to push myself up, defiance burning through the pain, but a kick to my ribs sends me sprawling. Stars dance at the edges of my vision, but his next words come through with terrifying clarity.

"Know your place, Preppy, or next time, it'll be your girl who gets it. She's a pretty little brunette you got yourself." The threat slides between my ribs like an ice-cold blade.

How the fuck does he know about Nora?

Rage burns through the fog of pain, but my battered body won't respond. Blood fills my mouth, copper-bright and bitter.

"Stay away from her," I manage to growl, the words more wheeze than threat. "I'll do what you want, just leave her out of it."

Monty towers over me, satisfaction painted across his features.

"I'll be in touch." He pauses, savoring the moment like fine wine. "Watch yourself, kid. You never know who might get hurt. Because someone always does in the end."

It's not a threat—it's a promise.

They leave me there, broken on the concrete like discarded trash. Every breath sends daggers through my chest, but panic drives me to move. My trembling fingers fumble with my phone, muscle memory dialing the one person I trust right now.

Nick answers on the second ring. "Nate?"

"Can I come by and see you?" My voice sounds foreign, scraped raw.

"Is everything all right? Are you all right?"

"If it's too late, I understand⁠⁠—"

"I'll text you my address."

Relief floods through me like morphine.

"I'll be there soon. And Nick?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"Drive safe. I'll see you in a bit."