POV: Evelyn

The real escape began with Sophie climbing into a laundry cart and asking whether fugitives still got snacks.

"Crackers," Maeve said. "Quiet crackers."

"Those are the worst kind."

We were hidden in the hospital linen room, three floors below the recovery ward. Clean sheets towered around us in blue plastic carts. Industrial dryers shook the wall, filling the air with hot cotton and detergent.

On the monitor above the folding table, reporters still surrounded the empty ambulance on Mountain Road.

Grant watched the wrong road.

Mercer explained the wrong warrant.

For the first time in nine years, my husband did not know where I was.

The freedom felt so unfamiliar that my body mistook it for fear.

"We can wait," Silas said.

He had returned from the roadblock with rain on his leather vest and Sophie's silver star still stuck across one knuckle. Six large men filled the linen room behind him, each wearing pale blue laundry coveralls over motorcycle clothes.

Ronan's coveralls ended several inches above his boots.

"I look approachable," he said.

Maeve examined him. "You look like a criminal blueberry."

"Approachable criminal blueberry."

Sophie covered her mouth to hold in a giggle.

Silas did not laugh. His attention stayed on me.

"The loading dock is clear now," he said. "It may not stay clear. You choose whether we move."

The old version of me wanted him to decide. If he chose, I could blame him if something went wrong. If I chose, every consequence belonged to me.

Sophie placed her hand inside mine.

"Now," I said.

She looked at the door. "Are we leaving Mommy's room?"

"Yes."

"Can Daddy find the new one?"

The linen machines thudded behind us. No one rushed to cover the question with an easy promise.

I crouched as far as my stitches allowed.

"We're going somewhere he doesn't know. If he tries to follow, a lot of people will stop him."

Sophie considered the six enormous men in laundry coveralls. "Even Blueberry?"

Ronan placed a hand over his heart. "Especially Blueberry."

"And Silas?"

I looked at him.

His wolf was hidden, but the protectiveness was not. It filled the linen room like another body—powerful, watchful, desperate for permission to move closer.

"Silas too," I said.

Sophie nodded and climbed into the lower compartment of the cart. "Okay. But I want my red shoe."

Maeve found it inside a hospital belongings bag. Sophie refused to put it on because of the bandaged foot, so she held it against her chest like a small red flag from our former life.

I wondered what I would have carried if someone had pulled me out of Grant's house nine years earlier.

My wedding photograph?

The first broken phone?

Proof that I had once believed him?

I picked up Sophie's rabbit drawing instead.

Maeve helped me into gray housekeeping trousers and a loose jacket that hid the armored vest. My ribs burned when I bent. The pain made the room flash white, but I remained standing.

Silas reached toward me and stopped before touching.

"Arm or waist?"

"Arm."

His hand closed around my forearm. Heat traveled through two layers of clothing, steady and immediate.

His eyes darkened.

For a second, his grip almost tightened. Something wild looked through him at the distance between us, furious that any distance existed at all.

Then his fingers loosened.

"Too much?" he asked.

"No."

The answer came too quickly.

His gaze dropped to my mouth before returning to my eyes.

Ronan cleared his throat loudly. "The laundry remains tragically unmarried."

Silas did not look away from me. "Walk ahead."

"I sacrifice everything for this family."

We left in two groups.

Maeve pushed a cart loaded with bundled sheets. Sophie crouched in the lower compartment behind a curtain of towels, crackers in one pocket and her rabbit drawing in the other. I walked beside the cart with a clipboard. Silas and Ronan followed with bags of soiled linen.

The service corridor smelled of bleach and steam. Pipes rattled overhead. Every door sounded too loud when it latched behind us.

Halfway to the freight elevator, a nurse stepped from the medication room.

"Evelyn Quinn?"

We stopped.

The nurse wore the correct badge. I recognized her from the night shift. Her name was Carla, and she had once lowered a sedative when I told her no.

"Your discharge hasn't been authorized," she said.

"I'm not being discharged."

It was true. Miriam had arranged an internal relocation to an off-site protected-care unit. The unit happened to be owned by a clinic that had no beds and an excellent lawyer.

Carla looked at Silas. "Security has orders to report her movement."

"Whose orders?" Maeve asked.

Carla hesitated.

That was enough.

Silas shifted between us, but I touched his sleeve.

"Let me."

He stepped back.