I nearly tripped over my own feet. Heat flooded my cheeks so fast I thought I might catch fire. I flicked a glance at Walton—his lips twitched like he was biting back a full-on grin. Of course he wasn’t helping. I probably did look like I’d been thoroughly kissed within an inch of my life. Because I had.

  I couldn’t even muster a denial. I just ducked my head and followed the smell of food like it might rescue me.

  The table was already set: bowls of steaming porridge, still-warm bread wrapped in a cloth, dried fruit laid out with care like it was treasure. I slid into the seat across from Walton. He was already piling his plate with enough food for a man twice his size. Not that I blamed him.

  “Don’t worry about me,” he mumbled through a mouthful, voice thick with gravel and sarcasm. “I’ll be fine.”

  I stifled a laugh, chewing on a piece of bread that nearly melted on my tongue. There was something strangely comforting in the way he ate—like someone who didn’t take the next meal for granted. Fierce. Focused. Still hungry for the world, in every sense of the word.

  The couple chatted between bites, sharing stories from the world before collapse—about their children, lost or scattered, about how they once used to gather around this same table every Sunday like clockwork.

  “It’s hard out there,” the old man said, more to himself than anyone else. “You hold onto what you can.”

  Something in me clenched. I looked at Walton again. His chewing had slowed, and that thoughtful crease had carved itself between his brows. He didn’t say anything, but I knew he was thinking it. What if we lose each other too?

  “Keep your loved ones close,” the woman added, her voice quieter now, more tender. “That’s all we can do.”

  My eyes found Walton’s then. His gaze was already on me, steady and searing. I felt the heat of it settle in my chest like a vow. I gave him the smallest nod—one I hoped he understood. I won’t let go. Not of you.

  For just a moment, wrapped in warmth and the smell of bread and the quiet ache of survival, I felt like maybe the end of the world didn’t stand a chance against us.

  “You folks be careful out there.” The old man’s voice cut through my thoughts, dragging me back into the room like a sudden gust of wind slamming a door shut. He wiped his hands on a threadbare rag. “I heard travelers from the south’ve been askin’ about a girl with green eyes. Matched a description you don’t wanna hear.”

  My stomach dropped.

  I didn’t have to ask who he meant. The name I’d been trying to bury clawed its way up from the pit of my memory like rot breaking through a grave.

  Magnus Rex.

  A shudder rippled through me. No matter how far we ran, that monster’s shadow stretched long. He was always just behind us—patient, hungry.

  Next to me, Walton didn’t speak, but I saw the way his hand tightened around his knife. His fingers whitened, his knuckles rigid. That was the only tell I ever got from him. His version of fear wasn’t trembling or panic—it was focus. Pressure. Readiness.

  When his eyes met mine, I felt it—the silent vow we always shared when danger reared its head. I’ve got you. I won’t let him take you.

  I nodded slightly, grounding myself in his steadiness.

  “Travelers?” I asked, forcing calm into my voice. “What kind of travelers?”

  The old woman leaned in, her warm demeanor gone, replaced by something colder, sharper. “Not the friendly kind,” she said quietly. “They’ve been asking questions. Looking for a girl they call the ‘angel bride.’”

  That name—it hit me like a slap. I flinched before I could stop myself.

  That wasn’t me anymore. Not out here. Not in this new skin I’d grown over the old one. But hearing it aloud, spoken by strangers, reminded me that the past had a long reach. And some people would never let me forget who I used to be.

  I felt Walton shift slightly beside me, not close enough to touch but close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. His jaw clenched so hard I could see the muscle twitch. That word—bride—set him off every time.

  “And there’s more,” the old man added, glancing toward the window like he half-expected something to be out there watching. “Heard talk of movement near the church compound. North of here. Surge of demon activity—real bad. Restless.”

  The air in the room seemed to curdle.

  The old woman’s hand drifted toward the window, her fingers trembling just slightly. “It’s getting darker out there,” she said, voice hushed. “Feels like it’s… waiting. Like the land itself knows what’s coming.”

  A chill slipped down my spine. I didn’t doubt her. The Forsaken had a way of knowing—of breathing. It could smell hope like blood in the water.

  “We can’t stay here forever.” Walton’s voice broke the silence.

  I met his gaze. His eyes weren’t just focused—they were carved from stone. He was already calculating the next step, the next move, the next threat.

  “No,” I said, steadying myself.

  The couple wasn't saying it but I'm sure they wanted us out.

  The air between us sparked—not with fear, but with something sharper. Fiercer. Survival wasn’t just instinct anymore. It was our bond. And somewhere beneath that… something else burned too. Something that kept us moving forward, no matter how dark it got behind us.

  “Thank you so much for breakfast,” I said, pushing my chair back with a soft scrape and trying to wear a smile that felt steadier than I was. The old couple’s kindness wrapped around me like a borrowed coat—warm, but not quite mine. Not enough to keep the chill from creeping back in.

  “Anytime, dear,” the woman replied, her eyes crinkling kindly. “You two take care out there. We’ll keep you in our prayers.”

  I nodded, murmured something like thanks again, and turned to follow Walton—but paused when I caught him lingering by the kitchen counter.

  He looked… strange. That particular kind of stiff-shouldered guilt that meant he was up to something. Sure enough, he glanced over his shoulder, then snatched a few pieces of bacon off the platter like a teenager trying not to get grounded. I blinked.

  “Going to give Silence a treat?” I asked, arching a brow.

  He froze mid-motion, bacon halfway to his coat pocket. Then, like it never happened, he straightened with that gruff nonchalance he used like a shield. “What? Absolutely the fuck not.”

  I couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out—light, almost surprised. “Language!” I said, shaking my head. “Sure you’re not.”

  He shrugged like he didn’t care, but the bacon disappeared into his pocket, anyway.

  He did this all the time. Said he was tough, grunted and growled and pretended not to care—but he always fed Silence first. Always made sure she had enough, even when he didn’t. It was just another thing I’d grown to love about him: the softness he kept buried beneath all that grit. A softness he only let slip when no one was looking.

  We stepped outside, into air that still held the edge of night. Crisp. Clean. The kind of morning that made you think maybe, just maybe, things might be all right for a little while.

  “All right, Mr. Tough Guy,” I teased, nudging him gently with my elbow. “But you know she’ll sniff it out, anyway.”

  He shot me a sideways look, eyes half-lidded and mouth twitching with the start of a smile. He didn’t say anything—just headed to the edge of the porch and lit a cigarette like he needed it more than air.

  I stood there a second longer, watching the way the smoke curled around him, the way the light played off the edge of his face. Then I turned and slipped back inside.

  Upstairs, in that tiny room above the garage, I packed. Quietly. Carefully. My hands moved through the motions, but my mind wandered. Every item I folded, every stitch I touched—it all carried echoes of before. Before the Collapse. Before Elise disappeared. Before Walton became the only constant in my life.

  The clothes still smelled faintly of cedar and dust. Of home. Of safety I knew couldn’t last. And yet… I folded them anyway, tucking them into the bag like they were pieces of a life I could hold onto, just for a little longer.

  By the time I tied the pack shut, that familiar weight was sitting just under my ribs again: the ache of leaving, the thrum of fear, and underneath it all, this stubborn ember of faith. It hadn’t gone out. Not yet.

  God had brought us this far.

  He wouldn’t leave us now.

  I stood by the window, folding the last of my things, my fingers working on instinct while my thoughts wandered somewhere far off. The world outside looked still—but not peaceful. Still, like the sky was waiting to split. Like it was listening.

  A soft knock at the door jolted me from my thoughts.

  I turned, already expecting Walton, but it wasn’t him.

  “Yes?” I called gently.

  The door cracked open, and Toby hovered—nervous, pale, eyes darting everywhere but toward me.

  “M-Ma’am,” he started, voice shaking, feet shifting like the floor might give way. “Listen, it’s not… not my business, really, but you don’t have to go with him. Y-you could stay here. With me. I’ll protect you.”

  I blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

  His gaze skittered past mine, cheeks flushed with something between embarrassment and determination. “No girl in her right mind would… I mean, especially not someone like you. So pretty. And kind. You—you don’t have to marry a demon.” The last word came out like it hurt his mouth to say it. “Stay here. I’ll keep you safe.”

  For a moment, I just stared at him. It was… sweet. In a way. A boy trying to be brave. Trying to be noble. Like he’d read one too many old-world stories about knights and monsters.

  But he didn’t understand the kind of life I lived.

  “That’s kind of you, Toby,” I said slowly, carefully. “But Walton is my husband. By choice."

  I saw his face shift—eyes wide, mouth twitching like he couldn’t believe what he’d heard.

  “And honestly,” I added, my voice dropping with steel I didn’t often use, “considering my husband just saved your life from an actual demon, I’d expect something a little less like betrayal.”

  He winced, like I’d slapped him. “Your husband is a demon, ma’am,” he said, clinging to the word like it could save him. “There’s no betraying something that already betrayed God.”

  There it was. That bite. That ignorance wrapped in fear.

  Frustration stirred inside me, but I kept my voice steady. “God loves everyone, Toby.”

  He frowned like I’d spoken another language.

  “Even the broken. Even the damned. Even the ones who’ve done awful, unforgivable things—because that’s who mercy is for.” I took a step closer, not threatening, just firm. Rooted. “If demons were truly beyond saving, why send Christ at all? Why die for the lost if there’s no hope for them?”

  He didn’t answer. Just looked at me, lost in his own storm.

  “We don’t get to decide who’s redeemable,” I said, softer now. “And if God hasn’t given up on Walton… then I sure as heck won’t either.”

  Toby looked at me like he couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. Like I was the strange one for seeing a soul where he only saw horns and red skin.

  I let the silence settle between us. Then I nodded toward the door. “You should go.”

  He hesitated—wanted to say more. But he didn’t. He turned, slowly, and left.

  And I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

  Because loving Walton meant standing up to the world that couldn’t understand him.

  And I would keep doing it.

  As long as it took.

  The door creaked open and Walton stepped inside, bringing the scent of smoke with him. That mix of tobacco, leather, and heat that always clung to him like a second skin. Familiar. Dangerous. Comforting, in its own twisted way.

  His eyes swept the room, sharp as ever, catching the tail end of Toby’s retreat down the hall.

  “Saw the boy scurryin’ off like a rat with his tail tucked,” he said, voice dry, amused in that rough-edged way. “He try anything?”

  I hesitated only a second. “He invited me to stay. With him.”

  Walton stilled. I could see it in his shoulders, the way they squared, the way his jaw tensed like a muscle pulled tight.

  “Hmm,” he muttered. “You tell him to fuck off?”

  I wrinkled my nose, crossing my arms. “Not in those words.”

  He didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink. Just stepped toward me and wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me flush against him with a kind of casual authority that made my breath catch.

  “I’m about to have Toby learn the meaning of fuck around and find out,” he murmured, voice gravel-low. “Especially when it comes to my wife.”

  “Walton,” I started, voice soft, “he’s seventeen.”

  “I don’t give a shit,” he said, eyes dark with something feral. “Don’t care if he’s seventeen or seventy. That boy looks at you like he thinks he’s got a claim? He’s gonna learn real quick that you’re mine.”

  The word landed with weight—mine—and it echoed somewhere in my chest, deep and hollow and hot all at once.

  I didn’t entirely understand it. Not the way his voice dropped, not the way his fingers pressed into my hip like he was reminding himself I was here, with him, not anyone else. But it sent a shiver down my spine just the same.

  Not fear.

  Something else.

  Something far more dangerous.

  “Let’s go before I murder their only child,” Walton drawled, his voice all smoke and steel.

  I huffed a breath through my nose, more exasperated than annoyed. “Walton…”

  But before I could launch into a proper scolding, he yanked me forward and kissed me—quick and rough and full of fire. The kind of kiss that left my pulse racing and my knees just a little weaker than they had any right to be.

  By the time I blinked, he was already hoisting my bag onto his shoulder like it weighed nothing at all.

  “C’mon, angel,” he said, heading for the stairs. “World’s not gonna wait.”

  I followed him down, footsteps soft against the creaky wood. The smell of coffee and cooked meat still clung to the house, the faintest trace of comfort we were already leaving behind.

  The old woman was waiting near the door, hands busy filling our canteen with fresh water. The old man stood beside her, holding out a cloth bundle—bread, dried meat, maybe a few pieces of fruit tucked inside. Not much. But more than they could spare.

  “Thank you again,” I said, stepping forward, my voice full of earnest gratitude. “For everything.”

  The woman smiled, gentle and knowing. “Travel safe, dear.”

  Walton hung back near the threshold, hat low over his brow, lips twitching. “Where’s that boy?” he asked casually, but there was a gleam in his eye I didn’t trust.

  The old man cleared his throat. “Ah—Toby’s, uh… cleaning out the barn. Long overdue.”

  “Hmm.” Walton smirked, clearly not buying a word of it. He tipped his hat just the same. “Smart kid.”

  The woman waved at us, her eyes lingering on me like a mother might. I gave her one last smile before stepping outside.

  The sky was pale and wide, stretched out above us like a breath held too long.

  Walton walked ahead, the bag slung over his shoulder, every inch of him carved with purpose. I followed close, the weight of my own pack pressing against my spine.

  And just behind us, with her red eyes gleaming and tail swaying, Silence padded in perfect step.

  Together, we walked back into the Forsaken.

  Not alone.

  Never alone.

  Chapter 26

  Walton

  Twilight settled over the Forsaken like a death shroud—soft, quiet, too damn still. Long shadows crawled across the cracked dirt, wrapping everything in that eerie hush the world got right before it decided to bleed again.

  I sat by the fire, cross-legged, one boot half-on, blade balanced in my hands. The flames were low, flickering just enough to keep the chill off my bones. Not enough to feel safe, though. Never that. Not out here.

  Silence lay curled close, her breathing slow and deep, tail flicking once in her sleep. Even with her eyes closed, I knew she was listening. She always did. Hellhound instincts. Or maybe just the kind of creature that knew danger had a scent, and it was never far.

  Everly sat across from me, map in her lap, brows drawn together in that way she had when she was trying to save the world with nothing but grit and paper. She looked too damn calm for the weight hanging between us. Too steady. I hated how much I needed that steadiness.

  “Looks like we’re about fifty miles from the church compound,” she said, glancing up. Her voice was steady, but something wavered beneath it. “If we take this route through Broken Pines, it should shave off some time.”

  “Assuming we don’t run into a patrol,” I muttered, running the cloth along my blade, slow and methodical. The metal caught the firelight—sharp, cold, ready. “We keep our eyes open. Ears too.”

  She nodded but didn’t look at me. Just kept tracing the map with careful fingers. “We’ve got enough supplies for about three days if we’re careful,” she added, voice tightening. “But what if we don’t make it in time? What if Rex gets there first?”

  The name dropped like a stone in my gut. Magnus Rex. That bastard had haunted our heels long enough to make me itch just hearing it. I looked at her then. Really looked.

  She was trying to be brave. But I saw it—the fear behind her eyes. The hope, too. That dangerous kind of hope that made you reckless.

  “We’ll make it,” I said, not because I was sure—but because I had to be.

  Her lips curved into a soft smile, but it didn’t touch her eyes. Not really. That look stayed with me longer than it should have. I didn’t like the way it made my chest feel. Tight. Unfamiliar.