"Get in the car, Devon. I’m not asking twice."
The voice cut through the drumming of the rain like a serrated knife. Devon froze, his hand hovering over the door handle of his own battered sedan—a piece of junk that hadn't started in three tries. He didn’t look up. He stared at the reflection of neon red in the puddle by his boot. The water trembled. Or maybe that was him.
"I said get in."
Simon. Of course it was Simon. Who else would they send? The golden boy. The fixer. The one who wore suits that cost more than Devon’s entire life and looked at the world with eyes like polished flint. Devon turned slowly, the rain plastering his hair to his forehead. It was cold, a wet, biting cold that smelled of sulfur and exhaust fumes from the highway.
"Go to hell," Devon said. It came out breathless, weak. He hated that. He wanted to sound like thunder, but he sounded like a wet cat.
Simon didn’t move. He stood by the open door of a black SUV that looked like a hearse, unbothered by the downpour ruining his coat. He looked... tired. That was new. Usually, Simon looked like a statue carved from arrogance.
"You can stand there and freeze," Simon said, his voice low, lacking its usual sharp edge. "Or you can get in. But that car of yours? The timing belt is shot. I could hear it snapping from the exit ramp. You’re not going anywhere."
Devon kicked his own tire. Hard. Pain shot up his shin, a sharp, grounding spike of reality. "I’d rather walk."
"It’s twenty miles to the next town. You’re wearing..." Simon’s gaze raked over him, clinical, assessing, landing on the thin hoodie soaked through to the skin. "You’ll have hypothermia in an hour. Don't be an idiot, Devon. Just get in."
It wasn’t a request. It was the closing of a trap. Devon looked at the dark treeline beyond the rest stop. Freedom was out there, somewhere. But right now, freedom was just wet pine needles and the promise of freezing to death. He looked back at Simon. The man hadn’t moved toward him. That was the only reason Devon didn't run. Simon was giving him space, a calculated distance.
Devon engaged in the mental calculus of the desperate. Get in. Warm up. Find an opening. Run later. He let out a shaky breath that fogged in the air, then stomped toward the SUV. He brushed past Simon, making sure their shoulders collided. Hard. It was like running into a brick wall. Simon didn't even sway.
Inside, the car smelled of expensive leather and stale coffee. It was warm. Disgustingly warm. Devon slammed the door, sealing himself in the quiet. The rain was just a muffled drumbeat now. He pressed his knees together, trying to stop the shivering that rattled his teeth. He wouldn't let Simon see him shake. He absolutely wouldn't.
The driver's side door opened and closed. Simon settled in, filling the space. He was too big for the car, too big for the world, taking up all the air. He didn’t look at Devon. He just put the car in gear and pulled onto the highway.
Ten minutes passed in silence. The wipers slapped back and forth. *Thwack. Hiss. Thwack. Hiss.*
"You’re bleeding," Simon said. He didn't take his eyes off the road.
Devon touched his lip. His fingers came away sticky. "Cut it shaving."
"Liar. He hit you."
The air in the car changed. It went rigid. Devon felt his stomach drop, a physical lurch like missing a step on a staircase. "Shut up."
"I told him not to," Simon said. His hands were gripping the steering wheel so hard the knuckles were white, straining against the skin. "I told him if he touched you again, I was done."
"Oh, please," Devon let out a sharp, jagged laugh. He turned to the window, watching the blurred lights of passing trucks smear like oil paint. "You’re his dog, Simon. You fetch. You sit. You stay. Don't pretend you have a conscience now just because you’re the one dragging me back to the kennel."
Simon didn't answer immediately. He merged lanes, cutting off a semi-truck with a smooth, aggressive precision. "I'm not taking you back."
Devon turned his head so fast his neck cracked. "What?"
"I said I'm not taking you back. Look in the back seat."
Devon frowned, twisting around. On the leather bench behind them sat a duffel bag. Not Devon’s. It was a heavy canvas weekender, packed full.
"Clothes," Simon said. "Cash. A burner phone. And my passport."
"Your... why is your passport there?"
"Because I'm not going back either."
The words hung there, heavy and impossible. Devon stared at the side of Simon’s face—the sharp jawline, the shadow of stubble he usually kept shaved clean. There was a bruise, Devon realized. Faint, yellowing, high on Simon’s cheekbone, hidden by the dim light.
"You fought him," Devon whispered. It wasn't a question.
Simon’s jaw tightened. A muscle jumped there. "He didn't take it well when I said I was leaving. Taking the accounts with me."
"You stole his money?"
"It’s not stealing if I earned it. I’ve been running that company for three years while he played golf and threw tumblers at the wall. It’s my money, Devon. And I’m using it to get us out."
"Us?" Devon bristled. The word felt sticky, dangerous. "There is no 'us'. You’ve spent the last five years making my life hell. You think I forget? The boarding school? The reports you filed? You watched him break my arm when I was sixteen and you didn't do a damn thing."
Simon slammed on the brakes. The car skidded on the wet asphalt, fishtailing slightly before jerking to a halt on the shoulder. The seatbelt locked hard against Devon’s chest, knocking the wind out of him.
"I watched," Simon said. His voice was terrifyingly quiet. He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned in his seat, the leather creaking. "I watched because if I stepped in, he would have done worse. I watched, and I planned. Every day. Every single day since I was eighteen, I have been planning this exit. For both of us."
"You never told me," Devon accused, his voice rising, cracking. "You let me think I was alone!"
"I couldn't tell you. You have no poker face, Devon. You wear everything right here." Simon reached out, two fingers brushing Devon’s temple. The touch was electric. Devon flinched back, slamming his head against the window.
"Don't touch me."
"If he knew I was on your side, he would have separated us. Permanently," Simon said, dropping his hand. He looked defeated. For the first time, the mask slipped completely. He wasn't the enemy. He was just... a man. A tired, desperate man.
Devon’s heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The adrenaline was sour in his mouth. He looked at Simon—really looked at him. The bruise. The exhaustion. The way his eyes were searching Devon’s face, hungry for something he probably didn't deserve.
"Why?" Devon asked. "Why me? You could have just left. You didn't need the baggage."
Simon looked away, staring out at the rain-streaked windshield. A truck roared past, shaking the chassis of the car. "You know why."
"No. I don't. Spell it out, Simon. Use your words."
Simon turned back. The gaze was intense, heavy, physical. It felt like a weight pressing down on Devon’s chest. "Because you're the only thing in that house that was real. Because watching you fight him, even when you were losing... it kept me sane. You were the fire, Devon. I was just the fireplace trying to contain it so the house didn't burn down."
Devon swallowed. His throat felt dry. "I hate you."
"I know," Simon said softly. "That’s fine. Hate me all you want. Just let me drive."
Devon turned away, pressing his forehead against the cold glass. The vibration of the engine started up again. They merged back onto the highway.
He stared at the black void of the countryside passing by. He thought about the bruise on Simon’s face. He thought about the duffel bag in the back. He thought about the way Simon’s hand had felt near his face—hot, rough, careful.
And at that moment, he decided he would never again put up with the mental and physical abuse. Not from his father. Not from the world. He would be free to lead his own life, on his own terms. But looking at Simon’s reflection in the window—stern, focused, protecting—Devon realized that maybe, just maybe, 'his own terms' didn't have to mean being alone.
The silence in the car wasn't empty anymore. It was full of things unsaid, shifting and settling like the foundation of a house finally finding solid ground. Devon watched the rain. He didn't know where they were going. For the first time in his life, he didn't care.
"Simon?" he said, after a long time.
"Yeah?"
"If you get us caught... I will kill you myself."
A corner of Simon’s mouth ticked up. A ghost of a smile. "Understood."
Devon closed his eyes. The car sped on, cutting through the dark, two fugitives in a steel box, bound by hatred, bound by blood, bound by something that was starting to feel terrifyingly like hope.