CHAPTER 64: 64: THE WORLD FILLED WITH EMOTIONS

"Get the fuck off her," Winter barked, his voice a deep, raw growl that reverberated off the peeling walls.

His rifle was still smoking from the single round he had fired to drop one of the bastards. The man he had just shot crumpled to the ground, blood pooling around him.

The rest of the men froze, the collective tension in the room visible. They hadn’t expected a confrontation, let alone a man with a rifle aimed directly at them. One of the men, his hand still wrapped around the struggling woman’s waist, paused and looked at Winter in disbelief, realizing all at once that they were no longer the ones holding the power.

Winter eyes swept over the scene—a scene that twisted his stomach in ways he didn’t want to think about.

He took in the disarray of limbs, the child clutched tightly by one of the men—his face red from crying—and the woman, her body straining against the weight of the attacker pressing her down.

"Drop the kid," Winter growled, his rifle raising an inch to aim squarely at the man’s chest. The man tensed at the sight of the ridle but didn’t move.

Winter’s teeth ground together. His eyes narrowed, lips curling back in a snarl as the instinct to protect rushed through him like liquid fire.

"Did you hear me?" he growled, taking a menacing step forward. His voice was low and controlled, but the promise of violence was unmistakable. "I said, get. Off. Her."

Again, the men didn’t make a move to follow his instructions. The woman had stopped struggling but the ripples of water beneath her said she was terrified.

Without hesitation, Winter’s finger tightened on the trigger again, sending another man to the floor in a spray of crimson.

The men scrambled to find their balance after that, reaching for their weapons. "Don’t fucking move," he warned, cocking his rifle again.

Then, he heard it. Her voice. A soft, broken whisper.

"Winter...?"

His heart stuttered. His eyes locked onto the woman beneath the men, her face a mixture of fear, pain, and relief. His brain did a double take, recognition dawning.

Zara.

These fucking bastards were messing with Zara?

The realization hit him like a freight train. The world seemed to narrow around her, everything else fading into a hazy background. She was here. It wasn’t just some woman caught in a terrible situation—it was her. Zara. And seeing her like this, beneath those scum, made his blood run hot with fury, colder than it had ever felt before.

His gut twisted.

He saw red.

They’ve touched her. They’ve hurt her.

He stepped forward, the rifle raised. "I said, get the fuck away from her!"

The child’s cries intensified, sharp and frightened, and Winter’s brain seemed to flip a switch. The same primal instinct kicked in—a deep need to protect her, to protect them both. His mind flashed back to his wife and child—his dead wife, his dead child—and the thought of them in this situation, of any woman enduring this kind of violence, shattered his control.

"You fucking piece of shit," he hissed, voice trembling in rage as he shot the bastard on her. The man went down in a disgusting splash of blood all over the group as the bullet went through his skull.

"Don’t think you can just walk in here and shoot my men, you bastard," one of the men snarled, his voice cracking with a mix of fear and bravado.

Winter’s lip curled in a sneer. This scum still dared to speak? They’d been harassing Zara. They’d touched her. No mercy.

The moment the words left the man’s mouth, Winter’s finger squeezed the trigger again.

The gunshot was quick. Another body fell to the ground, lifeless. The echo of the shot resonated in the room.

The one holding the child hesitated. The toddler’s screams had already quieted to fearful whimpers at the sound of the rifle, but his little body was trembling in his captor’s arms.

Winter could feel his blood rising again, his heart thudding with a sickening realization that surged through his veins, blending with his rage.

The man looked down at the child, eyes darting to Winter’s gun, and then, like a coward, dropped him to the ground.

The child didn’t even hit the floor before Zara scrambled to him, pulling him close against her chest.

Her face was pale, her clothes in tatters. Her hair was wild. But her eyes—her eyes were only on the child now, that same fierce protectiveness reflected back at him.

His throat constricted as he saw how she held the child against her, rocking him slowly. "It’s okay, baby. It’s okay," she murmured, her voice shaking with relief.

Winter’s chest tightened at the realization. The child had Zara’s eyes—he saw the resemblance, and it struck him in ways he couldn’t put into words.

His jaw tightened, and for a fleeting moment, he felt something dark coil in his chest—betrayal? Shock? It was all a blur. But he suppressed it quickly, burying it beneath a mask of cold indifference. Now was not the time for that.

Winter’s gaze drifted back on the man who had dropped the child. His finger twitched again, and another shot rang out. Another body crumpled to the floor, the thud of the lifeless form reverberating through the room.

The last man—sweating, wide-eyed—stared at Winter, his hands raised in surrender. "We were just—just trying to survive—"

Winter’s eyes narrowed, his disgust obvious in his sneer. "Not my problem," he snarled. "You should’ve thought of that before touching what’s mine."

Before the man could react, Winter pulled the trigger again, finishing what had to be done. The man collapsed, dead, before he could even drop his hands.

Silence settled in the room, thick and suffocating. The only sound now was Zara’s whispered words to the child, the slow rocking motion she made to calm him. The kid was still trembling in her arms, his cries softening as his mother’s touch soothed him.

Winter exhaled, the rifle still gripped tightly in his hands, the tension in his shoulders not yet gone.

His mind was a mess of questions, as it usually was when it involved her. Zara hadn’t told him she was a mother. She hadn’t mentioned the child once in the days they had traveled together.

He had had his suspicions with the coat she always wore but he had thought it was a pregnancy at most. How had she hidden a whole toddler from him? When did the child eat? How had he been quiet for the long distances they’d traveled?

His gaze flickered to Zara, and he saw the exhaustion in her eyes, the way her body trembled as she tried to steady the child. His anger flared again, not at her, but at the situation they were in. And before he knew it, he was stepping toward her, pulling her into his arms without thought.

Her body stiffened at first, but then she leaned into him, pressing herself closer for just a second. The softness of her body against his reminded him sharply, that this was Zara. She was really here, not the way he had expected to meet again.

Fuck.

He should have done more to those bastards.

The child’s whimper pierced the air, and Zara pulled back, eyes wide with concern. Her arms went back to the toddler, clutching him protectively to her chest.

Winter cleared his throat, a sudden wave of discomfort rushing over him. He’d... overstepped.

What the hell was he doing?

The situation had gone from life-threatening to... something else.

He stared down at the little boy, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Zara was a mother. She was a mother. His brain couldn’t quite reconcile that with the woman he had known—the fierce slightly reckless and crazy woman who had haunted his thoughts for months to this person before him.

He didn’t know how to handle this—Zara’s vulnerability, the child, the way his chest tightened whenever he saw them together.

Zara seemed to shrink into herself, her shoulders slumping as she rested against the wall, Leo still tightly in her arms. She was shaky, breathing unevenly. She’d probably go into shock soon if they didn’t leave this environment.

He scanned the room quickly, trying to find a space away from the mess for them to clear their minds.

His focus snapped back to the present at the sound of the lightening outside. "We need to go," he said, his voice soft. "Now."

Zara hesitated, looking down at Leo, her face pale with exhaustion and the remnants of fear. She opened her mouth weakly, but Winter saw the reluctance in her movements.

He didn’t give her a chance to argue. His hand shot out, gripping her arm gently. The storm was coming. The blood mixing with the water pooled on the tiles was a grim reminder that time was running out.

Winter glanced at the bodies of the men, his anger still simmering, but he didn’t pause to dwell. He wasn’t interested in the aftermath. He was interested in getting them both out of there alive.

He slung the rifle over his shoulder. "Come on."

She hesitated, her eyes flicking to the bodies on the floor, then back to Winter.

"It’s not safe here," he pressed, his voice softer this time.

Reluctantly, Zara nodded, letting him lead her out of the room. The storm raged outside, the wind howling against the building.

He led them to a small office at the back of the gas station, kicking the door open with his boot. It was cramped but secure, with a desk, a chair, and a filing cabinet shoved against the wall.

Once inside, he closed the door and dragged a metal filing cabinet in front of it. The room was small and cramped, but it would do for now.

Zara sank to the floor, holding the boy close. He had stopped crying but was still sniffling, his tiny hands gripping her shirt.

Winter leaned against the wall, his rifle still in hand. His eyes flicked to Zara, taking in her disheveled state and the haunted look in her eyes.

"We’ll talk later," he said, his voice low. "For now, just... rest."

Zara nodded again, her exhaustion evident. She cradled the boy, her lips brushing against his forehead as she whispered soothing words.

Winter tightened his grip on the rifle, his gaze never leaving the door.