Blowing out a breath, I wander back through the house, heading toward the kitchen. But one glance out the window stops me in my tracks.
Something small rests on the porch railing, catching the morning light.
I open the door, my heart tripping over itself as the air rushes in.
The flashlight I dropped that night in the storm rests there, sparkling beneath the light. No mud on it.
A shiver runs down my spine as I pick it up. The metal is cool and dry, as though it hasn’t seen rain in days. And when I flick it on, a bright light shines from it as though the batteries are new.
I remember dropping it and running inside, slamming and locking the door, a barrier between the masked man and me.
And now, it’s here, like someone left me a present.
I look out over the vineyard. Mist slides between the rows like smoke. The ridge glints faintly in the distance.
For a long moment, I stand there, listening for anything—an engine, a footstep, the echo of laughter.
Nothing.
Only the quiet hum of the morning and the faint scent of honey and damp soil in the air.
I close my hand around the flashlight, my pulse loud in my ears. “Owen probably found it,” I whisper, but the words don’t sound convincing.
Because deep down, I know better.
It’s him. The masked man who touched me.
It wasn’t a dream.
CHAPTER 16
Tristan
Inside the distillery,the air is hot and heavy, thick with steam rising from copper stills and the burn of alcohol in the pipes. The rhythm is steady—hoses, hammers, voices echoing through the concrete. It’s normal. Predictable.
Everything I’m supposed to be.
But the world feels tilted. Like I left part of myself up on the ridge last night, and it hasn’t found its way back.
I shove my hands into my jacket pockets and scan the catwalk below, pretending I’m checking workflow. In reality, I’m replaying the sound of her breathing, whimpers, and moans in the dark.
Soft. Uneven. Passionate.
The feel of her clenching around my fingers as she released, her juices soaking my digits.
The way the moonlight curved over her face before I slipped away.
It’s a sickness how natural I felt watching her.
But there’s no calmness here now that we’re apart. The hunger to see her is worse than it’s ever been.
A voice breaks through the hum. “Tristan.”
Calder’s boots thud on the stairs before I see him. He’s in his usual state of half-ironed chaos—sleeves rolled, tie hanging loose. He holds two coffees, passing one to me like he’s trying to make peace before the fight even starts.
“You look like hell,” he says, settling on the railing beside me. “Did you even go home last night?”
“Eventually.”
