“Evan takes care of Izzy. I’ll deal with Caitlin. And if the sheriff thinks he can stand in my way…” Jason’s smile spread, cold and certain. “He’ll learn fast what it costs to cross me.”
Paul let the silence stretch, feeding Jason’s certainty. He didn’t have to plant ideas anymore—Jason was already writing the script, rich with fury and convinced it was his design.
“Then the cabin,” Paul said, keeping it practical.
“Stock it,” Jason replied, voice crisp as a signed contract. “Neat. No loose ends. Friday morning.” He smiled as if he’d closed a market deal. “Make sure it’s ready.”
Paul ended the call with a pleased exhale.
Jason sat in the silence, the photo still burning on his screen. The calm he’d forced for Paul cracked the moment he was alone. His fist crashed against the table, splintering the control he’d feigned.
Rage poured hot and unfiltered, every restraint gone. She thinks a sheriff makes her untouchable? She thinks she can shame me?
For a fleeting second, Jason almost dialed one of the women he kept for nights like this—a distraction, an assurance—but the craving now wasn’t for comfort. It was for control, and reminding her, them, the whole damn town who was in charge.
Tomorrow, he’d make them remember.
The phone wobbled under his hand as he snatched it up again, knuckles white. “We’ll see,” he muttered, low and venomous. “We’ll damn well see.”
Chapter 39
Taken
Jason West
Jason drove east from Asheville in the late-morning light, the sun tipping toward afternoon as it slanted across ridgelines awash in flame-colored leaves. The Blue Ridge in October was a spectacle—scarlet maples, gold hickories, oaks burning copper against the smoky distance.
He barely noticed. The colors blurred past his windshield, smearing together like a painting he wanted to rip in half. The low growl of the engine filled the cabin, steady against his clenched molars. A half-empty coffee sat forgotten in the cupholder, its bitter scent rising faintly with every curve of the road.
None of it mattered. What mattered was what waited ahead.
By the time he rolled into Sylva, the quaint mountain town only stoked his contempt. The courthouse loomed over Main Street, brick shops lined the sidewalks, flags snapping in the cool breeze. Then her cottage came into view—cornflower-blue siding, white shutters gleaming, the porch rail freshly painted.
A shoebox.
The sight reinforced everything he already knew: she’d traded power and status for this pathetic excuse of a life. And she thought she could be happy here? Without him? Impossible.
He parked around the block and ducked into Speedy’s Pizza Pub, tucked off Main. Autumn air rushed warm behind him as the bell jingled. Sliding a hundred-dollar bill across the counter, he bent low to the delivery kid.
He glanced at the wall clock behind the counter—2:30 on the nose. Plenty of time.
“Make sure she gets it right at three o’clock sharp,” he said, voice smooth as glass. “Not a minute before.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Yes, sir.”
Perfect.
Around the corner, a dump truck idled, men in neon vests shoveling asphalt into a trench. The diesel roar masked everything—the slam of doors, the bark of a dog, even the dark Tahoe Jason nosed tight against the cottage steps. From the street, it looked like just another work vehicle parked among the crew.
He slipped out, circling the hedged side yard. Timing was everything.
The doorbell chimed, and the pizza boy shuffled nervously on the porch, a large box balanced in his arms. Inside, Rosie erupted—hackles high, claws gouging the floor, a frenzy of snarls that rattled the windows.
“Rosie, quiet!” Caitlin snapped, yanking on the leash. But the shepherd refused, chest-deep barks echoing over the dump truck’s roar.
God, she won’t stop.Caitlin dragged the dog down the hall, nerves on edge. “Just for a minute, girl.” She shoved Rosie into the bedroom and twisted the lock. The shepherd hurled herself at the door, claws ripping splinters from the frame. Caitlinwinced.She’s never been this bad. She’ll scare the kid half to death.
She hurried back.
