Burke’s voice came sharp. “Hold it together, Wilson. Don’t lose him.”
“10-4, Sheriff.”
The Tacoma gunned it, vanishing around another bend.
They weren’t chasing just a truck anymore—they werechasing ghosts through the Blue Ridge.
And somewhere ahead, through the fog and twisting roads, a monster was waiting.
Chapter 45
Captive
Caitlin
Caitlin woke to pain. Her wrists screamed, raw from the bite of the zip ties. Breathing came fast and shallow. A dim shaft of gray predawn light cut through a gap in the curtains. Dampness clung to the timber walls. Even half-awake, she sensed the place was too new—smooth wood, gleaming fixtures—the kind of cabin built to look rustic for people with money.
Fresh sheets. Cold air. Ankles still bound, wrists cinched hard. Maybe this was a nightmare. Maybe she’d wake in her cottage, Rosie at her feet, Burke’s laughter drifting from the kitchen. But no—her wrists burned. This was real.
Panic clenched her chest. The walls closed in. She shook, a trapped animal with nowhere to run. The air refused to come.
Caitlin. Not Darcy.
What will he think now? That Darcy Nolan wasn’t real—that the woman he held was a lie.
The thought of breaking Burke—that he might look at her and see only a fraud—was worse than any hurt Jason could offer. It would haunt her until her last day.
The dread had lived in her so long it almost felt natural—until something inside her hardened. Not courage. Hate—sharp and cold. Children deserved a world built on love and safety, and that meant Burke. Only Burke.
Jason West would never have that from her again, not even at gunpoint.
She knew the truth. Once he saw in her eyes that she was finished with him—that she would never return—he would kill her. Snuff her out like an inconvenience.
And worse—Burke might not even know. Maybe right now he just thinks faceless intruders took me. One more lie between them. One more truth denied.
Izzy’s face flickered—fierce and loyal, now broken because of Jason’s orders. The pain nearly gutted her.
Boot steps thudded on the hardwood. The handle turned. Jason filled the doorway.
He wasn’t disheveled—the ragged kind of madman obsession usually made. He was composed. Jeans pressed, shirt crisp, sleeves rolled as if for a meeting. His dark hair combed back, an expensive watch catching the faint light. Even here, in the middle of nowhere, he exuded control. That terrified her more than rage ever had.
“You’re awake,” he said smoothly.
He crouched, drew a knife, and sliced through the ties at her wrists. Pain shot up her arms as blood rushed back in, stinging her fingers. She flexed them, fists pressed to her chest to hide the tremor.
“Bathroom’s that way.” He gestured with his chin—casual, like a man giving directions to a guest. “Be quick.”
Caitlin stumbled off the bed, legs shaking, bare feet against icy wood. She started toward the small doorway, then went still—her shoes were gone.
“No sense in hurting yourself trying to run,” Jason said mildly. The calm tone, the pressed shirt—every detail screamed possession.
In the tiny bathroom, she shut the door and collapsed against it, pressing her fingers to her face. Her wrists were welted, red marks striping her skin. The cracked mirror offered no mercy: wild eyes, tangled hair, a body drawn taut with exhaustion and dread.
Her gaze landed on a small soap dish. She slid the chipped piece of porcelain from beneath it—tiny but sharp—and tucked it into her waistband. As long as she had it, she wasn’t helpless. Not yet.
Cold numbness flooded her. Beneath it, fury. If she was to die here, she’d die with teeth bared and fists clenched. Jason would never take her spirit—or Burke’s memory of her.
When she emerged, Jason waited, coffee mug in hand, eyes tracking her every move.
