“Stay back,” Brodie barks, and even over the alarm, the command in his voice hits like a shove.
Another door opens.
Bran is already making his way toward me in nothing but sweats and a T-shirt, hair mussed, eyes lethal. The red strobe catches the ink on his forearms, making the knots of Celtic work look like they’re moving. There’s a gun in his hand, too, held low and easy, like it’s an extension of him.
His gaze hits me.
For a split second, his eyes drag from my bare legs up over the hem of Cotton’s borrowed shirt, the way it hangs off one shoulder, the rate my chest is rising and falling.
Heat flashes through me, hot and full of awareness.
Then his face shutters, everything snapping back to business.
“Alarm panel?” he snaps.
“Downstairs,” Brodie says. “Motion in the north barn.”
Of course it’s the barn.
“Savvi.” Brodie doesn’t look away from Bran, but his voice cuts sideways. “The panel, ma’am.”
To my surprise, she has a small handgun in her palm, as well, and she looks very familiar with how to use it.
“I’m on it,” she says, already moving toward the stairs. “Go.”
Bran takes one long stride down the hall, bare feet silent on the wood. His attention rakes every shadow, every doorway.
“Tallulah, with Cotton,” he says. “Now.”
My spine bristles automatically at the order, but this is not the time for a debate about autonomy and tone.
“What about you?” I demand.
“Brodie and I will check the barn,” he says. “Whoever tripped that sensor is either gone or about to have a very bad night.” His gaze snags mine again, hard. “You donotcome out of the house. I don’t care what you hear.”
My heart is beating so hard it hurts. “What if—”
“Twiggy.” Cotton’s voice is tight, soothing and strained at the same time. Saoirse’s arms are wrapped around her neck like a koala’s, little fingers dug in. “Come on, honey.”
Brodie presses a quick kiss to Saoirse’s head and then to Cotton’s hair, fast and fierce. “Panic room,” he tells her. “Now. You know the drill.”
Of course they have a panic room. Of course they have adrill.
Cotton nods once, eyes wide but steady, and starts down the hall toward the wing where the older part of the house meets the newer addition. I move with her, my body already wanting to put a wall between us and the sound.
Bran falls into step behind us, watching the shadows like they’re going to reach out and grab someone.
“Where?” I ask, breathless, as we turn past a framed racing photo and a painting of horses in the snow.
Cotton reaches what looks like an ordinary linen closet and taps a sequence on the digital thermostat beside it. The panel beeps, then clicks. She presses her palm flat against the molding, and a seam I never noticed before silently swings inward.
“Go,” she tells me.
Inside is a narrow room lined with shelves—bottled water, blankets, a first-aid kit, a couple of battery lanterns. The air is cooler, concrete under the nice hardwood. There’s a bench along one wall and a small monitor in the corner showing a grainy grid of camera feeds: driveway, barn, house side, back paddock.
Cotton steps in with Saoirse. I follow, heart in my throat, my upper arm catching briefly on a hook on one of the shelves. I shake it off impatiently, squeezing through the narrow door.
Savvi hustles down the hall, pulling Cotton’s mother along with her, and slips in after us just as the door starts to swing.
