"Got a deer," he says, moving past me toward the kitchen. "Eight-point buck, clean shot through the lungs. I'll be in the barn most of the evening processing it. You'll have to handle dinner yourself."
The blood on his hands is disgusting, and knowing how little healthy food there is here in this house, I don’t want to "handle dinner" myself. But there's something undeniably attractive about a man who can provide for himself, who knows how to live off the land.
Plus, Dane's hot.
I've been trying not to notice, but it's hard to ignore when he's standing in the kitchen, stripping his hunting clothing.
"There's a package for you," I say, nodding toward the table. "Came by courier to the post office. Mail carrier brought it by."
He stills, hand hovering over the knives. "What kind of package?" His eyes narrow like he's suspicious or something.
"Medium box—no return address. Just your name."
His expression darkens and he crosses to the sink and washes his hands, scrubbing away the blood with scalding water that turns his hands pink. Then he dries them and retrieves his phone from his pocket, setting it on the counter.
I stare at that phone. Freedom sitting right there within reach. I could grab it, lock myself in the bathroom, call the police, tell them everything, and get out of here.
But the news report flashes through my mind—Erin crying, the detectives, the assumption that I'm already dead. And beneath that, a deeper fear. Whoever sent that bullet knows about Queens and Domingo Maddox, and enough to connect me to Dane across five years and hundreds of miles.
Going home might get me killed faster than staying here.
"I want to call my friends," I say quietly. "I saw the news. They think I'm dead. My family's probably destroying themselves trying to find me."
Dane turns, leaning against the counter. "You call them, you put them in danger too. Whoever's watching will trace the call, find out who you contacted, and use them for leverage."
"Then what am I supposed to do? Just let them suffer?"
"You're supposed to be patient long enough for me to end this." He pulls his knife roll from the drawer, unrolling it to reveal a dozen blades in various sizes. "Once I know who we're dealing with and neutralize the threat, you can go home. Make your calls, tell your story, resume your life."
"And how long will that take?"
"However long it takes." He selects a whetstone from the drawer and begins sharpening the largest blade with smooth, even strokes. The sound is hypnotic, steel against stone, and I watch his hands move up and down rhythmically as I remember who I’m dealing with.
Those hands have killed people—dozens of them, maybe hundreds. They've ended lives, destroyed families, caused pain I can't begin to quantify. But they've also kept me safe for a week,fed me, protected me from whatever's lurking outside these walls.
I don't know what to do with that contradiction.
"Open the package," he says without looking up from the blade. "I want to see what we're dealing with."
I move to the table and pull the box closer. The brown paper tears easily, revealing a plain cardboard box beneath with no markings or tape, just folded flaps tucked together. I open them and photographs spill across the table.
Dozens of them. All of me.
Me leaving my apartment building in scrubs. Me at the hospital entrance, coffee in hand. Me walking through Central Park on a Sunday morning. Me at the grocery store, the gym, the coffee shop two blocks from my place.
They're surveillance photos, taken from a distance with a telephoto lens. Dates stamped in the corner going back weeks—August, September, early October. Whoever took these has been following me for months.
My hands shake as I flip through them. There's a photo of me with Erin, laughing outside the hospital. One of me hiking upstate, taken from across a ravine. Another of me through my apartment window, clearly visible despite being three floors up.
They've been watching me, learning my routines, my habits, my life. And I never knew.
Beneath the photos is a note, plain white card stock with typed text.
I know this woman sabotaged a surgery that killed him…
The card slips from my fingers and I feel like I can't breathe. Strong hands grip my shoulders, steadying me. Dane's voice cuts through the panic, while my eyes draw up over his sweaty chest to his face and I blink hard, feeling myself grow weaker.
"Breathe. Look at me. Breathe," he says.
