Me at the grocery store, reaching for a can of soup.
The timestamp says I was there last Tuesday.
I remember that trip—Maddox was with me, waiting in the truck. I felt safe.
Me walking into the clinic for my prenatal appointment.
Garrett was right beside me in that photo, his hand on my back.
He's been cropped out, but I can see the edge of his shoulder at the corner of the frame.
Me getting out of Maddox's truck at the clubhouse gates.
The angle suggests the photographer was across the street, maybe in the parking lot of the abandoned warehouse that faces the compound.
Me standing at the window of our room, looking out at the compound.
This one is the worst.
Because this means he was inside the gates.
Inside our security. Close enough to see into our home.
Each photo is timestamped.
Dated.
Proof that someone has been watching me.
Following me.
Getting close enough to capture these moments without anyone noticing.
And at the bottom of the stack, a note.
Handwritten on plain white paper.
Three words in that same blocky script.
I'M ALWAYS WATCHING.
The scream that tears out of me doesn't sound human.
It's primal, animal, the sound of prey realizing the predator has been circling all along.
Coin is at my side in an instant, snatching the photos from my lap.
I watch his expression shift—confusion to understanding to cold, murderous rage—as he flips through them.
His jaw goes tight.
His hands start to shake.
"Bracken!" he shouts toward the hallway. "Get Bloodhound. Now. Tell him to drop whatever he's doing and get in here."
Everything happens fast after that.
Brothers appear from nowhere, their faces grim.
