Johns hoots me a look—a warning. Don’t say it.
I ignore him.
“Blue Skye isn’t safe for you,” I say stepping forward. “And you damn well know it.”
Her shoulders square. “I didn’t know anything because no one tells me anything.”
“Because it isn’t your business,” I snap, then correct myself, voice dropping even lower. “It isn’t your business to go digging up someone else’s past.”
She flinches like I hit her.
John’s jaw tightens. “I handled it.”
“You didn’t handle shit,” I tell him, eyes still locked on her. “She walked into place where half the county has an opinion about Sadie Masterson, and most of them are ready to spill it in ways that could get her hurt—or worse. They’ve already proven that.”
Peyton’s breath stutters. She looks away fast, blinking hard.
Pace breaks in, voice tight while still trying to be respectful. “Ease up, Colter. John and I dealt with it.”
No,” I say quietly. “You reacted. You didn’t deal with anything.”
John’s nostrils flare. Pace shifts like he is seconds away from throwing a punch, but Peyton—Peyton is the one who breaks. Not outwardly. Not with tears or crack in her voice.
She straightens her spine and turns toward the door, like she’s decided she’s done with all of us. Like she can outrun whatever the hell she dug up at Blue Skye.
Not a chance.
John beams me to her, stepping around and blocking her path a firm hand on the frame.
“Inside,” he repeats, voice flat as iron. “Now.”
Peyton hesitates for a breath, but her eyes flick toward the open yard again. Her instinct to run isn’t subtle She’s been doing it her whole life. It is what she is used to. No one has ever taken care of her. No one has ever treated her like family or given her a safe space to land. To break down. To heal.
That thought hits me in the chest like a hammer.
Before she can bolt, I step in behind her and place my hand on the back of her neck. Not tight or painful, but claiming enough that she goes rigid under my touch.
She sucks in a breath.
Soon, Peyton will come to realize that she no longer has to run. I will always be here to capture her. To keep her safe. Even from herself.
“Go one,” I murmur. “Move.”
She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t fight. She wouldn’t dare.
John’s face twists into something hard when he looks at me and Pace is downright glowering, but neither of them stops me when I steer her through the doorway and into the house.
She’s shaking, barely, but I feel it through my hand. And it lights something inside of me. I guide her down the hall like I’m walking a skittish colt, careful but unyielding, until John opens the door to his office and stands aside.
The air inside is cooler, shaded. Dark wood shelves, old leather chairs, the faint smell of dust and pipe tobacco. A room built for secrets and hard truths. Peyton steps I first, eyes darting everywhere, taking it all in.
It’s interesting that she hasn’t been in here yet.
Pace shuts the door behind us with a click that lands like a gunshot.
Peyton startles.
I step closer so she can’t back away. John moves behind the desk. Pace stations himself by the door, arms crossed, a guard or jailer depending on how you squint.
