That calm threat.
That entitled ease.
A picture snaps into place in my head so sharply it’s like someone clicked a switchblade open behind my ribs.
Kyle Stroud.
I feel my teeth grind. “It was Kyle Stroud,” I say into the phone, voice going lethal. “I’m sure of it.”
Gray exhales, low. “Copy. I’m mobilizing Lone Star. You stay on the track and do not go solo.”
I laugh once, short and humorless. “Tell that to my body.”
“Nash,” Gray warns. “If you go down, she stays gone.”
That lands.
I force myself to breathe. To think.
“Copy,” I say. “I’ll hold. But I’m not stopping.”
“Send me a pin,” Gray says. “And get back to the ranch. We need her parents looped in and we need to control the information before Stroud does.”
I end the call and snap photos of the tracks and the scuffle marks, sending them with location. Then I look at the teen.
“You did good,” I tell him, voice gentler than I feel. “Go find the sheriff. Tell him Delaney Coleman has been taken. Tell him Nash Hawthorne said to lock down the festival and keep her family safe.”
The kid nods like his spine is made of fear and willpower.
I take off toward the ranch. My body is a machine now—moving on purpose, no wasted motion. But inside, something old and violent wakes up.
You don’t touch what’s mine.
Not mine like ownership.
Mine like promised. Like loved. Like held in my arms last night while she slept with her cheek on my chest and I thought,I could do this forever.
Forever doesn’t mean a damn thing if she’s gone.
Delaney’s parentsare in the kitchen when I burst in.
Mrs. Coleman’s face goes white the second she sees mine.
Mr. Coleman stands so fast his chair scrapes. “Nash? Where’s Delaney?”
I don’t sugarcoat it. Sugar is for coffee, not disaster. “She’s been taken,” I say, voice steady even as my blood roars. “From the north pasture access near the corn dog cart. It happened minutes ago.”
Mrs. Coleman gasps.
Mr. Coleman’s hands curl into fists. “Taken by who?”
I lock eyes with him. “Kyle Stroud.”
Silence detonates in the room.
Then Mr. Coleman’s face turns a shade of red that scares even me. “That little—” he chokes out. “That little bastard?—”
“We need facts,” I cut in. “Not feelings. Feelings can come later.”
