Wolf
Saint’s voice cut out after sending the image, but the words hung heavy in the air.
A countdown.
The bastard wasn’t just leaving symbols—
He was tracking distance.
Marking steps.
Closing in.
Nora swallowed, her fingers still wrapped in mine. “What does it mean? A countdown to what?”
“To you,” I said quietly.
She flinched—not from me, but from the truth of it. I hated that. I hated that this man’s obsession was sinking claws into her life, her mind, her sleep.
But she didn’t crumble.
She lifted her chin. “Then we stay ahead of him.”
God, she had courage. It hit me harder than fear ever could.
Trigger, Havoc, and Saint entered the room a minute later, silent and alert. They spread out automatically—Trigger by the door, Havoc near the window, Saint with his tablet open.
Saint held up the enhanced footage. “Here’s the new mark.”
He zoomed in, sharpening the lines.
A vertical stroke.
A curved symbol intersecting it.
A second line, sharp and clean—freshly cut.
“It’s methodical,” Saint said. “Deliberate. Progression-based. He’s marking each approach, each risk he takes.”
Havoc crossed his arms. “He’s getting cocky.”
“No,” Trigger corrected. “He’s getting close.”
The air shifted then—a subtle change, like the room was waiting for someone else to speak.
Someone knocked once on the door.
Trigger checked the peephole. “Sheriff Tate.”
He opened the door, just enough.
The sheriff stepped inside, jaw clenched, coat still half-zipped, snow melting off his shoulders. He looked like he had sprinted here.
“We got a call,” he said without preamble. “Two of my deputies saw a vehicle driving slowly past the tavern. No plates. Too dark to catch more.”
Wolf: “Timeline?”
“Fifteen minutes ago.”
