He crouched beside her, shaking his head. “No. It’s gone.”
Her expression flickered—shock, then something colder. “He took it.”
“Yeah.” He checked the bruising along her cheek, his jaw working.
He slipped an arm beneath her shoulders, lifting her carefully. She hissed in pain but didn’t fight him this time.
For a long beat, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the wind pressing against the lighthouse walls and the slow, uneven drag of her breathing.
A door slammed outside, faint but distinct.
Blake’s head snapped toward the entrance. He lowered Vic to the floor and drew his weapon again, pulse spiking back to combat rhythm.
“Stay here,” he said, though he knew she couldn’t go anywhere.
“Blake—”
He hit the doorway in seconds, stepping into the freezing air. The fog had thickened into near-whiteout, but a sound carried through it—a car door shutting, an engine roaring to life.
He sprinted to the road. Through the haze, twin taillights flared, red bleeding through gray, already moving away fast.
He raised his gun, useless at this distance, and lowered it with a curse.
The SUV vanished around the curve.
Blake stood there for a long second, breath burning his chest, the cold biting through sweat-soaked skin.
Whoever was in that SUV had been here. Had known she’d come. And had nearly killed her for it.
He hiked back to the lighthouse full-speed, slipping on icy rocks. The door swung open and slammed closed in the wind.
He drew closer and saw writing on the outside. The door opened, then swung closed again, bouncing off the cement wall.
In red grease pencil, scribbled like a child on the back of the rotted wood door, it read.
NEXT TIME, SHE WON’T GET UP.
CHAPTER SIX
The world came backin pieces.
Light first—harsh and sterile. Then sound—a steady beep that crawled beneath her skin until she realized it was a heart monitor. Her throat ached, raw and dry, like she’d swallowed glass. When she shifted, pain rippled down her side, sharp enough to steal her breath.
“Easy,” a low voice murmured. “Don’t move yet.”
Vivian blinked, squinting past the blur of light until Blake came into focus, sitting in a chair pulled close to the hospital bed. His forearms rested on his knees, his head bowed. The minute she stirred, he straightened, exhaustion carved deep into the lines around his eyes.
A day’s worth of stubble shadowed his face, and his shirt was creased and untucked, sleeves rolled unevenly.
He sat beside her bed, jaw set in that stubborn way that always annoyed her?—
except tonight, it settled her more than any sedative.
She didn’t thank him.
She didn’t have to. He already knew.
“Blake?” Her voice rasped out, barely more than air.
