CHAPTER 1
The GPS says I've arrived.
Which is absolutely wild, because what I've arrived at is a locked metal gate, a security camera aimed directly at my windshield, and exactly zero signs of the scenic mountain overlook I was promised by three different travel blogs.
This can’t be right.
I look down at my phone for the billionth time. I’ve promised my followers a romantic overlook where they can stop for the most amazing winter selfies together. This? Far from it. Who wants to take a selfie in front of a locked metal gate with witnesses? At least, I assume there is a human watching the security camera.
Have I stumbled upon a celeb’s house? It wouldn’t be the first time a Hollywood millionaire bought a cozy mountain retreat to escape the hustle and bustle of the city. Peering out the windshield, I dismiss the thought. The location appears to be more sinister and less cinematic.
I kill the engine. Snow falls in fat, lazy flakes that stick to my windshield in patterns that would be gorgeous if I weren't currently having a mild existential crisis about whether I'mabout to become a true crime statistic. And, if there is one thing I know? It’s true crime. My followers tune in once a week for a live recap of all the latest true crime news.
The trees press in on both sides of the narrow road. The dense dark pines are dusted white. A winter wonderland that feels more like a scene from Silent Night than from the latest Hallmark Christmas romance. The silence is eerie. There are no animals rustling through the trees, not even a slight breeze. It’s just me, and my cell phone which is currently balanced on the dashboard. It’s still recording, and I have a creeping certainty that I have made a series of poor life choices.
I mutter to myself, because talking out loud makes this feel slightly less like the opening scene of a horror movie. This is exactly how people end up on Dateline. With Keith Morrison saying my name in that voice.
My phone buzzes: NO SERVICE.
Perfect. Naturally.
I grab my oversized puffer coat from the passenger seat and step out into the cold. My boots crunch on gravel that's half-frozen, half-slush. The air bites at my cheeks immediately, sharp and clean in that way that only happens at seven thousand feet. Colorado is my favorite state, and I’ve been to all fifty of them. The mountain air is something I am used to, but even so, stepping out of the warm vehicle to below zero temperatures takes my breath away.
The gate hums.
I freeze mid-step.
The sound is quiet. Mechanical. Deliberate. Like something just powered on. Like something or someone is watching. A vampire? It’s gray outside. There’s no sun… have I woken a vampire?
There’s no such thing as vampires, I reassure myself. My overactive imagination is at it again. I wish I’d grabbed Floppyfrom the car. He always makes me feel better. Gives me courage. But, nope. He sits out of view of my cellphone. There are some things about my personal life that my viewers don’t need to have access to. Like, my little side.
As I stand there, debating whether to go back to the car and get him or not, a voice cuts through the silence.
“You're lost.”
Deep. Calm. Male. And way too close for someone I didn't hear approach.
I spin around so fast I nearly slip on the gravel.
He's standing maybe ten feet away, half-hidden in the tree line like he materialized out of the forest itself. Tall, he’s easily six-two, with broad shoulders that fill out a dark tactical jacket in a way that suggests this is not a man who spends his days behind a desk. His hair is dark, slightly too long, like he's overdue for a haircut and doesn't particularly care. It’s not exactly unkempt, but it’s not neat, either. His eyes are sharp, assessing, the kind of dark brown that looks black in shadow. More Jacob less Edward. Perhaps he’s a werewolf.
Seriously, Madi?
What the heck is wrong with you? The sexy man standing there is not a werewolf. But, based on the look on his face? He might be as dangerous as one.
He's looking at me like I'm a problem and he's ready to solve it.
My heart does this stupid, fluttery thing that's equal parts adrenaline and something I absolutely do not have time to unpack right now. It couldn’t possibly be… attraction.
“Google Maps said this was a scenic route,” I manage, hating how breathless I sound.
He doesn't move. Doesn't smile. Just looks past me to my car, then back to my face with an expression that somehow conveys both mild irritation and complete control.
“That app gets people killed. They end up lost in the woods and freeze to death. You need to leave.”
Something in his tone makes my stomach flip, not with fear exactly, but awareness. The kind that prickles at the base of your spine when you realize you've wandered somewhere you absolutely should not be.
“Is this private property?” I ask.
