Rage with a target.
"Keep the dogs on her trail," I say, my voice deadly calm now. "I'll be there in eight minutes. Have my field gear ready—cold weather clothing, first aid kit, thermal blankets, water, emergency supplies. Everything."
"Sir, the search teams can handle?—"
"No. I'm going after her myself."
"Sir, protocol suggests that we let the professionals?—"
"I don't give a fuck about protocol, Callum. She's mine. This is my responsibility. My failure. And I'm the one who's going to find her and bring her back."
"Understood, sir. Your gear will be ready."
I hang up and push the accelerator harder.
Eight minutes.
I can cut that to six if I ignore every traffic law between here and there.
I ignore them all.
The estate is in complete chaos when I screech to a stop in the circular drive.
Callum has positioned men at every possible exit point from the property.
Dogs and handlers are clustered near the tree line where Eden entered the woods.
Security feeds are pulled up on laptops that have been hastily set up in my office.
I stride inside.
Callum falls into step beside me.
"Show me," I say.
He leads me to my office.
Three laptops are open on my desk, each showing different camera angles.
He pulls up the perimeter camera feed from a little after four, and clicks play.
There—a figure in cream-colored cashmere, running across the drive with surprising speed, glancing back once before disappearing into the tree line.
Eden.
MyEden.
Running from me like I'm the monster she's always feared I might be.
I watch it loop three times.
Study every detail.
The fear on her face during that backward glance.
The determination in her stride.
The complete lack of hesitation.
