She looked at me like I was just a man with a cut on his hand, who needed help, and she was happy to give it.
Not a monster. Not a myth. Just a man.
And maybe — for the first time in years — that’s exactly who I wanted to be.
But I knew better.
That version of me was long dead and buried in the wreckage with the deer, the glass, and the boy who used to smile without thinking twice about it.
Still… Chrissy Jones. That name stuck under my skin like a splinter.
I didn’t know her, but I didn’t need to. I didn't need to deserve her, either, but I knew in that moment, I was going to find out everything I possibly could about her. I needed to know where she worked, where she lived, who she trusted, and who she smiled at when I wasn’t around to see it.
Even if I couldn’t step back into Stonewood society the way Henry had hoped I would… I could still watch her. I could still want her, and I could bide my time until I found a way to have Chrissy Jones all to myself.
Chapter
Two
BEN
November 30, Four Years Later
“I hateto break it to you, but you’re out of time, Benjamin.”
Henry’s voice carried through the east wing of the old Stonewood hunting lodge like a death sentence, low and steady as a hammer falling. The man didn’t shout. He didn’t have to. Fifteen years in special forces and another fifteen years as my father’s head of private security for the Stonewood family had carved authority into every damn syllable he spoke.
I looked up from the half-disassembled generator I’d been pretending to fix just to keep my hands busy. Cold wind slithered in through the warped windowpanes, making the scars across my ribs twitch and burn. My knee ached. My throat tightened. Something in Henry’s tone told me this wasn’t about maintenance, or schedules, or another lecture about leaving the lodge more than twice a month.
No… whatever this was, it was bad.
He stepped fully into the room, rain-dampened boots thudding against the old wooden floor, a thick leather-bound folder tucked under one arm like it was a weapon. His face didn’t change much these days, but the set of his jaw was enough to make my stomach drop.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked, wiping grease on my jeans.
Henry didn’t hand me the folder.
He tossed it onto the table between us like it might bite.
The leather folder hit the old pine with a dull, heavy thud, the kind that sank through your chest and settled somewhere behind your ribs.
Henry didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there dripping cold rainwater from his coat, boots leaving dark, wet prints on the floor.
I stared at the folder like it was a cottonmouth, coiled and ready to strike.
“Go on,” Henry said quietly. “Open it.”
The gentleness in his voice was somehow worse than if he’d barked an order at me.
I dragged it closer but didn’t open it yet. The Gulf Coast rain hammered the roof overhead, relentless and cold. The wet chill soaked through the window frames, seeped into the walls, and found its way in through every crack in this place. It always had.
“What is this?” I finally asked.
Henry’s green eyes softened. It was little more than a flicker of sympathy, but I caught it.
“It’s a clause from your father’s trust. A clause set up to remain valid, even after his death.” He unbuttoned his coat, shaking off the rain and hanging the coat up on the rack to his right. “He wrote this part himself, and he made sure it would be ironclad, no matter what happened.”
My pulse kicked up speed, suddenly thrumming in triple time.
