"Well, looks like we've got a problem," I said, my voice lower than I intended. In the darkness, with no one watching, I allowed myself to stand closer to him than I would have dared in the light.
"What was it you wanted to tell me?" he whispered, his breath warm against my face.
Thunder crashed outside, violent enough to rattle the old farmhouse windows. I felt Harlow jump slightly, his massive frame somehow vulnerable in that brief moment.
"I think someone doesn't want me here," I said carefully, measuring each word. "And I don't mean your mother."
"What do you mean?" His voice was barely audible, even standing this close.
I hesitated. Part of me—the part that had undergone tactical training and learned to keep civilians at arm's length—wanted to brush it off, to handle this on my own. But another part—the part that had felt something crack open inside when Harlow carried me through that storm like I weighed nothing—needed him to know.
"My accident wasn't an accident," I admitted. "Someone tampered with my brakes."
Harlow's hand tightened around mine, nearly painful in its intensity. "How do you know?"
"The brake line was cut—not completely through, but enough that the pressure would fail after a few hard stops." I kept my voice steady, factual. "I felt something off this morning when I left the station. Should have checked it then."
Lightning flashed again, catching the shift in Harlow's expression—the innocent concern giving way to something harder, something I recognized from my own reflection when someone threatened what was mine.
"Who would do that?" he asked, his voice deeper than usual.
"I've got some ideas." I wasn't ready to share all my suspicions, not until I had more evidence. "Been investigating some illegal activity on the outskirts of town. Seems like someone doesn't like me poking around."
I felt rather than saw Harlow fumbling in his pocket with his free hand, refusing to let go of mine with the other. A moment later, the blue glow of his phone screen illuminated the space between us, casting strange shadows across his features.
"We should get you to the guest room," he said, his jaw set in a way that reminded me he was a McKenzie after all, despite his gentle nature. "You need to rest."
I nodded, reluctant to break the moment but aware of the pain creeping up my side with increasing intensity. Harlow raised the phone, using it as a makeshift flashlight as we navigated the dark hallway. I winced with each step, the adrenaline that had carried me through the evening finally wearing off.
Harlow noticed immediately. "You're hurt worse than you let on."
"I'm fine," I said automatically, the words so practiced they felt empty even to me.
"No, you're not." His voice held a certainty that brooked no argument, even from me.
We reached the guest room, the door standing half-open. Harlow guided me inside, the phone light sweeping across a neatly made bed with a patchwork quilt and simple wooden furniture. The room smelled of lavender and cedar, homey in a way my apartment in town never managed to be.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, unable to suppress a groan as my ribs protested. Harlow crouched in front of me, his face level with mine, the phone casting eerie blue light upward that made his eyes look even more intense.
"You're still hurting," he said, not a question but a statement of fact.
I wanted to deny it, to maintain the facade of control I'd cultivated for years. But something about those eyes made lying seem impossible.
"Ribs," I admitted. "And my head. Doc Miller said nothing's broken, but..." I trailed off, unwilling to show more weakness than I already had.
"Why didn't you say something?" There was hurt in his voice, like I'd betrayed him somehow by not sharing my pain.
"Didn't want to worry you." The truth slipped out before I could catch it. "You've done enough, carrying me through that storm, bringing me here, and getting me the help I needed."
Harlow stared at me for a long moment. I could see the emotions working across his face—concern, confusion, and something else I wasn't ready to name, but recognized deep in my gut.
His hands, those massive, gentle hands that had carried me so effortlessly, clenched into fists at his sides. "Someone tried to kill you," he said finally, his voice barely controlled. "Someone cut your brakes and left you to die on that road."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The reality of how close I'd come to dying alone in that ditch hit me fully for the first time, sending an involuntary shiver through my body.
Harlow must have noticed, because he reached for the quilt and pulled it around my shoulders without asking. The gesture was so tender, so at odds with the rage I could see building in him, that I almost reached for him then.
"I'm going to find out who did it," he said, a promise that sounded like a vow. "Nobody hurts people on McKenzie land. Nobody hurts what’s—" He stopped abruptly, but I heard the unspoken word as clearly as if he'd shouted it.
