He turned back to the runner. “Watch her,” he said. “If she bolts—”
“She won’t,” the runner interrupted.
Thomas paused.
Slowly, he smiled again.
“No,” he agreed. “She won’t.”
Because Rylie Tate wasn’t running from danger.
She was holding it in place.
Which meant the real question wasn’t whether Trigger would come for her.
It was whether he’d abandon her when the town—and a newborn baby—suddenly appeared to be at risk.
Thomas folded his hands behind his back, satisfaction finally curving his mouth.
“Now,” he said quietly, “let’s see what kind of man he really is.”
52
Rylie
The forest went wrong.
Not louder.
Not quieter.
Wrong.
The air shifted, pressure settling low in my chest like a held breath that wouldn’t release. Birds stilled. Wind died mid-rustle. Even the man watching me—the runner—changed.
I saw it in his posture.
He straightened. Listened to something only he could hear. His jaw tightened just a fraction, like a decision had been made somewhere else.
That’s when I knew.
This wasn’t about me anymore.
My pulse spiked, but I didn’t move. Panic would give him exactly what he wanted. Instead, I tilted my head slightly, as if curious rather than alert.
“Something changed,” I said.
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t have to.
I felt it ripple outward, the same way you feel a storm break miles away before the rain ever reaches you.
Thomas had played his next card.
And it wasn’t here.
My mind raced—not wildly, but fast and sharp. If I were him, if I were losing control of the board, I’d shift the threat somewhere Triggercouldn’tignore.
