I love you, Colt.
I say it in my head over and over, a prayer, a promise.
I’m coming back to you. Somehow.
The van accelerates. The mountain falls away behind us.
And all I can do is shake, and pray, and hold onto the memory of his arms around me like it’s the only thing keeping me alive.
Because right now, it is.
TWELVE
COLT
The water cuts off with a metallic groan, steam billowing around me like smoke from a fresh fire. I grab the towel off the hook, drag it over my face, my chest, my hair—still half-hard from the way Willa looked spread out on our bed when I left her twenty minutes ago, lips swollen, thighs marked with my fingerprints and my cum. The thought makes me smile in the mirror, a real one that pulls at the corners of my mouth. Never smiled this much in my life. Never thought I’d want to.
I wrap the towel low on my hips and step out of the bathroom, bare feet hitting cold pine.
The bedroom is empty.
Bed’s rumpled exactly how we left it—quilts kicked to the foot, her side still dented from her body. But she’s not there. Not in the room. Not reaching for me with that sleepy, satisfied smile.
“Willa?”
Silence.
My gut twists. The flannel she’d been wearing is on the floor near the nightstand, like it was dropped in a hurry. One sleeve inside out. Her panties—those little black ones I peeled off her earlier—are gone. No socks. No boots. Just the flannel.
I cross the room in three strides, heart already kicking up. The front door—hell, the whole cabin feels wrong. Cold air pours in. The heavy oak door is hanging crooked on one hinge, wood splintered where the frame used to meet the deadbolt. Snow has blown inside, a white streak across the floorboards like a scar. Drag marks. Two sets of boot prints, deep and hurried, cutting through the fresh powder on the porch.
No.
The word slams through me like a rifle round.
I’m moving before my brain catches up—towel hitting the floor, naked and dripping, yanking on jeans from the chair, not bothering with a belt. Shirt next, the gray Henley I wore yesterday, still smelling like her. Boots. Rifle from the rack by the door—already chambered because I never leave it empty. Extra mags shoved in my pockets. Knife strapped to my ankle out of pure habit.
“Willa!” I roar it this time, voice cracking on the empty cabin. The sound bounces back at me, mocking.
She’s gone. They took her. While I was in the goddamn shower humming like an idiot, thinking we were safe for one fucking night.
My hands shake as I grab the sat phone off the counter. First number I hit is Hank Lawson. It rings once.
“Colt?” Hank answers, voice gravelly like he was asleep. “It’s three in the morning?—”
“They took her.” My voice is raw, barely human. I’m already out the door, snow biting my ankles where the boots aren’t laced. “Matthew James and his crew. Kicked the door in. Drag marks in the snow. She’s naked, Hank. They took her naked. I was in the shower—I didn’t hear?—”
“Slow down, son.” Hank’s tone shifts to cop mode, sharp and steady. “When?”
“Ten, fifteen minutes ago. Maybe less. I just stepped out. Prints are fresh. Heading down the mountain, had to be. No way they climbed up the back way in this snow.”
“I’m rolling now. Got two deputies I trust—Garrett and Ruiz. We’ll meet you at the fork where your road hits county. You armed?”
“Always.”
“Good. Don’t do anything stupid. We’ll get her back.”
I end the call, breath fogging in the dark. The moon’s out now, full and cold, turning the snow into a silver sheet. I can see the van tracks—wide, fresh, cutting straight down the switchbacks. They didn’t even try to hide them. Cocky bastards. Think the judge’s name makes them untouchable.
