Hank crouches beside me, binoculars up. “Two heat signatures in the main room. One in the back bedroom—smaller. Could be her. Third on the porch, smoking.”
My grip tightens on the rifle. “I’m taking the porch.”
“Negative. We wait for Rhett or we go on my count. No hero shit.”
I don’t answer. My eyes are locked on that back window. Is she tied up? Still naked? Scared? The thought of her fear—of her thinking I failed her—makes me want to roar.
Static crackles in my earpiece. Rhett’s voice, low and calm. “In position. East ridge. Got eyes on the porch guy. Say the word.”
Hank glances at me. “Your call, Colt. But we do this smart.”
I exhale slow, forcing the terror and rage into a tight ball I can use.
“Smart,” I repeat. But my finger’s already on the trigger guard. “We go in three minutes. Garrett and Ruiz on the back. Rhetttakes porch. You and me through the front. Flashbangs if it goes loud. Goal is her—alive.”
Hank nods once. “Copy.”
We move into final positions—silent shadows in the snow. I belly-crawl the last thirty yards, rifle ready, eyes never leaving the cabin.
Willa’s in there.
My woman.
My future.
And I’m coming for her.
Right now.
The team is set. Rifles up. Breaths steady.
We’re outside.
Ready.
And God help anyone who stands between me and my girl.
THIRTEEN
WILLA
The rope bites into my wrists and ankles, rough hemp that scratches every time I shift even an inch. I’m tied to a wooden chair in the middle of a dingy front room that smells like mildew, old fish, and cigarette smoke. The only light comes from a single bare bulb swinging overhead and the orange glow from the woodstove in the corner. My bare feet are freezing against the dirty plank floor, but at least I’m not completely naked anymore. Matthew tossed one of his old flannels over my head after they dragged me inside—like a sick joke, dressing me in something that reeks of his cologne so I’d remember who owns me. The fabric hangs loose on my frame, sleeves too long, hem barely covering my thighs. It’s better than nothing, but every brush of it against my skin reminds me how exposed I still am.
I’m shaking. Not just from the cold. Fear has settled deep in my bones, a living thing that makes my teeth chatter and my stomach twist into knots. Colt. God, Colt. He was in the shower when they came. He doesn’t even know yet. By the time he steps out, I’ll be long gone. The thought of him finding the splintered door, the drag marks in the snow, my flannel on the bedroom floor—it breaks something inside me worse than the zip-ties evercould. I love him. I was supposed to wake up tomorrow and start our life together. Teach in town, come home to the cabin, let him fill me again and again until our future grew inside me. Now I might never see him again.
Matthew paces in front of me, boots thudding heavy on the floor. He looks the same as always—expensive haircut, sharp jaw, eyes that used to make me think he was charming. Tonight they’re wild, bloodshot from whatever he’s been drinking. He stops, crouches so we’re eye level, and grabs my chin hard enough to bruise.
“Where is it, Willa?” His voice is low, almost gentle, like he’s still pretending to be the boyfriend who used to buy me flowers after he hit me. “The flash drive. The backups. All of it. You’re going to tell me right now, or things are going to get real ugly.”
I swallow hard, tasting blood from where I bit my lip in the van. “I don’t have it anymore.”
He laughs, short and ugly. “Bullshit. You think I’m stupid? You copied everything. Bank records, photos, the audio where I talk about moving weight. You were always such a smart little bitch.” He squeezes my chin harder. “Give me the drive and maybe I’ll let you walk out of here breathing.”
One of his friends—Dane, the tall one with the neck tattoo—leans against the wall, smirking. “She looks cold, Matt. Maybe we should warm her up while she thinks about it.” He reaches out and trails a finger down my bare thigh where the flannel has ridden up. I jerk away, the chair scraping loud on the floor.
“Don’t touch her,” Matthew snaps, standing so fast the chair rocks. “She’s mine. Always has been.”
Dane holds up his hands, but his eyes linger on my chest, on the way the flannel gaps open. “Just saying. A little incentive might loosen her tongue.”
