My cabin is a fortress. Situated on a high ridge, it commands a view of the only access road and the valley below. No one gets up here without my knowledge.
My eyes drift lower. Down the slope toward the edge of the property line. Toward the dilapidated shack Avery calls home. It’s barely visible through the trees, a dark smudge of rotting wood against the pristine snow.
Motion.
I freeze. Air stops in my throat. Small, barely a flicker in the distance, but I see it. A flash of unnatural color. Safety orange against the white.
Someone is down there.
Calm shatters. The warmth of the bed, the softness of Avery’s skin—vanished. Cold, metallic rage floods my veins.
I turn from the window and move to the gun safe bolted to the closet floor. I spin the dial, clicks loud in the quiet room. I pullout my Sig Sauer P226, check the mag, and shove it into the waistband at the back of my jeans. Then I grab my hunting knife, the heavy blade sheathed in worn leather, and strap it to my thigh.
I don’t need the gun for what I’m about to do. But I always carry it.
I walk back to the bed. Avery remains deep under, exhausted. I lean down, pressing a quick, hard kiss to her forehead. She sighs in her sleep.
"Sleep, Little Bird," I rasp. "I'll be right back."
I grab my heavy coat and boots by the door. No coffee. The adrenaline flooding my system provides enough fuel.
Thin, frigid air burns my lungs with every inhale. Snow piles thigh-deep in places, but I know this terrain better than the lines on my palm. I don't fight the drifts. I move with them, stepping in the shadows of the pines, silent. Efficient.
I am not Oliver the man right now. I am the Vanguard. The ghost of Grizzly Peak.
I cut through the tree line, descending the ridge toward Avery’s property. Anger sits in my chest, a physical weight. Tight. Hot.
They are on her land.
Her cabin is a wreck. She’s currently safe in my bed. Neither fact matters. It belongs to her, and she belongs to me. That makes this a violation.
As I close the distance, I slow. The crunch of boots on snow and low voices disturbs the woods.
I crouch behind a massive oak, peering through the underbrush.
Two men. Not locals. Locals know better than to wander this deep into Gunnar territory without an invitation. They wear expensive, high-tech winter gear. Brand new. Flashy. City boys. Or worse.
One is tall, lanky, holding a tablet and tapping at the screen. The other is stockier, smoking a cigarette and kicking at a rotted support beam on Avery’s porch.
"Structure is trash," the smoker sneers, voice carrying in the crisp air. "Total teardown. But the location... boss is right. Sightlines are perfect."
"We can run the route right through the back gap," the one with the tablet counters. "Bypass the main road entirely. Who owns this dump?"
"Some girl. City records say she just inherited it. Probably doesn't even know what she's sitting on."
My jaw clenches until my teeth ache.
Outsiders.
We’ve heard the rumors. A crew from the city trying to find new routes for their product—pills, powder, whatever poison they push this week. They think the mountains are just empty space on a map. They assume the lack of patrol cars means no law exists out here.
Wrong. I’m the law.
The smoker chuckles, flicking his cigarette butt onto Avery’s porch. It lands on the wood I fixed for her yesterday.
That’s it.
No warning shout. No shot in the air. I simply step out from the trees.
