The weight of those words settled over me, heavier than his leather cut but somehow easier to bear.
“Thank you,” I whispered, inadequate words for what he’d given me.
He nodded once, then moved through the cabin with purpose.I watched as he checked each window, tested locks, lowered blinds, his vigilance a physical manifestation of the protection he’d promised.No wasted movements, no unnecessary reassurances -- just actions that spoke louder than words could.
The fire crackled in the hearth, pushing back shadows that had seemed so threatening hours before.My eyelids grew heavy, the days of running and the emotional toll of speaking my truth finally catching up.I pulled Samson’s cut tighter around my shoulders, sinking deeper into the couch.
As my eyes drifted closed, I watched Samson’s silhouette against the firelight.Solid.Unmovable.The last thing I registered before sleep claimed me was the sound of him settling into the chair across from me -- keeping watch, keeping faith.
For the first time in so very long, I slept without fear of what morning would bring.
Chapter Five
Samson
First light crept through the cabin windows, pale gray fingers stretching across worn floorboards.I hadn’t slept, keeping watch from the armchair as Callie’s chest rose and fell beneath my cut, her face finally peaceful in deep exhaustion.The cabin felt different with her in it -- my solitary space now harboring something fragile.But watching her sleep, bandages stark against her skin, I knew I’d make the same choice again.
I stretched, muscles protesting after hours in the chair.The fire had died to embers, leaving the cabin cool in the pre-dawn quiet.Rising silently, I moved toward the kitchen, planning coffee before Callie woke.That’s when I saw it -- a white rectangle on the floor by the front door, slipped beneath the weathered oak sometime during the night.
My hand went instinctively to the small of my back where my weapon usually sat before I remembered I’d set it aside on the side table.Not reaching for it, I approached the envelope slowly.Official letterhead, county seal embossed in the corner.Heavy paper, the kind government offices used for formal communications.No postmark -- hand-delivered, then.
I glanced back at Callie, still asleep, before picking up the envelope.Whoever had delivered it had come close -- too close -- while we slept.The thought sent ice through my veins.How the fuck had they gotten through the layers of security?Sure, we’d had problems in the past, but I’d thought we’d resolved any security issues.
Moving to the kitchen where the light was better, I slit the envelope open with my thumbnail.The letter inside was printed on the same heavy stock, the county sheriff’s department header stark against the white paper.
Inquiry regarding missing person: Callie Monroe, 22, reported as mentally unstable and potentially endangered…
My jaw tightened as I read further.The letter was addressed to “Residents,” but someone had taken the time to write my name -- my real name, Lyle Harker -- in the margin.A message within the message.They knew exactly where she was.
The subject left medical treatment against professional advice and may be disoriented or paranoid.Chief Robert Davis requests any information on her whereabouts be reported immediately…
A contact number followed, alongside a paragraph of legal jargon.I read it twice, memorizing the details, the careful way they’d framed her as unstable and missing, the subtle threat beneath the professional language.
I turned on the sink, holding the letter over the basin.My Zippo sparked to life with a familiar metallic scrape, the flame catching the corner of the heavy paper.I watched it blacken and curl, making sure every word burned to ash before washing the remains down the drain.
Methodically, I wiped down the sink, erasing all evidence of the letter.Then I started coffee, the familiar routine grounding me as my mind processed what had just happened.They knew she was here.Knew my name.Had approached my cabin in the night.The implications unfolded with cold precision in my mind -- this wasn’t a random inquiry but a targeted message.A warning.And not just for me and Callie.The way they’d slipped past everyone unnoticed meant this was also a message for the club.
The coffee maker gurgled, filling the kitchen with rich aroma as I leaned against the counter, eyes fixed on Callie.The bandage at her temple stood out stark white against her skin, a reminder of what she’d fled.The zip tie marks on her wrists, now covered in clean gauze, confirmed everything she’d told me the night before.
I poured coffee into my favorite mug, the one Beast had given me years ago with the Kings’ emblem faded from countless washings.The familiar weight in my hand anchored me as dawn broke fully outside, washing the cabin in pale golden light.
A soft rustle from the couch caught my attention.Callie’s eyes fluttered open, instantly alert despite hours of exhaustion.Her gaze found mine across the room, and I watched as awareness returned -- where she was, who I was, what had happened.Her hand reached instinctively for my cut, still draped across her like armor.
“Morning,” I said, keeping my voice neutral despite the tension coiled in my shoulders.
She sat up slowly, wincing as stiff muscles protested.Her gaze moved around the cabin before settling back on me, narrowing slightly.“Something’s wrong.”
Not a question.An observation.Even half asleep, she read the room with the hypervigilance of someone who’d learned to detect danger in the smallest shifts of atmosphere.
“Coffee?”I offered, already pouring a second mug.
She nodded, swinging her legs over the side of the couch.As she stood, my cut slid from her shoulders.She caught and folded it.
I crossed the room and handed her the mug, our fingers brushing briefly in the exchange.Her skin was cool now, the fever having broken during the night.Progress.
She took a sip, then stilled, her gaze drifting to the sink.She nodded to the edge of the basin where a few black flakes of ash had escaped the water.
“What happened?”she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
