The drive back feels different. Heavier. The freedom that tasted so sweet on the way down has curdled into something closer to anxiety, sitting in my stomach like bad coffee. I didn’t tell him I was leaving. I just went. Took his car, drove off his mountain, sat in a diner eating a muffin like a person who makes her own decisions.
Which I am. Except that’s not quite how things work up here, is it?
What will Caleb say when he realizes I slipped away without permission?
The security gate comes into view, its metal teeth parting automatically as I approach. The cameras mounted on the perimeter swivel to follow the SUV’s progress, their movements sharper, more deliberate than usual. Like they’re paying extra attention. Like they’ve been told to watch for me.
He knows.
The certainty settles in my gut like a stone as I pull into the garage. I grab the package, smooth my dress, and start the long walk to the main entrance, my heart beating faster with each step. The marble floor that felt cool and pleasant an hour ago now feels cold under my feet.
I push open the door and freeze.
Caleb stands in the entryway, tall and imposing in his dark suit, hands clenched at his sides. His jaw is rigid, his eyes wild with something that looks like panic beneath the rage. His chest rises and falls too fast. He looks like a man who’s been pacing, and recently stopped, and is furious about both.
“Where were you?” The question roars through the space between us, his voice deeper and harsher than I’ve ever heard it.
“I...” My voice cracks, and I have to try again. “I went to town. To help Franklin.”
His eyes narrow, gaze dropping to the package under my arm before returning to my face. “Help Franklin.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway, words spilling out too fast. “There was a package at the pickup point in Cooper Hills. Time-sensitive. Franklin couldn’t leave because of the meat delivery, so I offered to go instead. I wasn’t gone long.”
Each word seems to make him angrier. His fists clench tighter, knuckles white. A muscle jumps in his jaw.
“And you didn’t think to tell me.”
“You were on an important call with Davis and I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“So you just left.” His voice drops lower, more dangerous. “Without a word. Without permission. You just walked out of my compound, took my vehicle, and disappeared.”
Put that way, it sounds worse than it was. I take a small step forward, the package clutched to my chest like a shield. A very expensive, very inadequate shield.
“Caleb, I’m sorry,” I offer, meaning it and not meaning it at once. Sorry for worrying him. Not sorry for the mountain air, the diner booth, the blueberry muffin, the feeling of just going somewhere without asking first. “It was just a quick errand. I came straight back.”
“After coffee and a muffin at the diner.”
My stomach drops. Of course he knows. Of course he does. The man has cameras everywhere and probably satellite tracking on the SUV and some sixth sense for when someone within his orbit does something unauthorized. I shouldn’t be surprised. I am anyway.
“Franklin knew where I was,” I counter, a hint of defiance creeping into my voice despite every instinct telling me to back down. “It’s not like I vanished.”
“Franklin is not in charge here. I am.” Three long strides bring him directly in front of me, so close I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. So close I can smell him, that cleandark scent that makes my brain short-circuit. “This house has rules, Nola. And you just broke them all.”
The heat of his body radiates through his suit, warming my skin even without contact. I should be intimidated. Should be cowering before this display of barely contained fury.
Instead, I’m fighting the urge to press myself against him. To taste the anger on his tongue. Something is deeply wrong with me, and I’m starting to think it might be permanent.
“Do you have any idea,” he says, each word measured and precise, “what went through my mind when Franklin told me you’d left the compound? When the security system registered the gate opening and I couldn’t find you anywhere?”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, not backing away. “It won’t happen again.”
“No,” he agrees, voice dropping to that quiet register that sends shivers down my spine. “It won’t.”
Before I can respond, Caleb hoists me over his shoulder in one smooth motion, one large hand clamped firmly across the backs of my thighs. The world tilts sideways, blood rushing to my head. The package thuds to the marble floor.
“Caleb!” I gasp, hands bracing against his back. “What are you?—”
“Not Caleb.” That hand on my thighs tightens just shy of painful. “Try again.”
