Ivan
I’m downstairs in the small dining room that doubles as the B&B’s breakfast nook when the realization hits me that something is wrong.
Michael and Gary—the couple who run Whispering Pines—have been fussing over the menu since I came down ten minutes ago. Michael is tall and wiry, silver hair slicked back and sharp, while Gary is shorter, rounder, with a perpetual half-smile and flour-dusted hands from whatever he’s baking in the kitchen. They’re both in their late sixties, retired from city life, and they treat every guest like a visiting grandchild. Right now they’re debating whether Landon would prefer blueberry compote or fresh whipped cream with his pancakes.
“I can do both,” Gary insists, wiping his hands on the apron tied around his waist. “He looks like a boy who appreciates options.”
Mike nods sagely. “We’ll do a little sampler plate. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage links, hash browns, fresh fruit, and toast with three kinds of jam. He can pick what he likes.”
I force a small smile. “He’ll love it. Thank you. He’s… not much of a morning person, so I want to make sure it’s worth getting up for.”
Gary winks. “We’ve got you covered. Go on up and wake him gently. Breakfast in twenty.”
I nod my thanks again and turn toward the staircase.
The house is quiet except for the soft clatter of pans in the kitchen and the distant tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway. Sunlight is just starting to filter through the lace curtains, turning the polished wood floors gold. Everything feels peaceful. Domestic. Safe.
I take the stairs two at a time.
When I reach the landing, I freeze.
The door to the Rose Room is open.
Not ajar.Wideopen.
“Boy…” I whisper, my voice quiet with a sudden worry.
My pulse kicks hard against my ribs.
I move instantly—silent, predatory—hand already reaching for the concealed carry at the small of my back. The hallway is empty. No sounds of struggle. No broken glass. But the door shouldn’t be open. I locked it last night. Double-checked the deadbolt before I went downstairs.
I approach fast but controlled, sweeping the corners, scanning for shadows that don’t belong.
The room is empty.
No Landon.
No sound from the bathroom.
I step inside.
His backpack is gone from the chair where he left it. Claw is gone too.
The quilt is thrown back on his side of the bed, pillow dented from where his head rested only minutes ago.
My eyes land on the bedside table.
My burner phone has moved.Fuck. I was a fool to not take it with me. I pick it up.
The lock screen is off.
“Boy,” I growl, knowing full well that I’m to blame.
I open the phone and see the fresh message from Viktor. It’s been read already. This is a nightmare. I stare at the screen for one frozen heartbeat.
Then I punch the mattress—hard—once, twice. The frame creaks under the impact. Frustration boils up my throat, hot and bitter.
He saw it.
