“You won’t.” He leans in, forehead pressing to mine. “But you gotta trust me now. No more secrets. No more running plans. We end this—together. Whatever it takes.”
I nod against him. “Okay.”
He kisses me then—not hungry, not desperate. Soft. Steady. Like he’s sealing something unbreakable. When he pulls back, his expression is different. Sharper. Decided. “Tomorrow the storm’s supposed to ease,” he says. “Pass might open by afternoon. If your brother’s smart, he’ll wait for that window.”
I swallow. “And if he’s not?”
Beck’s mouth curves—just the smallest, darkest smile. “Then he walks into my woods. And my woods don’t forgive trespassers.”
Outside, the wind howls one last furious note before dropping to a low moan. Inside, the fire has burned down to embers. But between us?
Something new is burning.
Hotter.
Clearer.
Terrifying.
Because now it’s not just survival.
It’s war.
And the man who raised me is about to learn exactly what happens when you hunt the woman Beck Ironwood has claimed as his.
SEVEN
BECK
The confession hangs between us like smoke after a gunshot—thick, choking, impossible to wave away.
Sabrina’s curled against my chest now, knees tucked tight, breathing shallow like she’s afraid the next inhale might shatter her. I keep one arm locked around her shoulders, the other hand resting heavy on her thigh, thumb tracing slow, mindless circles over the flannel. Grounding her. Grounding myself.
Because my pulse is hammering in a way it hasn’t since the day I buried my father and walked away from the life that came with him.
Family.
That word used to mean nothing to me. Empty space. A closed door. Until tonight.
Until her.
I tilt her chin up again. I force those hazel eyes—red-rimmed, terrified—to meet mine. “Say his full name,” I tell her. Voice low.Flat. The way I used to speak when I was still running security details for people who paid in cash and asked no questions.
She swallows. “Ethan Michael Hart.”
The room tilts.
I feel it in my gut first—cold recognition, sharp as an axe blade. Then the pieces slam together so hard I taste metal.
Ethan Hart.
Not some random CFO in Seattle.
Not just her brother.
The same Ethan Hart who walked into a bar in Missoula three winters ago, bought me a drink, and asked—in that smooth, practiced way rich men have—if I’d be interested in “occasional private work.” Off-books. High pay. No records. The kind of job that ends with someone disappearing quietly.
I said no.
