He smiled like he expected it, left a hundred on the bar anyway, and walked out.
Two weeks later a logger up near Whitefish went missing. Never found. Case closed as exposure. I heard the rumors—black SUV, out-of-state plates, questions about a missing hard drive full of financials.
I didn’t connect it then.
I connect it now.
My hand freezes on her thigh.
Sabrina feels the shift. Her brows knit. “Beck?”
I don’t answer right away. Can’t. The room is suddenly too small, the fire too hot, her skin under my palm too fragile. I stand, and walk to the window. Stare out at the white wall of snow. Back still to her.
“Three winters ago,” I say. Words come out rough. “Your brother came through Timber Creek. Sat across from me at Rusty’s Bar. Offered me a job. Said he needed someone reliable. Someone who wouldn’t ask questions. Someone who could make problems… go away.”
Silence behind me. Thick. Terrible.
I turn.
She’s on her knees in the middle of the bed now, quilt clutched to her chest like armor. Face bloodless. “He wanted you to… to hurt someone?” she whispers.
“Not hurt.” I meet her eyes, and let her see the truth in them. “Kill. If necessary.”
Her hand flies to her mouth. Muffled sound—half sob, half choke.
“I said no,” I continue. “Walked out. Never saw him again. Until tonight. Until you said his name.”
She’s shaking her head. Slow. Disbelieving. “You’re saying… you met him? Here? Before you ever met me?”
“Yeah.”
“And you didn’t?—”
“I didn’t know.” The words scrape out. “I didn’t know he was your brother. I didn’t know he was the one chasing you. I didn’t know any of it until right fucking now.”
She stares at me like I’m a stranger. And maybe I am. Because the man who just buried himself inside her twice today—the man who promised to stand between her and anything that tried to hurt her—is the same man who once sat across a scarred bar table from the monster who raised her.
The irony is so sharp it bleeds.
Sabrina slides off the bed, her bare feet hitting the cold floor. She doesn’t come closer. Just stands there, arms wrapped around herself, looking small in my too-big shirt.
“Do you believe in fate?” she asks. Voice barely above a whisper.
“No.” I step toward her—slow, careful, like she might bolt. “I believe in choices. And right now the only choice that matters is the one I’m making. I choose you. I choose this. I choose to end whatever he started.”
Her eyes search mine—frantic, pleading. “What if he comes here? What if he recognizes you?”
“Then he’ll know exactly why he’s about to lose.” My voice drops darker. “Because the man he tried to hire to clean up his mess is the man who’s going to bury him instead.”
She flinches at the wordbury.
I close the distance, and cup her face again. This time she doesn’t lean in. She just trembles under my palms.
“I’m not him,” I say. Fierce. “I’m not the man who ran from his family. I’m not the man who’d sell out his sister to save his own skin. I’m the man who’s going to keep you breathing. Keep you safe. Keep youmine. And if that means putting a bullet between your brother’s eyes when the pass opens, then that’s what happens.”
A tear slips down her cheek, and lands on my thumb. “I don’t want that,” she whispers. “I don’t want blood on your hands because of me.”
“Too late.” I brush the tear away. “My hands haven’t been clean in a long time, Sabrina. But they’ve never been dirty for someone I love.”
