He starts walking. Each step is deliberate. His boots crunch through the softening crust of snow. His hands stay visible. No weapon drawn.
Yet.
He stops at the bottom porch step.
“Sabrina.” His voice carries clear across the frozen yard, calm and familiar, the same timbre that used to coax me out of nightmares when we were children. “I know you’re in there. I just want to talk.”
I don’t answer.
He sighs, the sound heavy with disappointment, the way he used to sigh when I forgot to unload the dishwasher.
“I’m not here to hurt you. I just need the drive. Give it to me and this ends. You go back to your life. I go back to mine. No one has to know.”
The lie tastes metallic on my tongue even from inside the cabin.
I back away from the window until my spine hits the table. The coffee mug I’ve been clutching tips and shatters on the floorboards; scalding liquid splashes across my borrowed socks. I barely notice.
He climbs the first step. The porch groans. Second step. Another groan. “I’m coming in, Sabrina. Don’t make this harder.”
The doorknob rattles. Locked.
He tries again. Harder. The frame shudders. Then silence. Then a low, almost amused sound. “You really think a deadbolt’s going to stop me?”
Wood groans again, louder this time, as he puts his shoulder to the door.
I stumble backward into the hallway, pulse roaring in my ears, eyes darting toward the bedroom, toward the back door, toward anywhere that might buy me another second.
Then the back door—the one that leads to the woodshed—clicks open.
It’s soft and deliberate. Not forced.
Ice floods my veins.
I spin.
Beck stands in the open doorway. Snow dusts his shoulders and clings to his beard. The rifle rests across his chest, barrel angled down but ready. His face is calm, too calm, the way still water looks right before a storm breaks across it.
He doesn’t look at me. He looks past me, toward the front porch where Ethan has just shouldered his way inside.
Ethan freezes mid-motion. Recognition flashes across his face, quick and ugly, followed by something almost like resignation. “You,” he says. The word carries a bitter half-laugh. “The guy who said no. Should’ve known you’d turn into a problem.”
Beck steps fully inside. He kicks the door shut behind him with his heel, reaches back, and throws the deadbolt without breaking eye contact. “Funny thing about no,” he says, voice low and even. “It sticks.”
Ethan’s hand drifts, slow and careful, toward the inside of his coat.
Beck’s rifle comes up in the same heartbeat. Smooth. Practiced. Barrel centered on Ethan’s chest. “Don’t.”
Ethan’s palm stills.
Beck glances at me then, just once, a flicker of his eyes to make sure I’m still breathing, before returning to my brother. “Hands where I can see them. Step away from the door. Now.”
Ethan complies. Slowly. Palms lifted, empty. “You’re making a mistake,” he says. “She’s my sister. This is family business.”
“She’s my future wife.” Beck’s words land flat and final, like stones dropped into deep water. “That makes it my business.”
Ethan’s gaze snaps to me, sharp, searching, almost wounded. “Sabrina?—”
“Don’t.” My voice cracks on the single word. “Don’t say my name like you still have the right.”
