Then the brush parts.
Four men step into the clearing—rifles slung, eyes hungry.
And behind them, swaggering like the ground owes him something, comes Daryl.
He grins when he sees me. Then his gaze slides past my shoulder, hungry and cruel.
“Well, well,” he drawls. “Look what’s mine.”
Briar makes a small sound—not fear, not quite rage—but a feeling caught between the two. I feel it vibrate through my back.
I widen my stance. “She’s not yours.”
Daryl laughs. “Boy, I trained her. Broke her in. Fed her. Kept her alive. That makes her mine.”
My vision narrows. My grip tightens around the knife.
“You didn’t keep her alive,” I say quietly. “You kept her controlled.”
He shrugs. “Same thing.”
Behind me, Briar flinches so hard her fingers claw the fabric of my shirt. I cover her hand with mine, grounding her without looking away from him.
Daryl steps forward. “Hand her over. Don’t care if you fucked her or not. She’s Ridge Clan property.”
“She’s a woman,” I snap. “Not livestock.”
One of the men cocks his rifle. “We don’t gotta do this pretty. Boss wants her back. We’ll take her over your corpse if we have to.”
Briar presses her forehead between my shoulder blades like she’s trying to disappear. My whole body floods with heat.
“You’ll die before you touch her,” I growl.
A twig snaps behind us.
But this time it’s not Daryl’s men.
Silas steps from the trees on my right, posture calm, eyes sharp. Elias emerges beside him, carrying a length of chain he flexes once as he sizes up the intruders. Boone stomps into the clearing on the left, axe slung over his shoulder, face carved from stone.
And Gabe… Gabe doesn’t step anywhere. He materializes at the edge of the clearing like the woods spit him out — crossbow drawn, bolt notched, the quiet of a man who kills from shadows.
Daryl’s men shift uneasily.
Silas nods at me. “Problem?”
“Trying to steal my wife,” I answer.
Silas’s mouth twitches with disgust. “Wrong mountain for that.”
Elias cracks his neck. “Let’s make this quick.”
Daryl lifts his chin, posturing. “You think I’m scared of this little band of hermits?”
Boone laughs once—a deep, humorless rumble. “Hermits? Boy, you’re standing in a clearing full of men who bury threats in unmarked holes.”
Gabe speaks without looking away from his target. “I count five,” he says softly. “If one reaches for the girl, that one loses a hand.”
Daryl scoffs. “Big talk for a man with a toy bow.”
