“Zach, what?—”
“Later, Emma.” His tone left no room for argument. His hand stayed on her arm, firm but not painful, guiding her along the trail.
She sighed, but didn’t argue.
Zach kept up a fast but controlled pace, staying between her and the trees, scanning for threats. His knife grasped in his right hand, ready.
His hand tightened on her arm. She didn’t complain.
“Kate knew,” Emma said quietly, her voice steadier now. “She warned us.”
“Yes.” One word.
“You caught the bolt. Out of the air. While it was moving.” She couldn’t comprehend that. She wouldn’t have believed her own eyes if she hadn’t seen the bolt in the sand where Zach dropped it.
He didn’t respond. Of course not.
“That’s not normal,” Emma continued, fighting to stay calm, analytical, battling the instincts telling her to run and hide. “That’s not possible for normal people.”
“Keep moving.” He scanned ahead. The cottage was visible now, a hundred yards away. Windows glowing warm in the night, a beacon of safety.
“Zach—”
“We’ll talk inside. Behind locks. After I’ve secured the perimeter and contacted my brothers.” His tone softened. “Please, Emma.”
She nodded. Walked faster.
They covered the last hundred yards in tense silence. Zach’s eyes continually searched for threats, cataloging every detail.
He’ll be impossible to live with now.The irreverent thought popped into her mind, unstoppable.
Of course he would. The threat was real. He’d been right.
When they reached his porch, Zach held Emma back while he did a quick visual sweep through the window. He unlocked the door with his left hand, knife still in his right, and pushed it open.
“Stay behind me.”
He cleared each room. Bedrooms. Bathroom. Kitchen. Closet. She’d bet good money he looked under the bed and behind the shower curtain. Every space large enough to hide a threat.
“Lock the door. Deadbolt and chain.”
She obeyed without question; her hands shaking as she engaged both locks.
Zach moved to the window, checking sight lines.
She stood in the center of the room, arms wrapped around herself, watching him. Limbs still trembling.
“Sit,” he gestured to the couch. “I need to make some calls.”
As he turned to face her, Emma noticed the blood on his shirt. “You’re bleeding.”
“I’ll handle it after?—”
“Sit down, Zach.” Her voice carried command now. Not fear. Not now that she had something to do, something else to focus on, other than the memory of a crossbow bolt headed right toward her. “You’re dripping blood on the floor. Let me see it.” She was already moving toward the bathroom as she spoke, pulling out the first aid kit from under the sink.
She returned to the living area to find Zach sitting on the edge of the couch, knife still in his hand, eyes still on the window. Emma crossed to him with the kit, her hands steady now, focused on a task.
“Shirt off.”
