MASON
Iwait another five minutes, long enough to confirm the compound is settling back into routine. Long enough to see Lily's truck pull away from the access road without headlights, moving slow and careful until she's a mile out. Only then do I pack my gear.
My hands are steady. My breathing is controlled. Inside? There should be turmoil. I compromised my position for her. I took a shot that could have gone catastrophically wrong. I broke every rule about operational security and tactical restraint.
I'd do it again, without hesitation—and instead of being at war with myself, I’m surrendering to what this is.
What is it? I'm not watching Lily Carter anymore. I'm not running surveillance or gathering intelligence or maintaining professional distance. I'm protecting her, and protection means I'm already in too deep to pull back now.
I sling my rifle across my back and start the long hike back to my truck. The night air is cold, but I barely feel it. My mind is already running through what comes next.
32
LILY
As I drive, my hands gradually stop shaking. My breathing slows. By the time I reach the outskirts of Iron Ridge, I've compartmentalized the panic into tactical assessment: what went wrong, how to fix it, when to try again.
Twenty minutes later, I pull into my driveway and kill the engine. The house is all light, exactly as I left it: bright and welcoming.
I sit in the truck for thirty seconds, scanning the perimeter. The motion sensors I installed are still armed—the small red lights blinking at intervals along the fence line. I check my phone—no notifications of any disruptions.
Everything looks clear.
I get out of the truck and move to the front door, keys already in hand. My body is still vibrating with leftover adrenaline, my senses hyper-alert to every sound and shadow.
Inside, I run my routine. Once it’s done, I go to the kitchen. I'm halfway through pouring a glass of water when I see the headlights. They cut through the street, slow and deliberate, and turn into my driveway. The engine shuts off. A door opens and closes with a solidthunk.
I have a feeling I know who it is. My pulse starts to race—not from fear—and I rush to peek from behind the curtain in the kitchen window. My hand goes to my knife out of habit. I see the body, the walk, and my pulse kicks up even more.
Mason Rivera.Just like I thought.
He couldn’t have gotten my address from Emma because she doesn’t know where I live. I’m not sure Harper knows either. He shouldn’t be strolling up my walkway, but somehow I’m not surprised that he is. His timing is kind of on point.
The streetlamp highlights his strong cheekbones and jaw, drawn tight like he’s pissed. I see the restrained anger gripping his shoulders, and I gasp.
He knows. He knows I was in trouble.
How could he know that?
Was he there?
I grip the edge of the counter. I didn’t see him, but then I was trying not to get caught by Kelly. Good thing the alarm went off. It was the perfect distraction—perfect timing.
Mason’s a sniper. Did he trigger it?
I look at his face as he stalks toward my front door. Of course he triggered it. I know it without knowing.
How did he even know I was at the compound tonight?
The sound of his fist knocking on my front door echoes through the house—three sharp raps, measured and deliberate.
I set the glass down with shaking hands and head to the entryway. I shouldn’t open the door for him—it’s the middle of the night, and I don’t know him, really—but I know myself.
Before I get there, he knocks again. Harder this time.
“Lily.” His voice is low and rough through the barrier. “I know you're in there. We need to talk.”
My heart is hammering. My hands are shaking. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to stay silent, to wait him out, to maintain the distance that keeps me safe.
