I set down my wine and move toward the window, heart pounding. Juliette and Felicity follow, Cavall pressed against my side. I pull back the curtain.
Blond hair. Pale eyes catching the light. Standing at the edge of the tree line like he’s always been there.
Watching.
He looks directly at the window. Atme. And he smiles like he wants to be seen.
Then he waves.
My entire body locks up, rooting me in place.
Cavall explodes into barking, lunging toward the door.
“Oh my God.” Juliette’s voice is hoarse. “Who the hell was that?”
The front door bangs open and all three of us scream, stumbling into each other. But it’s Roman and Lance, wild-eyed and breathing hard.
Roman crosses to Juliette, cupping her face. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” She grips his wrists. “We saw someone. In the trees.”
“Blond hair,” Felicity adds. “Just standing there.”
Roman doesn’t let go of Juliette, his thumb brushing her cheek.
Lance’s eyes find mine across the room. He doesn’t cross to me the way Roman did to Juliette, and it’s never been more obvious than in this moment how very muchnotmine he is, but the look on his face says everything his hands aren’t allowed to.
“You’re okay?” he asks.
“I’m okay.”
He holds my gaze too long, something urgent behind his eyes, and then he looks away, hands curling into fists.
“He smiled at us,” I say. “Hewaved. He wanted me to see him.”
Lance goes still. “Stay here. All of you.”
He’s out the door before anyone can argue. Roman murmurs something against Juliette’s skin and follows.
It’s not nothing. That’s the same man who’s been following me for weeks. At the bar, the trail, and now here. Even though Art said the threat was over.
Lance was right not to trust it. Somehow, this guy…Bors—if that’s really his name—found out where I was staying. Maybehe’s been following me, but that doesn’t quite track. It’s almost like he’swantedto be noticed.
“I think I’ve seen him before,” Juliette says.
“Where?” I ask, my breath hitching.
“Marcus Montgomery’s funeral. There were men standing off to the side, you remember? I think he was one of them, behind that guy with the long dark hair.”
My mind flies back. Front row, my hand in Art’s, Lance on his other side. Men in suits, far enough away to be coincidence, except they were watching like they wanted to personally watch Roman’s father be put in the ground.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I wasn’t paying attention to anyone except…”
Except Lance.
Because even then, even when I was convinced I hated him, my eyes kept drifting. The rigid line of his shoulders. The way he sat apart from his own family.
The realization is a sucker punch.
