I reach for my phone, hesitating for just a second. Because once I send this?—
There’s no pretending this is contained. No pretending we still have time. Then I type:
They’re already inside town. Using tourists as cover. Watching the shops. Be careful.
I hit send. And just like that?—
The line between waiting and fighting feels a whole lot thinner.
I set the phone down slowly, my gaze drifting toward the window. People still move along the street. Laughing. Shopping. Living their lives like nothing has changed. But I know better now. Because beneath that normalcy?—
Something is building. Something dangerous. Something that’s already started. And this time?—
We’re not just defending the edges. We’re defending everything.
24
ARCHER
Ispot them before they see me. That’s the advantage of knowing your own territory—every trail, every turn, every place someone might think they’re being subtle when they’re not. They’re near the trailhead just outside town. Close enough to pass as hikers. Far enough to think they won’t be noticed.
Wrong.
I lean against the trunk of a pine just off the path, arms crossed, watching as three of them pretend to study a posted map. Their movements are too controlled, too deliberate—like they’re acting out a role instead of living it.
Tourists. Right. My tiger stirs beneath my skin, low and irritated.
They don’t belong.
I know. And I’m done letting them think they can walk in here unnoticed. I step out from the trees. They go still. Not dramatically. Not obviously. But enough. They feel me. Good.
“Trail’s closed,” I say, my voice carrying easily across the small clearing.
One of them—a tall man with dark hair and a too-casual stance—turns slowly, his expression neutral.
“Didn’t see any signs,” he replies.
His tone is calm. Measured. Careful. I take a few steps closer.
“You wouldn’t,” I say. “Because you’re not actually looking for hiking routes.”
A flicker of something passes through his eyes. There. Recognition. The other two shift slightly, spacing themselves out without making it obvious. Positioning. Preparing.
“Not sure what you mean,” the man says.
I stop just outside striking distance. Close enough to make a point. Far enough to avoid triggering something I don’t want—yet.
“You’re not tourists,” I say. “You’re not locals. And you’re definitely not here for the view.”
Silence stretches. Then?—
The man smiles. Slow. Sharp.
“Well,” he says. “Guess we’ve been made.”
No denial. No attempt to keep the act going. Just honesty. I respect that. Doesn’t mean I like it.
“You’re in the wrong place,” I say.
