Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 39414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 158(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 158(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
My stomach twists. “So… he could’ve been here more than once.”
Wyatt’s voice drops. “Yes.”
The way he says it makes my skin go cold.
Maddie stands, brisk. “Okay. You and I are going to go through your phone together. We’re going to make a file. We’re going to write a timeline. And you’re going to tell me the things you keep editing down.”
I glare. “I don’t edit down.”
Maddie smiles sweetly. “You’re adorable.”
Wyatt’s hand slides from the couch to my shoulder. Just a brief squeeze, grounding. Possessive. My pulse jumps.
I look up at him. “Don’t start treating me like a—”
Wyatt leans down, close enough that his breath brushes my ear. “Like mine?”
My entire body stills.
Maddie makes a noise like she’s trying not to laugh. Ethan clears his throat and looks at the window like he suddenly finds snow fascinating.
I swallow hard and force my voice steady. “Like I’m not capable.”
Wyatt’s mouth brushes my ear—not a kiss, not quite, but close enough to make my skin light up. “You’re capable,” he murmurs. “You’re just outnumbered.”
I shiver, and I hate that it isn’t only from fear.
Maddie snatches my phone again. “Great. While you two do whatever that is, I’m doing my job.”
Wyatt straightens, gaze hardening. “We’re not doing anything.”
Maddie’s eyes flick to the flannel. “Sure.”
Wyatt’s jaw ticks. “Maddie.”
She holds up the phone. “I’m going to start with bank emails. Then foreclosure notice. Then the text thread with Mr. Tie-and-a-Punchable-Face.”
My throat tightens. “His name is Graham.”
Maddie’s eyes go bright. “Not anymore.”
We sit at the table, lantern still out even though the power is back, because Wyatt doesn’t trust anything right now. Maddie scrolls, snapping screenshots, making notes on a pad she pulled from her pocket like she came prepared to run an investigation.
Wyatt stands by the window, scanning the treeline like he’s waiting for it to blink.
Minutes pass, tense and quiet except for Maddie’s occasional “Mm-hm” or “Yep, that’s coercion.”
Then she goes still.
Her fingers pause on the screen.
“What,” I say, too sharp.
Maddie’s eyes lift to mine. “When did you get to the cabin yesterday?”
I blink. “Afternoon. Why?”
Maddie turns the phone toward me.
A new message sits at the top of the thread from Graham.
No words.
Just an image.
My stomach drops so hard it hurts.
It’s a photo of me at the cabin window.
In Wyatt’s flannel.
My face turned slightly, like I’m looking out at the snow.
Taken from outside.
From the dark.
My skin goes ice-cold.
Wyatt’s voice cuts through the room, low and lethal. “Ellie.”
I can’t breathe.
Maddie’s voice is calm, but there’s steel under it. “Rangers aren’t the only men who track.”
And behind me, Wyatt’s hand closes around the back of my chair, grip hard enough to shake the wood.
“Now,” he says, voice like a promise, “we hunt him back.”
Chapter 9
Wyatt
Devil’s Peak is the kind of town that can smell a secret from three blocks away.
Ellie thinks she can slip into her shop, grab inventory, keep her head down, and leave without becoming entertainment. She’s wrong before we even park. There are already two trucks outside Devil’s Kiss and Mrs. Hargrove is across the street “watering” the same dead planter she’s been watering since 2009.
Ellie steps out of my truck in my flannel, boots crunching on old snow, chin lifted like she’s daring the world to say something. She’s got that stubborn shine in her eyes, the one that usually means she’s about to do something reckless just to prove she can.
I slam my door and come around the hood without hurrying. It’s not a race. It’s a statement.
Her phone is in her hand. Her knuckles are white around it. I don’t like that. I don’t like anything about this situation—Graham’s photo, the fact he knows where my cabin is, the fact Ellie had to run to me at all.
But I do like one thing.
I like that she’s here with me.
I stop close enough that my shoulder brushes hers. Ellie stiffens, then doesn’t move away.
“Remember the plan,” I say.
She glances up at me. “I get my things.”
“You stay where I can see you,” I correct.
Her lips press together. “You’re not my dad.”
“No,” I murmur, eyes dropping to her mouth for half a second. “I’m worse.”
Heat flashes in her cheeks. She looks away fast like she hates that her body hears me.
Good.
I take her elbow and steer her toward the door. Ellie’s shop sign swings above us—DEVIL’S KISS CHOCOLATES—cute cursive, little devil tail curling under the K. She built this place from nothing. I can feel her anger in the way she walks, like she’s trying not to explode.
The front door is still locked with the new hardware, bright and smug.
Ellie jabs the keypad like it personally offended her. “It’s not even my lock.”
“It’s his,” I say.
Her jaw tightens. “I want to smash it.”
I glance down at her. “You want to smash something, you tell me first.”
Her eyes narrow. “Why?”
“So I can hold you back,” I answer, easy.