Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 35133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
I move faster, closing the distance in seconds, my eyes tracking, scanning, locking onto movement as it breaks through the trees.
Then I see her.
Maddie stumbles into a small clearing, her breath ragged, her movements uneven like she’s pushed herself too far and refuses to slow down.
“Stop,” I call out.
She spins, eyes wide, panic flashing across her face before recognition hits. “Ethan—”
“What are you doing?” I snap, crossing the distance between us.
“I had to—”
“No, you didn’t.”
Her jaw tightens, defiance flaring even now. “You don’t get to tell me what I—”
“You ran,” I cut in. “Alone, in the dark, with someone tracking you.”
“I’m trying to keep you out of it.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“Yes, it is,” she fires back, her voice breaking now as the fear finally comes through. “He’s after me, not you. If I leave—”
“He follows you,” I say, stepping closer. “Which is exactly what he wants.”
She shakes her head and backs up a step. “No, he wants me isolated.”
“You’re more isolated now than you were in my cabin. Fuck—my cabin has a military-level security system, Maddie.”
That stops her, at least for a second, and then the guilt hits, settling into her expression, sharp and heavy.
“I’m not dragging you into this,” she says, quieter now. “I won’t.”
“Too late.”
“I mean it, Ethan.”
“So do I.”
We’re close now, the space between us tight with tension, but this time it’s not just about attraction. It’s about control, about fear, about the fact that she almost got herself hurt because she thinks she has to do this alone.
“You don’t get to make that call,” I say.
“Yes, I do.”
“No.”
Her eyes flash. “It’s my life.”
“And it’s my land.”
“That doesn’t mean you own—”
“I don’t own you,” I cut in, my voice lowering. “But I’m not letting you walk into something like this alone.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I already did.”
The words land hard between us, and she stares at me, her chest rising too fast, her hands clenched like she’s trying to hold onto something that’s slipping.
“You don’t understand,” she says.
“Then explain it to me.”
“He’s obsessed,” she says, the word catching slightly. “And now he’s seen you. If he thinks you’re in the way—”
“He already does.”
“That’s exactly my point.”
“And you think running fixes that?”
“I think it gives him what he wants,” she snaps. “Me. Not you.”
My jaw tightens. “That’s not happening.”
“You can’t stop him.”
“I can stop you from making it easier.”
Silence drops between us, heavy and tight, and she looks at me like she doesn’t know whether to argue or give in.
“I can’t,” she starts, her voice breaking again. “I can’t be the reason something happens to you.”
That hits deeper than anything else she’s said, because it’s real and because it matters.
I step closer again, slower this time, my voice dropping with it. “You’re not.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“How?”
“Because I’m not letting it happen.”
Her breath catches, her gaze searching mine for doubt, but there isn’t any.
“There’s always a risk,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“And you’re just fine with that?”
“No.”
“Then why—”
“Because you’re not doing this alone. He may be obssessed with you, Maddie, but he’s not nearly as obssessed as I am about keeping you safe.”
The words come out rough, certain, final, and something in her expression shifts. Not fear, not defiance, something closer to relief.
She exhales slowly, her shoulders dropping just enough to give it away. “You’re impossible,” she mutters.
“Yep.”
“And stubborn.”
“Hell yeah.”
“And completely overstepping.”
“Definitely.”
Her lips press together, but I see it now, the edge of something softer breaking through.
“You scared me,” I add, quieter.
Her eyes snap back to mine. “Good,” she says automatically.
I shake my head. “Not like that.”
That lands, and she sees it in my expression, in the shift in my tone, in something I don’t give easily.
“I didn’t,” she starts, then stops, because she did.
“Don’t run again,” I say.
It’s not exactly a command, but it’s close.
She hesitates, then nods once, small but real. “Okay.”
For now, that’s enough.
Behind us, the forest shifts again, something moving deeper in the trees, reminding us both that this isn’t over, not even close.
But this time, she’s not facing it alone.
And neither am I.
I reach out before she can say anything else, my hand catching her chin lightly, not forcing, just enough to hold her there. Her words stop instantly, her eyes flicking to my mouth, then back up.
“You don’t get to pretend you don’t feel it,” I say quietly.
Her lips part against my thumb. “I can pretend whatever I want.”
“Not with me.”
The words come out rougher than I intend because my control is thinning, and I can feel it in the way I don’t move my hand away, in the way I stay exactly where I am.
“You think you’re the only one with control here?” she asks, her voice softer now, but still challenging.
I almost smile. “No. I think you’re trying to hold onto it.”
“And you’re not?”
“No.”
Her breath stutters. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t need to.”