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"Six."

She thinks she wants freedom. Thinks she wants escape.

"Five."

But what she really wants—what we both want—is this chase. This inevitable collision course.

"Four."

I can already hear her in my head, moving through the house, seeking exit points, planning her strategy.

"Three."

I step into the hallway, every sense heightened, tracking the lingering scent of her perfume mixed with paint.

"Two."

My blood thrums with anticipation. The hunt begins.

"One."

I move silently into the darkness, following her trail, already knowing how this will end.

She thinks she's running from captivity.

But she's running straight into my arms.

Thirty-Seven

BECKETT

This house wasn't meantfor peace. These woods weren't meant for quiet. They were built for this. For her. For me. For the moment I stop pretending I can wait and let go of my control completely.

The door clicks shut behind me as I step outside. The forest waits, patient and ancient, as I let the silence press in.

No movement. No sound. Just air thick with pine and distance.

I inhale—slow, deep, deliberate—and catch her scent. Faint, but unmistakable. Wild and sweet, still threaded with the clean soap she used before we left. She's out there, and she's trying not to be found.

I step into the trees without rushing, without announcing myself. Every movement calculated, every footfall placed with intent. The woods are damp beneath my boots, earth softened by last night's rain. Moss clings to the base of the trees. Fernsstretch high along the pathless floor. A crow calls in the distance, sharp and quick, then silence reigns again.

She thinks she has space. She thinks I won't follow too closely.

She's wrong.

I spot the first sign of her about twenty feet in—a divot in the dirt where her foot caught, a brush of torn leaves clinging to the undergrowth. She stumbled. Not enough to fall, but enough to know she's panicking.

I smile, not because she's scared, but because she ran from me. Because even now, she wants to be caught.

Further in, I slow again. I'm not just tracking her—I'm studying her. Every broken branch, every shift in the wind, every moment of hesitation she leaves behind tells me a story. She tried to turn left, then changed her mind. Doubled back. Curved hard right. And then started walking. No more running. Trying to outsmart me.

Good. I like it when she tries.

A flicker of movement catches my eye—there, between two thick trunks, the hem of my shirt brushing against her thigh, the curve of her back as she presses herself to a tree and listens. I can't see her face, but I know what it looks like. Brows drawn. Breathing shallow. Lips parted in a whisper she won't speak aloud.

I can feel it from here—the ache in her legs, the throb in her chest, the heat building between her thighs. She's not running anymore. She's waiting.

Waiting for me to get closer. Waiting for me to speak. Waiting for me to give her permission to fall apart.