Page 7 of Claim Me, Colt (The Mountain Code #2)

Simone

Three days later, I'm chopping vegetables for dinner when I hear the vehicles. The grinding rumble of SUVs climbing the mountain road grows louder by the minute.

They’ve found me.

Colt appears in the kitchen doorway. His expression is grim but unsurprised—like he's been expecting this moment since I first walked into his cabin.

"How many?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.

He moves to the window, peers through the curtain. "Three vehicles. Government plates."

My father's cleanup crew. I should have known he wouldn't let his perfect political princess disappear without a fight. Not when there's an election in eighteen months and my engagement to Jonathan was supposed to be the centerpiece of his family values campaign.

"They can't make me go back," I say, more to convince myself than him.

"No," Colt agrees. "They can't."

But we both know they'll try.

The vehicles pull into the clearing. Two black SUVs and my father's signature Town Car. Doors slam in quick succession, and I count the people as they emerge.

Secret Service agents in dark suits. My father's chief of staff, Marcus Turner, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. A woman I don't recognize with a tablet and the careful smile of a crisis management specialist.

And my father.

Senator William Morrison steps out of the Town Car like he's walking onto a debate stage—tall, silver-haired, radiating the kind of authority that's opened doors for him his entire life.

He straightens his tie and surveys Colt's cabin with the expression of a man who's found something distasteful on the bottom of his shoe.

"Showtime," I murmur.

Colt's hand finds mine, squeezes once. "You don't have to do this alone."

Before I can respond, there's a sharp knock on the door.

I take a deep breath, smoothing my hands over the flannel shirt I’m wearing, and walk to the door with Colt beside me.

When I open it, my father's pale blue eyes take in my appearance with barely concealed horror. The daughter he groomed for political perfection is standing barefoot in a mountain cabin, with paint under her fingernails, color in her cheeks, and grizzled mountain man by her side.

It's probably his worst nightmare.

"Simone." His voice is controlled, but I can hear the steel underneath. "Glad to see you’re in better shape than the car."

"Hello, Dad."

His gaze shifts to Colt, taking in the way he's positioned himself protectively at my side. "Mr...?"

"Colt." No last name offered. No handshake extended.

"I see." Dad's tone could freeze water. "Well, Mr. Colt, I appreciate you providing shelter for my daughter, but we'll be taking her home now."

"Will you?" Colt's voice is deceptively mild.

"Of course. She's had her little adventure, worked through whatever pre-wedding jitters she was experiencing. It's time to return to reality."

The casual dismissal of my choices—reducing my desperate flight to "pre-wedding jitters"—makes anger flare in my chest.

"I'm not going back," I say clearly.

Dad's practiced smile doesn't waver. "Sweetheart, you're upset. Understandably so. Planning a wedding is stressful, and I know Jonathan's schedule has been demanding lately—"

"Jonathan was cheating on me."

The words drop into the silence like stones into still water. Dad's smile finally slips.

Marcus Turner shifts uncomfortably behind my father. The crisis management woman makes a note on her tablet.

"Personal relationships can be complicated," Dad says carefully. "But the bigger picture here—"

"The bigger picture is that you tried to sell me to the highest political bidder," I interrupt. "And I'm done being sold."

His mask of paternal concern finally cracks, revealing the ruthless politician underneath. He takes a step closer, lowering his voice to the tone he uses for behind-closed-doors negotiations. "You have responsibilities. Obligations. The Morrison name means something in this country—"

"The Morrison name is the only thing that's ever mattered to you," I say. "Not me. Not my happiness. Just the political capital I represent."

"That's not fair—"

"Isn't it?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "When was the last time you asked me what I wanted, Dad? When was the last time we had a conversation that wasn't about poll numbers or public perception?"

He opens his mouth, then closes it. Because we both know the answer.

Never.

"I'm twenty-eight years old, and this is the first decision I've ever made entirely for myself," I continue. "I'm not going back to D.C. I'm not marrying Jonathan. I'm staying here."

"Here?" He looks around the cabin like it's contaminated. "With him?"

His dismissive tone makes Colt straighten, and I feel the dangerous stillness that radiates from him.

"Yes," I say firmly. "With him."

"Absolutely not." Dad's voice turns cold, authoritative. "I won't allow it."

"You don't have a choice in the matter."

"I have every choice. You're my daughter—"

"I'm an adult woman who can make her own decisions."

"Not when those decisions threaten everything we've built." His mask slips completely now, revealing the calculating politician who's spent decades accumulating power. "Do you have any idea what this will do to the campaign? To the family's reputation? To Jonathan's career?"

"I don't care about Jonathan's career."

"Well, you should. Because if you think you can just disappear into the woods and play house with some..." His gaze rakes over Colt with undisguised contempt. "Some mountain hermit, you're more naive than I thought."

The insult hangs in the air like smoke. I feel Colt tense beside me.

I gesture around the cabin. "I matter here, not as Senator Morrison's daughter or Jonathan's fiancée, but as myself."

"And who exactly is that?" Dad's voice drips with scorn. "Because from where I'm standing, you look like a spoiled little girl throwing a tantrum."

The words hit like a slap, but instead of crumbling, I feel something inside me crystallize into diamond-hard resolve.

"Then you're not looking very hard," I say calmly. "Because I'm the woman who's finally found her spine."

Colt steps forward then, his presence suddenly filling the doorway.

"I think this conversation's over," he says quietly, but there's steel in his voice that makes the Secret Service agents shift nervously.

Dad looks between us, clearly calculating his options. Political men always do—they never make a move without considering all the angles.

"This isn't finished, Simone," he says finally. "You can't hide up here forever."

"I'm not hiding," I reply. "I'm living."

He turns to go, then pauses.

"When you come to your senses—and you will—don't expect the same opportunities to be waiting for you. Some bridges, once burned, can't be rebuilt."

"Then I guess I'd better learn to swim."

He stares at me for a long moment, this daughter who's suddenly become a stranger to him. Then he walks back to his Town Car without another word.

The entourage follows, all climbing into their vehicles with the efficiency of a well-oiled political machine.

As they drive away, disappearing down the mountain road like a bad dream, I lean back against Colt's solid chest. His arms come around me automatically.

"You okay?" he murmurs against my hair.

"Better than okay," I breathe. "I’m finally free.”