Page 24

Every muscle in my body is strung tight, my grip on the rifle so controlled it’s starting to ache.

I can feel the edge of the instinct—the need to move, to act, to shield her with more than just sightlines and whispered commands.

But I don’t. I stay still. Because this is what protection looks like, too: restraint sharp enough to bleed. .

Because there’s a difference between protection and recklessness, and I won’t risk her.

Not for anything.

Not ever.

The car slows.

Stops.

And then—

She sees it.

I don’t hear her voice, not yet. But I see the way her body stills. The way her head tilts. The slight pivot of her boot in the grass.

She knows.

But she’s not panicking.

She lifts the phone to her ear. One hand shielding her eyes from the sun.

“Cal?” she says, barely a whisper, but the line’s still open. “It’s here.”

And somehow, that quiet act—turning to me, waiting for my words—grounds me more than anything else could. It’s her way of saying, tell me what to do, and I will. And it does something fierce and fragile in my chest. Because trust like that isn’t quiet. It’s deafening.

My jaw clenches.

“I see it.”

“What do I do?”

That breaks something in me.

Because she shouldn’t have to ask.

But she’s still asking.

Still trusting.

Still mine.

“Stay calm,” I murmur. “Keep the dogs close. Don’t approach.”

And then—

She starts walking.

Toward it.

Not fast. Not direct.

“Don’t approach.” The words come out firm. Clipped. The line between command and plea.

I say them before I even think.

She’s too close.

Too unprotected.

And I told her—I told her—what the rules were.

But there’s no answer on the line.

I shift the scope.

She’s not holding the phone anymore.

My stomach turns.

The car is still idling near the edge of the field, just behind the old cedar fence that leans with time. The man inside doesn’t move at first.

Then the door opens.

And he steps out.

Fuck.

I know him.

Not by name. Not exactly.

But you don’t do what I’ve done without learning to read men. To catalog their posture, their eyes, their hands. This one?

He’s not new.

Not uncertain.

This is a man who’s done bad things. Not because he had to. Because he liked it.

Not military.

Not disciplined.

Freelance.

Mercenary.

No chain of command, no conscience—just the highest bidder and blood under his nails.

He steps forward, casual. Like this is nothing. Like he’s out for a fucking Sunday drive.

And then he waves.

To her.

I watch her hesitate.

Not in fear.

In thought.

And then—God help me—she starts walking.

Straight toward him.

I bite down hard enough that my jaw pops.

“Emmy,” I hiss, even though I know she can’t hear me now. “Emmy.”

But she’s pocketed the phone.

She’s smiling.

She’s saying something.

The dogs stay close. Luca’s posture is alert but not aggressive. Cleo’s quiet.

I shift again, tracking every inch of that bastard’s movement.

He’s trying to look unthreatening.

Trying to make this a conversation.

But I see the way he watches her hands.

The way he’s already placed himself with the car door behind him—engine still running, ready to move.

She gestures toward the dogs.

He glances away.

And her hand moves.

Just briefly.

Just near the back bumper.

My pulse spikes.

No.

She wouldn’t.

She—fuck, she did.

She’s planting something.

Tracker.

Has to be.

Goddamn it, Emmy.

I want to be furious.

But all I feel is a roaring, sick kind of awe. Like a gut-punch laced with pride. My chest feels too tight, my breath too shallow, like my body doesn’t know what to do with this combination of terror and admiration.

She remembered. She saw it. She’s doing this for me.

And she’s risking everything.

I watch her take a step back. Another. Still smiling.

Still calm.

Still my brave, reckless, infuriating girl.

The man smiles once.

Gets back in the car.

And pulls away.

Not fast.

Not scared.

Like he got what he came for.

But I’m already moving.

Scope down.

Phone to my ear.

Truck keys in my hand.

Because I’ve got a signal to trace.

And a girl to protect.

Mine to find. Mine to shield. Mine to carry if I have to. And I will. I fucking will.

The engine growls beneath me as I cut across the service road, tires sliding over gravel, fast but controlled. The field curves up ahead, open and bright in the May light—but my focus is narrow. I’m already scanning.

Where is she—

There.

Near the far end of the field, her body framed against the blue haze of the ocean. Her arms crossed tight over her chest. Luca pacing slow at her side. Cleo ahead, but watchful.

I pull the truck off the road and down the embankment, just far enough to clear the tree line, but not far enough to lose her.

She turns at the sound.

Her face—God, her face.

That instant widening of her eyes.

Not fear.

Not quite.

But the kind of apprehension that makes my chest crack wide open.

She thought I’d be mad.

She thought I’d leave her alone in this.

I slam the door behind me, not hard, but not soft either. And I’m already walking—long, purposeful strides that close the distance between us in seconds.

She opens her mouth to say something—I see it happen. The guilt already spilling behind her eyes, the apology forming on her lips.

“I just—” she starts, voice shaking.

But I don’t let her finish.

I wrap her up.

Arms around her in one long, solid pull—like I have to hold her in place or the wind might take her.

She gasps softly, but she doesn’t pull away. The sound is sharp and quiet, like her body wasn’t ready for the contact—but then she melts into me, warm and trembling. Her weight folds into me like she was made to.

My hand comes up, cradling the back of her head, tucking her into my chest. The other arm holds around her waist, firm and unmoving.

And for a moment?

I just breathe.

Through her hair.

Through the silence.

Through the ache in my chest that says I almost lost something I never even got to keep.

Her arms slide around me slowly.

Tighten.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into my shirt. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought it was the only chance, and I—I had the tracker, I was careful—”

My voice comes out rough.

“You didn’t mean to,” I echo. “But you did.”

She nods against me. Doesn’t try to pull away.

So I say it, plain and soft, mouth near her temple.

“You scared me, little one,” I say, the words rawer than I expect.

I don’t say things like this—not often, not easily—but it ripped through me when I saw that car.

When I realized what she’d done. This kind of fear doesn’t come out of nowhere.

It’s carved from care. "More than I’ve been scared in a long time. ”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” I press my lips into her hair. “I know, baby. You did well. I saw what you did. I’m proud of you.”

She draws in a small, shaky breath, as if her body’s still catching up to what her heart already knows.

“But don’t ever do it alone again.”

“I won’t,” she says, so quiet it’s barely there.

I don’t let go.

Not yet.

Because keeping her in my arms is the only thing steadying the quake under my skin.