Page 1 of Midnight Between Us (The Timberbridge Brothers #4)

It feels like I’ve been pacing for about an hour, trying to figure out how the fuck I’m supposed to crawl out of this clusterfuck.

Sounds like I’m exaggerating, but I’m not.

It’s around the same time I arrived from the office when I couldn’t pretend I was working anymore.

Leaving like that felt as if it would somehow suffocate the panic clawing at my throat.

I was hoping that the change of air would help me find a breath that didn’t scrape my lungs raw.

It hit me somewhere between the elevator ride up and the second the door clicked behind me: there’s no version of this where I don’t lose something I can’t afford to lose. I keep pacing because stopping feels dangerous.

I know it’s been a while because the rug’s curled up near the kitchen door again—same stupid corner, always the same stupid corner. I’ve tripped over it three times already. Every time, I tell myself to fix it. Just bend down and smooth the goddamn thing flat. But I don’t.

You know what I shouldn’t have done? Call my fucking brother, but here I am. The phone is pressed to my ear—I lost the fucking earbuds somewhere today. Probably at the same time I lost any hope of getting out of this unscathed.

My voice is lower than it needs to be, and I feel like I’m hiding from someone, even though I’m the only one in the apartment.

“I’m telling you, keeping it is a mistake,” I insist because this might be the only way out.

This silence stretches on the other end as if someone’s drawing a line in the sand and daring you to cross it.

That someone would be Malerick. My oldest brother is too fucking good at that—waiting people out, making you sweat without saying a word.

“Keir,” he says finally, his voice maddeningly calm. “We’re not having this argument again. We’re not selling the Timber company. End of story.”

“That’s not an end. That’s you pretending you know best,” I snap, voice raw, throat scratchy. “But you don’t know shit, Mal. I’m telling you. It’s time. We need to cash out. The Timberbridge brothers leave that forsaken town before we lose everything.”

And it’s not about the fucking company or my mother’s land which are worth a lot. Sometimes you need to understand the real value of things and have priorities, which this asshole doesn’t have. Not one bit.

“You’re wrong. Keeping it is what’s best for all of us,” he says like he’s reading from a damn manual. “You stay where you are. Ledger’s managing things with the help of Galeana and Blythe.”

I almost laugh. None of them is qualified to run that company.

Ledger’s a retired hockey player. Galeana taught philosophy at a college in Colorado, and I still have no idea what Atlas’s wife does.

Interior design? Witchcraft? Tattoo something like my brother?

Either way, none of those count. They barely know how to manage their checking account, let alone a company. We have to cash and leave.

“This is so fucking stupid,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose. “You’re all clinging to some fantasy. Playing house in the woods because it looks good on a holiday card. Like some lumberjack-themed cult.”

On the other end of the line, Malerick exhales sharply and then says with disbelief creeping into his voice, “Do you even hear yourself right now?”

I scrub a hand down my face and let out a humorless laugh. “Every fucking day. And I love my voice, thanks for asking. Want me to record it for you? I’ll add in a background track, really sell the drama.”

“You’re an arrogant asshole.”

“Oh, fucking great. We’re doing name-calling now. What are we ten?” I bite out, pacing harder, trying to figure out how to get through to him before it’s too late.

“You might regret not doing this, Malerick.” I sound threatening, angry, but honestly, I’m fucking scared because .

. . fuck. The hardwood creaks beneath my feet, the boards groaning like they’re tired of me too.

There’s this pressure in my chest that won’t go away—not panic exactly.

Just something coiled tight. Like my body knows before I do.

They fucking need to sell. And I can’t even tell them why because Mal might do something stupid.

“Keir,” Malerick says again. Softer now. Like he’s trying to be the reasonable one. “Calm the fuck down. Mom would have wanted us to keep the company running. Why don’t we discuss about this on a video call tomorrow when everyone else is available.”

He says it like we’re a happy family and the five of us can survive in a room without trying to kill each other.

“It’s not about talking. It’s about timing. We’re sitting on something people want,” I say, grip tightening around the phone. “And they’re offering a lot of money. Stupid money. We take it and leave. End of the story.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“No, I think you’re pretending not to. Because the alternative is admitting you don’t have control over any of this.”

Silence again.

This time, it’s deeper. Like he’s finally about to say something that matters. Perhaps he’s starting to believe me.

But then—nothing. No beep. No static.

The call just drops.

It fucking drops.

I stare at the screen. Dead. My phone is completely dead.

It was charged before I called.

I try to turn it on. Press the side button. Hold it down. Nothing. Just a black screen and the sudden feeling that I’m no longer alone. I stand in the middle of the kitchen—phone in one hand, a new stillness in the air pressing into my ribs—and something shifts.

This could be paranoia. Nerves. Things have been . . . too fucked up lately.

Fuck, I have to go.

I grab the hoodie draped over the chair and reach for my keys, but before I can move .

. . there’s a creak. The sound comes from outside the window, which is weird because my apartment is on the fourth floor.

The fire escape runs straight up the side.

It’s old and rusted and doesn’t make a sound unless someone’s on it.

Just as I’m pondering what the fuck it’s happening, it groans again.

It’s definitely not the wind. Not the building settling.

The heavy sound of feet stomping.

I freeze.

I step toward the counter, fingers curling around the big knife’s handle. My knuckles throb from the force of it, but I don’t loosen my grip.

Then—click.

The front door.

No time to run. No time to think. Just that cold, instinctual surge as the door flies open.

Whoever it is wears a mask. He’s dressed in black. There’s a glint in his hand—metal, maybe a weapon—and I swing.

The blade cuts through empty air.

But he jerks back, off-balance for a second.

A second is all I get before another body crashes into me. We slam to the floor, my shoulder screaming as it hits tile. The knife skitters away, out of reach. A boot pins my leg down hard. A hand clamps around my arm, trying to twist it behind me.

I thrash, twisting hard, and slam my elbow into someone’s face. There’s a crack—bone or nose, I can’t tell—and a rough grunt follows. For a second, there’s a surge of satisfaction.

Then it hits me.

A punch snaps my jaw sideways, lighting up my vision. Another blow slams into my ribs, and the breath rushes out of me before I can even gasp. I fight anyway. I have to because if not, I won’t survive this.

My hand claws upward, fingers digging into skin. Someone yells, curses—his voice distorted and close. I rake down again, trying to blind him, trying to hurt something, anything.

My body lurches forward, using the distraction to crawl. I don’t look back. Just focus on the door. One arm in front of the other. My chest is tight. Every breath is fire.

Almost there.

Then . . . pressure.

Rough, sudden, crushing from behind—an arm, a cord, I can’t tell.

It bites into my throat, sawing against my skin, stealing every scrap of air. My hands fly up, clawing, scratching, grabbing at nothing. The world spins—colors smear. My heart slams against my ribs, frantic.

A fist slams into my stomach hard enough to fold me in two. Air bursts from my mouth in a soundless cough.

My knees give out—the ground tilts.

Everything blurs to a dull, throbbing gray.

Then . . . nothing at all.