Page 3

Nate

W e ate the delicious pancakes for dinner, and later that night, I tossed Willa a blanket and pointed to the couch. She didn’t argue.

She just nodded, arms wrapped around herself like she was holding in more than fear.

“I don’t mind sleeping out here,” she said. “The couch looks comfy.”

“You’re not sleeping out here alone.”

Her eyes flicked up, wide and startled.

“I’ll stay on the recliner,” I added. “Unless Pancake calls dibs, in which case I’m flipping a coin.”

That got a weak laugh out of her. Just a little one—but it was a start.

She went to wash up, and I moved around the cabin, checking every window, rechecking every lock, and ensuring the security cam above the porch was live. Every movement was automatic. I was trained. I was focused.

But my mind kept circling back to her.

To the sound of her voice when she told me about Derek.

To the way she’d looked at me when I said she wasn’t going home.

To the way she was trying to be brave even when she was clearly terrified.

When she returned wearing one of my old flannel shirts— my flannel shirt—barefoot, with her damp hair in a braid and those sleepy gray eyes searching for comfort, something in my chest pulled tight.

She curled up on the couch, legs tucked under her, the blanket around her like a cocoon.

I sat down beside her—not too close, but not far, either.

She turned her head to look at me. “You don’t have to stay up.”

I shook my head. “Can’t sleep yet.”

Silence settled between us, heavy but not uncomfortable. The fire crackled softly, casting a warm glow over her face.

“You ever have something you thought you got away from,” she said quietly, “but it catches up anyway?”

I looked at her. “Yeah. I have.”

She nodded, like she already knew that about me. Like she’d seen something in me that others hadn’t.

My hand twitched on the couch cushion, inches from hers. “You’re safe here, Willa.”

Her eyes met mine. “I know.”

And in that moment, I leaned in.

Not all the way. Just enough that our faces were inches apart. I could feel her breath and smell the lavender on her skin, even after her shower. Her eyes flicked to my lips, and mine did the same.

We were both right there .

I wanted to kiss her. Needed to.

But I didn’t.

Not yet.

Because this wasn’t about me, this wasn’t about want.

It was about her.

So I pulled back, slowly, forcing the space between us to open again.

Her gaze lingered on mine for a long beat before she whispered, “Good night, Nate.”

I nodded. “Night, Willa.”

She lay down, curled up with the blanket pulled to her chin, and within a few minutes, her breathing had slowed.

I stood, grabbed my laptop, and settled into the chair across the room.

Then I typed his name: Derek Jacob Holloway.

And started digging.

If this guy thought he could sneak onto my mountain, scare her, and walk away clean?

He had no idea who he was messing with. You never come into my home uninvited. If he thought he could sneak onto my mountain, scare her, and walk away clean? He was fixing to find out how wrong he was.

Derek Jacob Holloway.

Age thirty-five. Born in Portland, Oregon. Currently listed as living in Spokane, but his last recorded lease ended four months ago, and there was no new address filed. That was the first red flag.

The second? A string of sealed court documents connected to a restraining orders filed by an “unidentified female party” just before he started dating Willa.

I leaned forward, fingers flying over the keys.

He wasn’t just a clingy ex with boundary issues.

He was a seasoned manipulator with a pattern—and he’d learned how to stay just inside the lines of legality.

Photos. Disappearing addresses. Loopholes.

He was smart. Careful. Calculated.

But what got my attention wasn’t in the legal database—it was in a backlogged local news article from three years ago.

A woman named Jenna McCrae had gone missing after filing a harassment report.

She’d dated Holloway for five months. Friends claimed she’d said he was “too intense” and that she’d “tried to cut things off.”

She was never found.

And Derek? Never charged.

I sat back in my chair, heart pounding, the glow of the screen painting my face in cold light.

I looked toward the couch where Willa was curled up, her breathing soft and steady, her braid draped over the pillow like a ribbon of gold.

She had no idea how close she'd come to something worse.

He wasn’t just following her.

He was hunting.

And he was getting bolder.

The photo left on my porch wasn’t just a message.

It was a warning.

I see you. I see her. I’m close.

And that meant it was time to stop playing defense.

I opened a secure chat and typed a quick message to Frasier, Max, Axel, and Turner, my SEAL brothers who lived on Fraiser Mountain.

‘Need intel sweep. Subject: Derek Jacob Holloway. Cold trail, but he’s around here. Might be escalating—possible pattern. Need confirmation if Jenna McCrae is connected. And if he’s made it to Honeywood.

Frasier replied instantly:

I'm on it. Sending Axel your way for backup. Stay sharp.

Good. That gave me time to prep.

I looked back at Willa one more time.

She trusted me to keep her safe.

And now? I was going to do more than that.

I was going to end this.

I was on my second cup of coffee when I heard the low rumble of tires on gravel.

Axel didn’t use GPS or text to indicate his arrival time . He just showed up when he showed up—like a ghost with a Glock and a perfect beard.

The Jeep stopped, and a second later, the door creaked open.

Axel stepped out in all black, boots silent against the dirt, backpack slung over one shoulder. Next out of the truck was that huge German Shepherd of his. Bravo, he didn’t look like it, but he was a gentle dog. Until he felt you were an enemy. I’ve seen him take grown men down more than once.

“Morning,” Axel said, it was barely six a.m.

“You sleep?”

“On the plane.”

“Eat?”

“Jerky.”

“Still a robot, I see.”

Axel grinned slightly. “Let’s get to work.”

I filled him in while he unpacked his gear—drone, high-res cameras, and a laptop that could probably reroute satellites if we asked nicely. He listened silently, nodding once when I mentioned the photo.

“Guy’s escalating,” he said. “Leaving that picture was bait.”

“I’m not biting,” I said. “I’m building the damn trap.”

We were halfway through syncing the security feed to a secure line when I heard the creak of the floorboards behind me.

Willa.

She stood there still in my flannel, her hair a wild halo of blonde waves, blinking like she wasn’t sure if she was dreaming or about to yell at someone.

“Um. You invited company?” she asked groggily.

Axel turned around. “Ma’am.”

She blinked at him, then me. “Is this… another SEAL?”

“He’s the quiet one,” I said.

Axel gave her a nod. “Name’s Axel. I’m here to help keep you alive.”

“Oh,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “Cool. Do you want pancakes or…?”

“Always,” Axel said seriously.

She disappeared into the kitchen, and I swear to God, that man smiled.

But the lightness didn’t last.

Because five minutes later, I went out to check the porch cam—and found a white envelope wedged under the doormat.

It hadn’t been there when Axel arrived.

Someone had been watching. Waiting.

This one didn’t have my name.

It had hers.

Willa Mae Jensen. In the same black scrawl as before.

I opened it carefully, jaw clenched tight.

Inside was another photo.

This time, it was me —standing at the farmers market last Saturday, talking to her. She had her hand on her waist, laughing.

The message on the back was written in block letters:

SHE WAS MINE FIRST.

I turned the photo over slowly.

Axel stood beside me now, reading over my shoulder.

“We got a problem,” he said.

I didn’t answer.

I was already moving—inside, to the woman who was still humming while she made breakfast, completely unaware that her past had officially crossed the line.