Page 37

Dylan

T hank God, I’d already been on my way.

Jennifer’s text was still glowing on my phone, burning through me like a brand.

Intruder. I’d sent an emergency code to Steven, glad I’d agreed to having some manned security on the property.

I didn’t wait for backup, though. I threw the SUV into park, jumped out of the car, and charged up the front steps.

The door was cracked open.

What I saw when I opened it turned my life upside down and filled me with a fury like none I’d ever felt. Jennifer was battling for her life with a hulk of a man dressed head-to-toe in black with a mask over his face.

I didn’t think.

I launched.

The man barely turned before my shoulder slammed into him, knocking him sideways into the couch. We hit the floor hard. He grunted. I swung—a punch to the gut, clean and angry—but he twisted, and rolled away.

I leapt to my feet, fists raised, blood pounding in my ears.

He slowly rose to stand as well, holding his hands out before him. “I’m not here to hurt anyone,” he said, his voice muffled behind the mask.

I didn’t buy it. I came at him again. Got a few punches in, but he didn’t hit back. He blocked my hits again and again, covering his face with his arms, but not striking back at me. Some sanity returned. “Who the fuck are you?” I growled.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It sure as hell does. If you think you can break into my home, attack my woman—”

“Technically, she was attacking me.” His eyes were wide and wild.

Jennifer was at my side now, breathless, the poker still gripped tight.

“Did he hurt you?” I demanded.

“No,” she said. “I never gave him the chance.”

“Go in the other room,” I ordered. “I’ll handle him until security gets here. They should be doing perimeter checks. I’m not happy he made it through.”

She didn’t budge.

“For future reference,” the masked man said, “your security takes ten-minute breaks every hour on a predictable schedule. They were easy to slip past. You might want to talk to them about that.”

“Oh, I will,” I vowed, still revving high on adrenaline. “After the police haul you away.”

“You don’t want to involve them.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you don’t want to be in the news any more than I do. I came today because I thought no one was here. I wasn’t taking anything; I was dropping something off.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jennifer standing like a warrior beside me and fell in love with her even more. No one was fucking with our happy ending. “Another note maybe? One with a threat you’re not man enough to stick around and deliver yourself?”

When the man didn’t say anything, I raised my hand to hit him again. He flinched and braced himself like someone who’d been hit many times. I lowered my fist. “I’ll only ask you one more time. Who are you?”

“I wouldn’t be wearing a mask if telling you who I am was an option. Listen, there is a duffle bag over there. It has journals in it. The journals that were stolen from one of your friends. You have them back now.”

“Wait, you took the journals?”

His large shoulders rose and fell in a shrug.

Beside me, Jennifer said, “He did try to give me that bag.”

The guy snapped. “Before you attacked me.”

“You’re in our house and wearing a mask!” she said in a huff.

I stepped between him and Jennifer. “You know you can’t leave.”

He hesitated. “I don’t want to fight you. I already feel bad enough.”

“Jennifer, check the bag.”

She handed me the poker and walked over to the duffle bag. Slowly, carefully opening it. “It’s full of notebooks.”

My breath left in a rush. I looked at our intruder again—really looked.

The way he held himself like someone who didn’t want to be there.

The way he hadn’t hit back. It didn’t make sense.

He was bigger than I was. I still would have likely killed him because I was out of my mind protective of Jennifer, but he didn’t act like a killer. He looked... scared.

And sad.

And guilty.

The door banged open again and the room filled with the men who should have stopped this from happening in the first place. Guns drawn, they encircled him.

“Take off the mask,” I ordered.

He pulled it off, slow and deliberate. I hadn’t expected him to be so young. Early-twenties. Short dark hair. A bruise forming near his temple, likely from the poker.

He didn’t look dangerous, he looked cornered.

Because he was.

“What’s your name?” I growled.

“Enimton Gravestone.”

Gravestone. That was one of the names the FBI agent had asked Mark and me about. “You’re the guy who almost killed me.”

His eyes met mine.

And he nodded.

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”