Page 14 of Rescued By the Alpha SEAL

The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. I've finally walked right into Iron Hollow—the exact location Max swore would offer safety.

My gaze drifts to a worn leather armchair nestled in the window's corner.

It's the only piece of furniture that looks… lived in. The leather's cracked in places, softened by years of use.

Like maybe this is where he comes when sleep proves elusive and the night stretches too long.

A small reading lamp curves over it, positioned to cast light without creating glare on the window.

Tactical positioning, my mind supplies. The chair faces both the door and windows. The kind of setup someone with training would choose. Someone who expects trouble to find them.

My phone has to be here somewhere. Unless...

My stomach drops as realization hits. He took it. The man who caught me twice, who pulled me from death's grip in the snow, has just became my newest jailer.

Damn it.

That phone wasn't just a device—it was everything. My backup plan. My compass. The last tether to the evidence I've been risking my life to protect.

Then I hear footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. Gradually approaching.

I reach for the nearest weapon—the alarm clock—but freeze when he enters.

He fills the doorway like a shadow, broad-shouldered and watchful. The man from before. The one who caught me when I fell. Twice now.

He's tall, maybe 6'4", with dark hair cropped military-short and eyes like storm clouds before lightning strikes. A thin white scar traces his left temple - the kind you get from something worse than a bar fight.

He wears tactical black like a second skin—fitted t-shirt that doesn't quite hide the abs beneath, cargo pants with too many pockets, and combat boots scarred from years of hard use.

Everything about him speaks of precision and purpose.

No wasted movement.

No unnecessary details.

His presence fills the room, and despite my instinct to keep my guard up, I can't ignore the way my pulse quickens just watching him.

His eyes track to my hand, to the alarm clock I've grabbed like it's a lifeline. A muscle in his jaw ticks—barely perceptible, but I catch it.

He doesn't laugh at my improvised weapon.

Just stands there, filling the doorway with that impossible stillness of his, like he's calculating exactly how many moves it would take to disarm me if he needed to.

But he doesn't move toward me. Doesn't try to take it. Just watches with those storm-gray eyes that see too much and reveal too little.

Great defensive strategy, Sloane. What's next—throw a pillow at him?

He's tall, maybe 6'4", with dark hair cropped military-short and eyes like cold steel. The kind of man who doesn't reveal anything he doesn't want you to see.

His arms cross over his chest like he's bracing for another fight. Like he already knows I'm thinking of running. Or swinging.

"Your phone was tracked," he says without preamble, voice deep and even. "It was already traced when you showed up at my door. Broadcasting your location."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I take an instinctive step back, mind racing through possibilities.

Already traced?

That can't be right. I've been careful. Paranoid-level careful. Changed burners three times since Chicago. There's no way?—