Page 15 of Rescued By the Alpha SEAL

Unless I missed something. Unless someone got to it before I did. Unless I've been compromised longer than I thought.

A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the lingering cold in my bones.

"I turned it off," he continues when I don't respond. "But not before it could transmit your coordinates. To whoever was hunting you in my woods."

My eyes narrow, the journalist in me instantly picking up on the delay. "And when were you planning on telling me this?"

"When you were conscious enough to understand it."

I study his face, searching for deception. He holds my gaze without flinching. Without blinking. There's something eerily steady about him, like he's been through worse fires than whatever I'm bringing to his doorstep.

"Did you go through it?" I ask, voice carefully controlled. "The phone. The drive. Did you read anything?"

He shakes his head once. "Didn't touch it. Not mine to open."

Thatalmostearns him a flicker of trust.

Almost.

But trust is a luxury I abandoned seven states ago, when Max’s body was found in a parked car outside my apartment building.

I take another step back, arms crossing to mirror his stance.

Not accusing—just guarded. Walled. Quietly calculating.

He didn't lie. But he didn't tell me the truth either.

"Where is it now?" I ask.

"Secure. Battery removed."

"I need it back."

"You'll get it," he says. "When it's safe."

The way he says it—like safety is something he can guarantee—would be laughable if it wasn't so infuriating.

Nobody can promise safety. Not in a world where truth gets you killed.

"So why help me?" I demand, the question cutting through the tension between us like a blade.

It's not just a question; it's a test.

Nobody helps a stranger for nothing. Nobody risks their life without an agenda. And this man—with his watchful eyes and military bearing—has "agenda" written all over his forehead.

"Because someone was aiming to kill you in my woods," he answers simply.

As if that explains everything.

As if stepping between a stranger and a bullet is the most reasonable thing in the world.

I search his face again, looking for tells. For warning signs.

But all I see is the same unnerving stillness—the kind that comes from years of making split-second decisions while staring down the barrel of a gun.

I saw it in the woods. The way he moved when he pulled me from the sniper's sightline.

He didn't hesitate.