Page 44 of Rescued By the Alpha SEAL

My breath fogs in the cold air as I round the northwest corner. Everything looks normal. Quiet. The motion sensors haven't triggered. The cameras haven't caught anything unusual.

But something feels wrong.

I slow my pace, scanning the treeline. Years of tactical operations have honed my instincts into razor wire. Right now, they're humming.

Then I see it.

Boot prints in the fresh snow. Deep tread. Heavy pressure on the outer heel. Long stride. The mark of someone who knows exactly where they're going—and isn't trying to hide it.

I drop into a crouch, analyzing the impression with cold precision. The pattern isn't Forge-issued. Not civilian either. This is cold-weather rated. Tactical. Military-adjacent.

Too clean.

My eyes track upward, following the sight lines. The branches above have been trimmed. Carefully. Professionally. Creating a perfect field of view.

No drag marks in the snow. No snapped twigs. Just deliberate prints—like a calling card left in plain sight.

He's calm. Calculated. He wants me to know he's here—but not why.

I scan the area again, slower this time. This isn't amateur hour. Not some local hunter who strayed too close or a lost hiker looking for shelter.

This is someone trained. Someone who knows how to get close, watch, and wait. Someone who moves like?—

Like me.

The realization settles in my gut like ice. Because I recognize this type of surveillance. The patient observation. The controlled presence. I've done it myself, back when orders meant more than conscience.

I stand slowly, every muscle coiled tight. The trees reveal nothing but shadows and silence. But that doesn't mean our ghost is gone.

It means he's repositioned.

My hand drifts to my sidearm as I scan the perimeter again. The boot print sits there like a challenge. Or a promise.

Whoever left it knows exactly what they're doing. They're not here to attack—not yet. This is reconnaissance. Intelligence gathering. The kind of slow, methodical observation that precedes something much worse.

And they're good at it. Too good.

The wind shifts, carrying the sharp scent of pine and coming snow. I take one last look at the print, memorizing every detail. Then I turn back toward The Forge, my steps measured and silent.

But I know better than to think we're alone.

13

SLOANE

The cabin is steeped in stillness, the kind that thrums around me like a live wire.

I lie on my cot, staring up at the wooden beams overhead, a restless energy keeping sleep at bay.

Shadows play tricks on the walls, and thoughts of my father twist painfully in my mind, filling the space around me with an unsettling paranoia that I can’t shake.

Each creak of the cabin seems amplified in the silence, reminding me of the dangers lurking in the unseen.

I push the covers aside, feeling the chill creep into my bones, and slip out of bed. I need air—clear my mind before it completely spirals.

As I step outside, the cold night wraps around me like a thick blanket. The moon is hidden behind a shroud of clouds, and the stars are mere whispers in the vast sky.

I draw in a deep breath, scenting the pine trees and fresh earth, but even nature's calm fails to soothe my frayed nerves.