Page 51 of Rescued By the Alpha SEAL

Stupid.

Reckless.

Selfish.

The words echo with each step as I head for the treeline. Dawn barely touches the mountains, painting everything in shades of bruised purple and steel. My breath clouds in front of me, steady despite the storm in my chest.

I reach the eastern ridge where the land drops away sharply, offering a clear view of the valley below. Pine trees stretch endlessly, stark against the pale winter sky.

The mountains loom silent, watchful. But today something feels different. The air bears weight, a foreboding sense of change.

Crouching down, I study the ground, and my fingers brush against a footprint preserved in half-frozen mud.

Clean edges. No slip. No stagger.

This wasn't recon. This was placement.

Left as a message at my perimeter—not a warning, but a claim.

Whoever G is, he's not just planning anymore. He's staking territory.

The realization settles like lead in my gut as I stand, staring at the trees, feeling the weight of Iron Hollow at my back. This sanctuary I built to keep everyone safe.

Everyone but myself.

I should've sent her away the moment I sensed her secrets.

The woods smell like pine and coming snow, carrying a scent that feels charged. Like the world is holding its breath.

I've been holding mine since Sloane Carter stepped into my life, and now the thought of losing her lights up determination even as it frays at the edges.

That's when my comm unit pings. Not the standard Forge frequency.

Echo-13 codeband.

Only a few men were ever cleared to use it.

Only one would dare activate it now.

With steady hands, I pull the unit from my pocket. The screen illuminates with a single encrypted message:

Crosspoint Ridge. No weapons. Come alone.

No signature needed. No threat required. Just coordinates and an undeniable summons.

I swallow hard, feeling the weight of understanding settle like armor. Old ghosts press close, whispering memories I've tried to bury in iron and concrete. My heart steadies even as dread rises beneath the surface.

He's here.

The walk to Crosspoint takes twenty minutes, each step echoing with purpose and resignation. The ridge stretches bare against gray sky, exposed and deadly in its simplicity.

Perfect ground for an ambush.

Perfect place for ghosts to meet.

A shot cracks through the silence. Snow explodes at my feet.

I don't flinch. Don't dive for cover. Just draw my gun with the fluid precision born of too many firefights.