Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 29800 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 149(@200wpm)___ 119(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29800 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 149(@200wpm)___ 119(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
I narrow my eyes at him. “Good to know you’re difficult with everyone.”
“Not everyone.”
There’s something almost playful underneath the words now, which somehow makes him worse.
I shouldn’t notice how attractive he is.
I definitely shouldn’t notice the way he watches me like he already knows exactly how this conversation is going to go.
“You know anything about the missing hikers?” I ask.
His expression shifts instantly. His brow lowers slightly. “What?”
“That look.”
“What look?”
“The one people get when they know more than they’re saying.”
The room feels tighter suddenly.
Rhett pushes off the wall and walks toward me slowly, and every instinct I have sharpens at once. He moves like a man completely aware of his size, his strength, and the effect both have on people.
When he stops beside me, the space feels charged.
“You should stop asking questions tonight,” he says quietly.
“Why?”
“Because half the town’s already noticed you.”
“I can live with attention.”
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth before lifting again. “That’s not the kind I mean.”
My pulse stutters.
I force a smirk instead. “You always flirt this aggressively with women investigating corruption?”
“Who says I’m flirting?”
That one lands harder than it should.
Before I can answer, the bartender slides closer and lowers her voice slightly. “People disappear up here sometimes,” she says carefully. “Most folks stop asking why.”
The air shifts like the entire room just tightened around me.
I glance between her and Rhett. “That’s supposed to reassure me?”
“No,” Rhett says. “It’s supposed to warn you.”
I hate how serious he sounds. I hate more that part of me believes him.
The bartender walks off before I can press further, clearly done with the conversation. Around me, the noise in the bar slowly resumes, but the feeling doesn’t.
I’m being watched now.
Not just by Rhett.
By everyone.
I finish my whiskey, toss cash onto the bar, and slide off the stool. “Well. This has been incredibly comforting.”
Rhett’s gaze follows me immediately. “Where are you staying?”
I pause. Suspicion spikes fast. “Why?”
“Humor me.”
“I don’t think so.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “You’re alone?”
“Why do you care?”
Instead of answering, he reaches past me for his beer, his arm brushing mine in the process. Heat flashes up my skin instantly.
Jesus.
“You should head back before dark,” he says.
I laugh softly. “You really do enjoy sounding ominous, don’t you?”
His eyes lock onto mine again.
“No,” he says quietly. “I just know this mountain better than you do.”
The way he says mountain feels loaded somehow.
Like it belongs to him.
Like he expects it to listen.
I force myself to look away first and head for the door before this conversation gets any stranger.
Cold air slaps my face the second I step outside, and I suck in a steadying breath as I cross toward my Jeep. The street’s quieter now, festival lights glowing softly against the darkening mountain sky.
For the first time all night, I almost relax.
Then I see it.
A dark truck parked across from my rental cabin farther up the road.
Engine off.
Lights out.
Watching.
And even from here, I know someone’s keeping an eye on me.
Chapter Two
Rhett
The elk’s bleeding heavier now.
I crouch beside the disturbed patch of snow and mud, dragging two fingers through the fresh crimson streak cutting across the trail. Not arterial. Shoulder wound, maybe higher. Still moving fast, though. Too fast for an animal carrying that much blood loss.
“Stubborn bastard,” I mutter, straightening slowly.
My knee protests immediately.
Old injury.
Old war.
Old reminder.
The ache settles deep in the joint as I start moving again through the trees, rifle hanging loose at my side while morning fog curls low across the mountain. Spring’s finally pushing winter out of Devil’s Peak, but the higher elevations still hold snow in shaded pockets beneath the pines. The air smells like wet earth and cedar, sharp enough to wake a man up properly.
Usually this part settles me.
Tracking.
Quiet.
The mountain breathing around me instead of people talking at me.
Since coming home, it’s the only thing that shuts my head up for a while.
Not therapy.
Not booze.
Not sleep.
Definitely not sleep.
I step over a fallen log, my limp more noticeable this morning thanks to the cold. The scars stretching across both hands pull slightly as I tighten my grip on the rifle, pale and jagged against weathered skin.
IED.
Three seconds.
That’s all it took.
Three seconds and the entire convoy disappeared in fire.
Miller.
Santos.
Walker.
Gone before I even hit the ground.
Sometimes I still hear the screaming when it storms hard enough.
Sometimes I still wake up reaching for men already dead.
The military called me lucky because I survived.
I’ve never agreed with them.
Movement flashes ahead through the trees.
Not the elk.
Too upright.
Too controlled.
I stop immediately, crouching slightly as my focus sharpens.
Woman.
Alone.
City boots.
Camera.
Well, that’s interesting.
I stay back, watching her through the brush while she moves carefully through the woods about fifty yards ahead. She pauses every few seconds to photograph survey stakes hammered into the ground near the restricted ridge line.
The developers’ markers.
My jaw tightens.
She doesn’t belong up here.
That much is obvious immediately.
Not because she looks weak.
She doesn’t.