Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
I tell myself I’m going to write, maybe capture the way last night felt, or at least try, but what I actually do is wander into the kitchen in search of caffeine. The French press is empty. I search for a pen to leave Talon a note, but there’s nothing in the drawers except a single battered Sharpie and an assortment of twist ties. Typical.
The only guaranteed pen source is Talon’s office. I head down the hall, my dress swishing just above my knees, the house still and strangely hollow. His office is different from the rest of the cabin—more cluttered, the air sharp with printer ink, the surfaces covered in stacks of manuscripts and torn-open mail. The computer’s screen is dark, but the blinking cursor on the login prompt stares at me like an accusation.
I rummage through the top drawer of the desk, careful not to disturb the Post-It notes or the immaculate row of fountain pens. Instead, I find folders: tax returns, a pile of old contracts, random receipts in a folder. I roll my eyes. Men.
Then my fingers brush a plastic sleeve that’s different—stiffer, heavier, labeled in block letters: “TALON MCKNIGHT.” It’s thick, packed so full the edges are scalloped from overuse. I shouldn’t, but I can’t not. I slide it out and set it on the desk, hands a little clammy.
The first page is a contract, top to bottom legalese, but the header is clear as day: “J.E. Literary Management.” My brain trips on it, recognizing the agency. Underneath, the words: “GENRE: Commercial Thriller—NO EXCEPTIONS.” There’s nothing about romance. Nothing about our project. The contract is signed and dated from two months ago, with a clause about “exclusive first rights” and a fat five-figure bonus for early delivery.
My heart hammers. I flip through the pages, but it’s all the same: edits, deadlines, a schedule of publicity events in Manhattan. Nothing about the romance novel Talon says he’s writing. For a second, I wonder if I’m dreaming. Or if I’m the punchline in a really intricate joke.
The steady thwack of the axe stops.
I freeze, the folder in my lap, every nerve ending burning.
I can hear Talon’s boots on the porch, the squeak of the mudroom door. He always wipes his feet, then sets the logs in a crate by the stove, humming low and tuneless. If I move, he’ll hear. If I stay, he’ll find me.
I close the folder, put it back exactly where I found it, then smooth the drawer with my palm. I take a breath, stand, and check my reflection in the window to make sure I look normal. Not like someone who’s just found evidence of a potential deception.
I walk out of the office, quietly, heading for the hallway as if I never left.
Talon’s in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, sweat beading on his forehead. He sees me, gives a lopsided grin. “Hey, Kitten. You find what you needed?”
I nod, too bright. “Yeah. Just needed a pen.”
He looks at me a little too long, like he’s waiting for something. Then he shrugs, goes back to stacking wood, and the moment passes.
But the twisting in my gut doesn’t.
I walk to the window, stare out at the blue dusk and the green-black line of trees. For the first time since I got here, I don’t feel like I’m the one with the secret.
And I can’t shake the feeling that something’s way off … and I’m to blame.
Night again, and the cabin is impossibly quiet, as if the storm used up all the noise in the world and left nothing but silence. The old quilt is wrapped around me, soft as a memory, but I can’t sleep. Talon’s beside me, half-buried in the pillows, his muscular chest rising and falling with the measured regularity of a grandfather clock. Even asleep, he looks powerful: arms folded behind his head, jaw squared, a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth, like he’s dreaming about winning a fight or maybe just claiming me again.
I should be dreaming, too. Instead, I lie awake, wide-eyed, watching the patterns the moonlight paints across the ceiling. My brain is a centrifuge, spinning the day’s discoveries over and over, refusing to let any particle settle. The contract for thrillers, no exceptions. The ache in my gut that started as a tremor and now feels like a warning.
I roll onto my back, stare at the shadowed rafters, and count the seconds between each breath. After a while, I start to drift, finally sinking into that delicious cotton-candy limbo just before sleep.
That’s when the satellite phone rings.
It’s not loud—a plastic cricket sound, cut to vibrate—but in the dead hush of this place, it’s like a gunshot. Talon moves instantly, rolling out of bed with predatory grace, scooping the phone from the nightstand. He doesn’t look at me, just answers and pads out of the bedroom, barefoot and naked except for a pair of old sweats. He heads downstairs, and the office door closes with a muted click.