Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 35133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Police.
The word sits heavy.
I could call them. Report it. Show them the photos.
And then what?
A bored deputy telling me it’s probably a prank? A warning to lock my doors and stay inside?
My jaw tightens.
No.
I don’t trust that.
Not yet.
I open a new tab, typing fast.
Devil’s Peak security
private protection Devil’s Peak
local ranger Devil’s Peak
Search results populate, mostly useless—tour guides, hunting permits, emergency numbers.
I scroll, impatient.
There has to be something.
Someone.
I click through forums, local boards, anything that looks even remotely unofficial. My pulse ticks faster with every dead end.
“Come on,” I whisper.
And then I see it.
Buried halfway down a thread that looks like it hasn’t been updated in months.
No website. No contact form. Just a name and a number.
Bride wanted. Protection offered. Discretion guaranteed. – Ethan Cole
That’s it.
No explanation. No credentials.
Just… that.
I stare at it, something tightening low in my stomach.
“That’s not sketchy at all,” I murmur.
But I don’t click away.
I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms, eyes still locked on the screen.
Protection.
Discretion.
Exactly what I need.
Exactly what I shouldn’t trust.
I scrub a hand over my face. “This is insane.”
I don’t know this man.
I don’t know anything about him.
For all I know, he could be worse than whoever’s watching me.
The thought lands—and sticks.
My fingers hover over the trackpad, ready to close the tab.
I don’t.
Instead, I grab the photograph from the counter and set it beside the laptop.
My stomach twists as I look at it again.
The angle.
The clarity.
The message.
Someone is close.
Closer than I realized.
And they’re not hiding anymore.
I exhale slowly, decision settling in like something heavy and unavoidable.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Fine.”
I reach for my phone.
Pause.
Then dial.
It rings once.
Twice.
Three times—
“Cole.”
The voice on the other end is rough. Low. Controlled.
My breath catches.
I wasn’t ready for that.
“Uh—” I clear my throat, straightening in my chair. “Hi. I—my name’s Maddie. I found your—listing.”
Silence.
Like he’s deciding something.
“What kind of trouble are you in, Maddie?” he asks.
No greeting. No hesitation. Straight to it.
My fingers tighten around the phone. “I was calling about the mail-order bride–”
“Right. Well, no woman answers an ad like that unless she’s in trouble.”
I let his words linger as my mind spins with possibilities. “I think someone’s watching me.”
Another pause.
“Think,” he repeats.
“I have photos,” I snap, irritation cutting through the fear. “Of me. Taken without my knowledge. And someone left one on my porch.”
Silence again.
“Where are you?” he finally asks.
I hesitate. The question shouldn’t feel dangerous but it does.
“Devil’s Peak,” I say carefully. “North side. Near—”
“I know the cabins,” he cuts in.
My pulse picks up.
“Stay inside,” he says, voice turning colder. Harder. “Lock your doors.”
“I already—”
“Stay inside,” he repeats.
Something in his tone presses against my spine, straightening it. Command. I don’t like it.
“I didn’t call for orders,” I shoot back.
A beat.
Then a low exhale that almost sounds like amusement.
“Then you called the wrong man.”
My breath catches. There’s something in that voice. Something steady. Dangerous.
“You offering help or not?” I challenge.
“I am,” he says. “But you follow my lead.”
“Or what?” I push.
Another pause. Longer. He lets it stretch.
“You keep acting like prey,” he says finally, voice dropping, “and whoever’s out there is going to treat you like it.”
My stomach flips. Anger. Heat. Something sharper.
“I’m not prey.”
“No?” he murmurs.
I can hear him now. Not just the words—the weight behind them. Like he’s already seeing me.
“Then prove it,” he says.
Silence stretches between us.
I swallow hard, forcing my voice steady. “What’s your price?”
“You think this is a transaction?” he asks.
“What else would it be?”
A beat.
Then, quieter: “Get in your car.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “What?”
“You want protection?” he says. “You come to me.” He rattles off his address.
That’s it. No negotiation. No explanation.
“Or I stay here,” I counter, pulse spiking. “And you come to me.”
A low sound comes through the line. Not quite a laugh. Close.
“No.” The word lands heavy.
I straighten, irritation flaring. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough,” he says.
My breath stutters.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Another pause.
“You’re scared,” he says.
The words hit harder than they should.
I push back immediately. “I’m being careful.”
“You’re alone,” he continues, ignoring me. “Remote location. No backup. And someone’s already breached your space.”
My pulse hammers. “You don’t get to—”
“And you’re still debating whether to trust me,” he finishes, voice calm.
Because he’s not wrong. I hate that he’s not wrong.
“Why should I trust you?” I ask, quieter now.
Another pause. This one feels different. Like something just shifted on his end too.
“You shouldn’t,” he says.
My brows pull together. “That’s not reassuring.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it’s honest.”
I sit back, staring at nothing.
“I protect what’s on my land,” he continues. “You step onto it, you’re under my watch.”
Under my watch.
The phrase shouldn’t send heat skimming down my spine.
“And if I don’t?” I ask.
“Then you’re on your own.”
No threat.
No drama.
Just fact.
I close my eyes for a second, exhaling slowly.
This is insane.
Driving to a stranger’s property in the middle of nowhere?
Letting him take control?
Everything in me should be screaming no.