“Movement,” he says, voice shifting to tactical precision. “Someone is watching the cabin.”
“Drake?” Fear slithers down my spine.
“Most likely.” He turns to me, soldier replacing lover. “They lost you in the blizzard—white-out conditions should have made tracking impossible. We spent the night in the shelter, then I brought you here. There’s no trail for them to follow, no reason they should suspect you’re here.”
His jaw tightens as he studies the feeds. “Most likely, they’re searching grid by grid. It’s what I would do. Checking every structure, every possible shelter within a fifty-mile radius. It was only a matter of time before they reached this area.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means they’re thorough, and they won’t stop until they find you.” He sets down the tablet, his expression grim. “The storm’s easing. They’ll make their move soon. We need to prepare.”
“For what?”
“For war.” The deadly certainty in his voice should terrify me. Instead, it steadies me.
EIGHT
Willow
Mason focuses on the monitors.Exterior camera feeds blink in and out of view. Shadows shift in the trees.
“What do we do?” My voice is tight. Thin.
Mason turns to face me, and the transformation steals my breath. Gone is the tender lover who held me through the night. In his place stands a warrior, eyes sharp as steel, every line of his body coiled for violence. Calm, focused, and terrifying. This is the soldier, the man who survived whatever hell carved those scars into his flesh.
A man who knows exactly how to hunt and how to kill.
“We prepare.” He moves to a seemingly ordinary panel in the wall. It slides open at his touch, revealing an arsenal that would make a military general weep with envy. Rifles, handguns, tactical vests, and equipment I can’t even name. It’s enough to fight a small war.
“And we fight.” He starts suiting up like it’s second nature, pulling on a tactical vest and arming himself. The calm in his voice should terrify me. Instead, it steadies something inside me. I trust this man with my body—why not with my life?
“Tell me how to help.” I stare for a heartbeat too long before snapping myself into motion.
His eyes meet mine, assessing. Then he nods once, decision made.
“Wear something warm and layers you can move in. We have work to do.”
I move quickly, pulling on the clothes he laid out for me yesterday. Thermal leggings. Flannel shirt. Wool socks. My hands tremble as I dress, but I force them to be steady.
Mason buckles on his gear. Every movement precise. Measured. Deadly. He straps a combat knife to his thigh and checks the chamber of a sidearm before holstering it.
Each knife and firearm becomes an extension of him, as natural as breathing.
“Drake had three men with him at the crash.” I try to be helpful. “Although he usually works with at least two teams of three each.”
“He’s had two nights to prep and search.” Mason pauses, his eyes sharpening on me. “Tell me everything about them. Training, weapons, tactics. Leave nothing out.”
I close my eyes, forcing myself to remember details I’ve tried so hard to forget. “Drake was Delta Force before Steffan hired him. Harris, his second, is Marine Recon. They have two other regulars—Reeves and Jackson. Both military, though I’m not sure which branch. They’re…” I swallow hard. “They’re very good at hurting people without leaving evidence. I don’t know the names of the others.”
Something dangerous flashes in Mason’s eyes, but his voice remains controlled. “Combat experience?”
“Drake was in Syria and Afghanistan. Four tours, I think. The others, I’m not sure.”
“Weapons preference? If you know it.”
“Drake carries a Sig Sauer P320. Custom grip. Harrisfavors a Glock 19. Both use suppressors when they’re working. They keep rifles in their vehicles—AR-15 platforms, though Drake mentioned something about a-a PSR for longer range work?”
“Impressive.” Something hard flickers through Mason’s eyes—respect. Maybe something else.
