“Who was that?”
“Friends who will fight for you.” He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push. “I don’t like the timing. Drake will make his move before they arrive.”
“So we run?” The thought of leaving this sanctuary makes my stomach clench.
Mason shakes his head. “Running makes us vulnerable. We’d be exposed, trackable.” His eyes hold mine, gauging my reaction. “We stay. We defend. We choose the battlefield.”
An hour passes in a flurry of preparation. Mason fortifies entry points, rigs simple but effective traps at likely approach vectors, and shows me how to use the security systems. He pauses only when the dogs grow restless. Chaos paces by the rearentrance, hackles raised. Bear stations himself at my side, massive body pressed against my leg.
“They’re moving.” Mason’s voice is calm. Too calm.
The casual way he checks his weapon should terrify me. Instead, I mirror his steadiness, that same stillness I cultivated through three years of surviving Steffan’s unpredictable rages.
He hands me a small pistol. “Glock 43. Nine-millimeter. Seven rounds in the magazine, one in the chamber. Safety’s here.” His fingers guide mine over the weapon, his touch businesslike. “Last resort only. I don’t want you fighting unless absolutely necessary.”
“I’ve never fired a weapon before.” The gun feels alien in my hand, heavy with responsibility.
“Point and squeeze. Don’t pull the trigger—squeezeit, like you’re trying to press a button without moving anything else.” He positions my hands, adjusting my grip. “If you have to use it, aim for center mass. Don’t try for headshots like in the movies.”
“What’s the plan?” I nod, committing his instructions to memory.
“You hide. I hunt.” His voice brooks no argument. “There’s a concealed basement, a safe room. You’ll hide there. It has more than enough room for you and Bear. He’ll protect you if anyone gets past me.”
“And what about you?” Fear tightens my chest. “You can’t face them alone.”
“I won’t be alone.” That predatory smile again. “I have Chaos, and don’t forget, I’ve called in reinforcements.”
“And if something happens to you?”
He slides a tracker into my palm. “Hit this. My team will come.”
As if on cue, the satellite phone chirps. Mason snatches it up, listens for a moment, then says, “Confirmed.”
He turns to me, something almost like excitementglittering in his steel-gray eyes. “Good news. The cavalry is arriving ahead of schedule. A weather window opened briefly to the east.”
Relief floods through me, but Mason’s expression remains vigilant. “Don’t celebrate yet. We still need to hold out until they arrive. Drake’s men will move sooner than I thought. They have the same weather data we have.”
The dogs suddenly go rigid, Chaos emitting a low growl that raises the hair on the back of my neck. Mason moves swiftly to the security console, scanning the feeds. His posture changes instantly, shoulders squaring as adrenaline visibly floods his system.
“Movement. Southwest approach.” His voice drops to that combat-ready rumble. “Three figures, tactical gear. Two hundred yards and closing.”
Terror grips me, but beneath it rises something unexpected—resolve. I’ve spent three years surviving a monster. I refuse to die now, not when freedom is finally within reach.
“What now?”
“Get to the safe room. Take the USB drive and this.” He kisses me hard. Fast. “If I don’t come back for you in two hours, activate the tracker. My friends will find you. Now go.”
“You’re leaving?” The words scrape out of my throat, fear edging sharp into the air between us.
“Technically, no.” Mason’s gaze flicks to the small structure beyond the kitchen window—what looks like a weathered outhouse, half-buried in drifts just ten yards away. His voice lowers. “That’s not what it looks like. It’s an access point to a tunnel system that runs beneath the entire property.”
My eyes widen in understanding. “A tunnel?”
“Runs thirty yards out, emerges beyond the tree line.” He secures his weapons, checking each one methodically. Calm. Unshakable. Like he isn’t about to vanish into the night with death waiting on the other side.
“They’re watching the cabin,” he says. “Looking for movement, tracks in the snow. It looks like an outhouse, so tracks in the snow won’t seem out of place. They don’t know about the tunnel system.”
Snow presses against the window in thick white layers, soft and innocent. The storm has erased everything—no sign of us, no sign of danger—an untouched canvas hiding the truth beneath.
