“Last chance,” Drake calls. “Give us the woman, and you walk away. This isn’t your fight.”
Five feet.
“You’re wrong about that.” My voice startles him, but he’s good—already turning, weapon rising.
Not good enough.
I close the distance before he can acquire his target, driving my shoulder into his sternum while deflecting his weapon arm upward. His shot goes wild, echoing through the trees. We crash into the snow, a tangle of limbs and murderous intent.
TEN
Mason
Drake fightslike the professional he is—no wasted movement, each strike aimed at vulnerable points. In another life, in another context, I might have respected his skill, but all I see is the man who watched while Steffan Reynolds tortured the woman currently hiding in my cabin, and then took his turn.
The man who participated in her abuse.
Whotouchedher against her will.
His fist connects with my jaw, snapping my head back. Stars explode in my vision, but the pain only focuses me. I counter with an elbow strike to his throat, following with a knee to his solar plexus. He grunts but doesn’t fold, retaliating with a headbutt that splits my eyebrow.
Blood trickles into my eye as we grapple in the snow. Drake manages to jerk free long enough to reach for a backup weapon, but I’m already moving, driving the heel of my boot into his wrist.
Bones crack with an audible snap. He howls, more in rage than pain, as the pistol disappears into the snow.
“Who the fuck are you?” he snarls, blood staining his teeth. “A mountain man with a hero complex?”
I don’t answer, don’t waste breath on words. My fist connects with his temple, dazing him long enough for me to pin him, one knee crushing his sternum while my forearm presses against his throat.
“The woman,” I say, voice deadly quiet. “Tell me who else is coming for her.”
Drake’s laugh is wet with blood. “You have no idea what you’ve stepped in, do you? You think you can protect her? You’re a dead man walking.”
I increase the pressure on his throat, watching his eyes bulge. “Names. Numbers. Timetable. Now.”
“Fuck you.” He tries to buck me off, but my weight and leverage are too much. “She’s Reynolds’s property. His to deal with. You’re just delaying the inevitable.”
The rage I’ve been containing breaks free at his words. My vision tunnels, clouded with red. All I see is Willow’s bruised body, her flinches at sudden movements, the terror in her eyes when she woke in a stranger’s care.
This man participated in that.
Enabled it.
Maybe even enjoyed it.
My control slips, just for a moment, but it’s enough. My hands close around his throat, thumbs compressing his trachea. His eyes widen in genuine fear as he realizes what’s happening—that he’s pushed too far, triggered something beyond his calculation.
A distant part of me recognizes I’m crossing a line. I need him alive for information. Killing him solves the immediate problem but creates others. Unfortunately, that rational voice is drowned out by the roar of protective fury pounding in my veins.
Drake’s struggles weaken, his face purpling as oxygendeprivation sets in. Just a few more seconds, and the threat he poses to Willow will be permanently eliminated.
Gunfire erupts from the direction of the cabin. Three shots in rapid succession, unmistakably from a rifle. Not my weapons.
Not Willow’s pistol.
I release Drake’s throat, slamming his head into the frozen ground hard enough to ensure unconsciousness without killing him. Zip-ties secure his wrists and ankles while I retrieve his weapons, adding them to my arsenal.
More gunfire from the cabin. My blood runs cold. There were only three heat signatures on the perimeter.
