My hands find his throat. Not a combat choke designed for quick unconsciousness, but something slower. More deliberate.
Drake struggles, but the restraints hold him firmly. His eyes widen as he realizes what’s happening—that there’s no escape, no rescue coming.
I maintain eye contact as I apply steady pressure. I want him to know why he’s dying. Want him to feel the same helplessness Willow felt.
“This is for Willow,” I say quietly.
Drake’s eyes bulge as his oxygen depletes. The fear in them is primal, all calculation and bravado stripped away. His face reddens, then begins to turn blue. Purple. His struggles weaken.
The light in his eyes dims, and I see the moment he accepts his fate—the moment he knows that he’s already dead.
I don’t look away until it’s done.
TWELVE
Mason
When I emergefrom the shed five minutes later, Ryan is waiting. He takes one look at my face and nods. No questions. No judgment. Just the silent understanding of men who’ve shared battlefields.
“We’re ready,” he says. “Jackson’s got the wounded one stable. Martinez gave Carver enough supplies to make it to the next town if he’s smart about it.”
“And the third one?”
“He’ll have a headache when he wakes up. Fifty-fifty chance he survives until Reynolds’s people find him.”
“Let’s brief Willow.” I wipe my hands on my pants.
I pause at the edge of the tree line, taking a moment to truly see my cabin for what might be the last time. Early morning light catches on the snow-laden roof, giving the structure an almost ethereal glow against the backdrop of endless pines.
From the outside, it looks rustic, unassuming—just another mountain retreat for someone seeking solitude.
The perfect cover for what it really is.
Two years ago, I built this place with meticulous attention to every detail. Triple-reinforced walls capable of withstanding small arms fire. Cutting-edge security systems disguised as rustic fixtures. Solar arrays concealed beneath snow guards. A defensive perimeter that would make military installations envious.
Not just a cabin. A fortress. A bunker. A place to disappear.
And that was the point, wasn’t it?
After Syria, after Rachel, after everything went to hell, I needed somewhere to contain the damage I might cause. Somewhere, I couldn’t hurt anyone else.
Cerberus Securities continued to run without me at the helm. The company I built from scratch after leaving the military, utilizing my combat skills to create a multi-million-dollar private security operation. Ryan and the others kept it profitable, kept our clients protected, while I retreated to lick wounds that wouldn’t heal.
The irony doesn’t escape me. I created a security company to protect others, then built this place to protect others from me.
Cooper emerges on the porch, spotting me immediately despite my position in the shadows. He raises a hand in acknowledgment, then disappears back inside.
I approach slowly, allowing myself this moment of recognition. Of farewell. This cabin has been a sanctuary and a prison. A place where I could let the nightmares come without risk to anyone else. Where Bear and Chaos could roam free. Where I could pretend the world beyond these mountains didn’t exist.
Where I could heal.
Then Willow stumbled through the snow, bringing that world crashing back in all its messy, violent, beautiful complexity.
Inside, the warmth hits me immediately—physical heat from the fire, but also the warmth of purpose and action after two years of stagnation. My team moves, packs equipment,checks weapons, and establishes communications. The familiar buzz of an operation in progress heats my blood and brings purpose back to my life.
Willow sits at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee. Her borrowed clothes hang loose on her petite frame, but there’s a steadiness in her posture that wasn’t there before—a warrior’s stillness beneath the surface vulnerability.
My gaze sweeps the space I once designed to be a fortress.
