Wren narrows her eyes. "Think whoever's on the other end will believe him?"
"We’ll know soon."
I zip-tie his wrists and gag him with his own scarf. He’s not bleeding... at least not yet. But he’s going to talk. One way or another.
Wren steps back, scanning the ridgeline. Her breath fogs the air. "You think they’ll send someone else?"
"If they’re smart."
"And if they’re not?"
I meet her gaze. "Then they’ll come themselves."
She nods slowly, but her shoulders remain tight, the muscles along her jaw working as if she’s biting back something harsh. Her gaze flicks to the tree line, then back to me, and the crease in her brow deepens—a silent warning, or maybe anticipation. Every line of her body says she’s ready for the next hit, whether it comes from bullets or truth.
"You did good," I tell her.
She studies me with narrowed eyes, like she's weighing whether I just gave her a compliment or a warning.
"I meant it. Your instincts aren’t just good, they’re cleaner, faster, more grounded than soldiers I’ve deployed with in sand, jungle, and ice. I’ve seen men fold under less pressure than you’re carrying right now, Wren."
Her lips curve like she’s primed to fire back—but instead, she presses them into a tight line and holds the retort behind her teeth.
We stand there, the clearing wrapped in a wind that bites like broken glass. It's not just cold; it’s a restless whisper against our skin like a warning we haven’t earned the right to ignore.
Wren's shoulder brushes mine, the strain in her body mirrored in the taut set of her muscles, as if braced for an impact she expects but can’t see coming. I glance at her profile and feel the weight of everything unspoken pressing in. She's steady, but not still. Watching, calculating. So am I with the prisoner groaning faintly between us.
It slams into me then… not just a thought, but a certainty. Whatever this is between us, it’s not just chemistry, not just the heat that detonated in that shed. It’s a partnership, forged in weight, silence, blood, and the kind of trust that comes only from being tested together. The kind that bends but doesn’t break, that hardens under fire and yet burns hotter than anything I’ve let myself hold. And when it finally flames out—because things this volatile always do—it won’t fade quietly. It’ll scorch through everything in its path.
She looks away first.
"We should move. Before his friends grow curious."
I nod. But I’m still watching her. Still thinking about what I saw in that clearing—the flick of her eyes, the surety in her body, the crack in her armor when she thought I wasn’t looking.
They’ll come again—sharper, faster, meant to finish what they started. No wasted motion. No second chances. And when they do, it won’t be her body they lay in the snow.
11
WREN
The wind hasn’t died down, but something in me has, a strange stillness settling like the hush after lightning fades. Not peace exactly. More a pause, a single held breath, the kind you take before stepping across a line you cannot walk back from.
Not the tension, not the readiness. Those stay precise as ever. But the fear, the kind that snakes through your gut and makes your hands tremble, has quieted. Replaced by something else. Something slower. Heavier. Like the low vibration of an idling engine humming beneath my ribs, steady and insistent, reverberating through my bones with each breath I take.
Nate walks ahead, his grip on the back of our prisoner firm, controlled. Each step is deliberate, his shoulders broad and unyielding as the trees we move through. Every few strides, he glances back, checking on me like he can’t help himself. I catch the flick of his eyes, intent and assessing, brushing over me with a weight that feels both protective and possessive.
Part of me wants to bristle. I am not his to monitor. Yet another part, quieter and infinitely more dangerous, feels seen in a way I cannot ignore. That part does not mind at all. Thatpart almost welcomes it, as if being checked on by him is as natural as breathing.
I don’t say anything. My boots crunch softly through the crusted snow, rhythm syncing to his. I keep pace, matching his stride—not because I have to, but because falling behind would feel like losing ground I’ve only just claimed.
We make it back to the cabin without incident. Nate forces the man to his knees in the entryway and leaves him for me to guard while he checks the perimeter. He circles the building quickly and quietly, scanning for prints, broken branches, or disturbed snow. Nothing new. Whoever sent this guy, sent him alone.
Which makes him a pawn. And pawns? You don’t waste them—you dismantle them, piece by piece, until they give you exactly what you need.
When Nate steps inside, he doesn't pause. Instead, he drags the man to his feet. "Come on," he mutters, yanking towards the door. I trail after them, pulse still erratic, rifle cradled loosely in my hands.
He leads us outside, cutting through the wind and snow like it’s nothing. I follow, boots crunching behind his steady stride, breath pluming as we move past the edge of the cottage to the small toolshed near the tree line. The door groans on its hinges when Nate opens it, revealing a compact but well-sealed interior, stocked with gear and a Toyo stove humming away low in the corner. The space is tight but insulated—just enough to keep a body from freezing.
