I nod. "The real puppet master’s still out there, pulling strings and watching how we react."
Her eyes narrow. "I know."
"They sent expendables. Someone’s still watching. Still waiting."
I can see the wheels turning. "We're going to need to draw them in."
"Use me as bait?"
I meet her stare. "Us. We don’t divide anymore."
A long breath leaves her lungs. Then she nods. "Okay."
That one word lands with quiet finality, the kind that sinks into marrow. It's not just agreement—it's resolve. A shared line in the sand, drawn with blood and grit. No more isolation.No more solo fights. From here on out, we move forward as something forged, not fractured.
The thrum of rotor blades cuts through the stillness before the sun’s first rays even crest the ridge. Snow whirls up in ghostly spirals as Zeke sets the bird down in the clearing beside the cottage, the skids biting into hardpack with a jolt. Travis jumps out first, rifle slung and eyes scanning, while Zeke keeps the engine hot.
Wren and I haul the prisoners out of the tool shed one by one, their breath steaming in the cold as plastic cuffs bite into their wrists. They stumble against the downdraft, sullen and silent now, but I don’t miss the hard edge in their eyes. Travis shoves the first man up the ramp, then another, and soon all five are strapped in the back like cargo. Zeke leans over the console, giving us a curt nod and no wasted words. The chopper lifts, blades tearing at the dawn, and within moments they’re banking east, vanishing into the gray horizon on their way to Glacier Hollow. The silence that follows feels heavier than before.
We move back into the cottage, and I move closer to Wren, my fingers brushing a strand of hair away from her cheek. Her skin is warm despite the chill in the air, and for a second, she leans into the touch—barely, but enough that I feel it in my chest. Her breath hitches, and the muscles along her throat tighten, a visible pulse ticking beneath the surface. She doesn’t speak, but the way her eyes lift to meet mine, steady and unguarded, tells me more than words ever could.
Something raw and unspoken passes between us, a magnetic pull just shy of surrender. Her eyes lock on mine, wide and searching, and I swear I can feel the change in the air around us. My hand lingers, just long enough to feel the tremor in her skin. Her breath catches, lips parting like she might speak—but she doesn’t. The silence hums between us, electric and full of something neither of us is ready to name.
"You were flawless out there."
Her cheeks pinken, but she doesn’t flinch. "I’m not just some damsel in distress, Nate."
"Never thought you were. You’re my partner."
Something clicks into place between us. Unspoken. Solid. Her hand settles against my chest, warm and steady, but there's a tremor in her touch that betrays the weight of everything we’ve just been through. My heart doesn’t just react—it slams against her palm like it recognizes her, like it’s reaching through the bone for something only she can claim. I don’t move. Don’t speak. Just let the silence stretch, thick with all the words we aren’t ready to say but feel in every heartbeat between us.
"Then let’s finish this."
Outside, the wind howls through the trees, rising like a warning. We both look toward the early light, instincts humming.
This isn’t over, The next time they come for us they will not find easy targets. They will find predators lying in wait, teeth bared and ready, and by then it will already be too late for them.
15
WREN
The morning sun finds me at the counter, spoon tapping sugar into coffee, the steam curling up like breath in the chill air. My arm hums with the familiar tightness of sleep, but it is nothing I can’t work through. Nate is still in bed, steady in sleep. He did not stir when I slipped out, did not crack an eye or growl his usual warning about me wandering off. He trusts me now, and that feels heavier than any lock on the door. That change is the difference.
That, and the two men who tried to break into the cottage at first light. Both are accounted for now, wrists zip-tied and bodies locked in Nate’s tool shed, their breath fogging the cold air until the chopper arrives. One carries a dislocated shoulder and a spiral fracture. The other is unconscious, destined to wake with nothing worse than a bruised ego and a federal sentence. Rough country or not, attempted murder gets taken seriously.
They came in low and fast through the tree line, counting on the blue hour to hide them. It did not. Nate’s alarms warned us early, and we were waiting. Before they reached the porch, I was already at the window, weapon steady. We moved as if rehearsed a hundred times, silent, our pulses locked in the same rhythm.
The first slipped near the wood pile. Nate went out the back, came up behind, and dropped him with a knee to the gut and an elbow to the neck. The second fired once, missing clean. I pushed out the door and smashed him with the butt of my sidearm before he could sight again. The adrenaline still hums through my veins, but the bruises are earned, and the quiet settling over us feels just as deserved.
These men lacked the precision of the last team. The first wave had elite camouflage uniforms and patience. They had precision. This wave is patchwork. They burned through funds with their opening gambit. I guess they didn’t expect me to be hard to kill. They sure as hell didn’t count on Nate. What came after the first team was bought cheap and mean, sloppy kit, off-brand optics, and a hunger that smells like dwindling funds and panic.
The one with the ruined arm had not planned to talk, but Nate’s work made him reconsider. Turns out Mason Harper had a cousin. Same eyes. Same bone structure. Only leaner in the face, the mouth hollowed as if grief had already carved him down. The resemblance is uncanny, like a faded photograph brought back into focus. I see why satellite imagery mistook him for Mason. Seeing him drags me backward through time, forcing me to stare straight into a wound I pretended had scarred but still bleeds beneath the surface.
I always knew Mason’s widow blamed me. Her messages made that clear, cutting words sliding under my skin long after I stopped answering. I figured she hated me, that she needed someone to carry her grief, and I was the target. Grief is one thing. Hiring her husband’s cousin to track me down here is another.
I never thought her bitterness would rot into something this dangerous. I never believed she would twist her anger into a plan ending with me in a shallow grave. But here we are. Somegrudges don’t fade. They calcify. They fester until the only way out is blood.
I pull Mason’s old map strip from my wallet, the one I kept folded so small the creases felt like ribs. I lay it on the stove and rest my finger on the route he never finished. “I carried you so long I forgot how to set you down,” I whisper. The paper does not burn. Not yet. I leave it there, a marker for a decision I have finally started to make.
