"You're right to be afraid," he says. "Because I'm done waiting."
My pulse thunders. "Zeb..."
He dips his head, lips grazing mine—just a whisper of contact, enough to ignite every nerve ending like dry kindling catching flame. The heat of his breath fans across my skin, and I freeze, not from fear, but from the confusing, treacherous pullthat knots deep in my belly. My heart slams against my ribs, torn between fleeing and arching closer. The graze of his mouth is a claim veiled as a caress, and it terrifies me how much I want more of it.
"You came back, and this time, you don't get to leave."
The door slams shut behind him with a finality that echoes like a gunshot through the cabin, the vibration of it shivering up the walls and lodging in my spine. I stand frozen, breath caught in my chest, clutching the photos like a lifeline—or a loaded weapon—fingers trembling, knuckles white. Each image burns into my palms, the proof of his obsession searing through the paper as if it might brand me too.
The silence swells, thick and smothering, wrapping around me like a noose. And in that silence, one undeniable truth takes root and blooms like a bruise: I was never out of his grasp. Not really. Not for a single day.
He never stopped watching me. The realization settles like ice in my chest. I wonder if I ever really escaped—or if I just had a longer leash.
8
ZEB
The door slams shut behind me, and for a split second, it echoes louder than the wind cutting through the pines. My shoulders tense. Every instinct roars to life, demanding space—distance between me and whatever threat might be close. Between me and her.
I push that thought down, focusing on the unnatural stillness settling over the landscape. The ridge is too quiet... too still... too unmarred by anything. There should be elk prints, broken underbrush, maybe a rabbit trail or two. But nothing. Something is off. Something is definitely off.
I pull on my gloves and move off the porch, crouching low. I brush the snow-packed earth with my gloved fingers. The cold bites through the leather and into my skin, grounding me. There—just at the tree line, half obscured by windblown powder. Boot prints. Smaller than mine, larger than hers. Male most likely and fresh. The instant I see them, an ancient snarl rises inside me. Not fear—sharper. Hungrier.
A trespasser on my mountain—not just some lost hiker or hunter straying too close. No, this was intentional. A violation.
I can feel it like a splinter under my skin, aggravating something primal that refuses to settle. The need to act buzzesbeneath my surface—tight, relentless, dangerous. Whoever left those tracks didn't just wander into my territory. He challenged me.
A shudder of rage rolls through me, and I go still. My fingers flex once, twice, before curling into fists so tight my knuckles crack. Not from fear—this is something deeper, darker. The leashed violence of a predator denied its kill.
My breath cuts sharp through my nose, and I force it to steady, pulse drumming in my ears like war drums. A muscle ticks in my jaw as my eyes sweep the tree line, the need to punish tightening like a noose around my spine. My breath saws through clenched teeth as I sweep the woods again, every sense sharpened to a blade's edge.
I can already see it: how I'll flush him out like vermin, run him to ground, make him feel the weight of every wrong step. I want him to hear the crunch of boots behind him and know too late he should have never set foot on this ridge. I'll carve a message into the snow with his fear, one no one will mistake. If he's here for her, if he even looked at her, I'll do worse. I'll make sure he remembers the pain before he goes under.
No one touches what's mine and lives to regret it.
My pulse spikes with the cold, clinical clarity of a predator locking onto prey. Muscles tense like drawn wire, breath slows, and the world narrows to a single, lethal focus. Rage simmers in my blood, not wild but weaponized—razor-honed by years of killing from the shadows.
Someone has dared to stalk this ridge—my ridge. Someone has dared to come this close to what's mine.
The instinct to protect flares fast, but it's quickly drowned by something darker. I don't just want to find whoever it is—I want him to realize his mistake and run. I want to feel the weight of my rifle settle in my hands as he understands, too late, what kindof animal they've provoked. Sniper calm bleeds into a deeper impulse—to dominate, to own, to erase.
The bastard didn't just stumble onto this ridge—he wanted to be seen. Left his tracks bold and deliberate, like a gauntlet thrown at my feet. Like a dare. Like he was counting on me finding them, knowing exactly what it would provoke.
I lean closer. The tracks are too light to belong to any of the old loggers or trappers still hanging around this part of the mountain. These are newer than the last snowfall, and they're headed straight toward the northern bluff.
Toward my cabin. Toward her.
A low, guttural sound slips from my chest before I can stop it—something between a growl and a vow. The predator inside doesn't just want to protect. It wants to show her. Wants to stake a claim so thoroughly that no other man will dare leave a print in this snow again.
My jaw tightens. A low growl rumbles in my throat before I silence it. The animal inside wants blood. Wants to hunt. I rise slowly, settling the rifle strap more securely over my shoulder.
Poachers, maybe. Or worse—calculated. Cartel scouts, checking for vulnerabilities. A rival from a past job, back to settle a score. Or maybe someone watching Caryn, tracking her movements long before she ended up in my cabin. The idea sears through me, rage flaring hot and sharp. If this is personal, if they laid eyes on her with intent, then I'll make sure the last thing they ever see is the muzzle flash before their world goes black. Doesn't matter.
He's invaded my territory, and every cell in my body howls with the need to claim what's mine—to remind her, and any bastard watching, exactly who she belongs to.
The thought hits me harder than the wind, slicing cold and clean through my skull. I don't question it anymore. Not since last night. Not since the moment I tasted her moan against mytongue, her surrender drawn out with every calculated flick and press. It wasn't just hunger. It was a fucking claim. And now, knowing someone else might be sniffing around what belongs to me?
Unacceptable.
