Chapter 12 Sabrina
TWELVE
SAbrINA
The cabin feels smaller than it ever has.
Every sound is too loud in the silence left behind after the storm: the drip of melting snow from the eaves, the faint groan of the logs settling, the hollow tick of the grandfather clock in the hall.
I stand at the kitchen window with the curtain pinched between two fingers, staring out at the white expanse that used to feel like safety and now feels like a trap ready to snap shut.
The sheriff’s truck disappeared down the pass twenty minutes ago, its red taillights swallowed by the pines. Five minutes later, Beck stepped off the porch without looking back, rifle in hand, and melted into the trees like he belongs to them more than he belongs to me.
He didn’t kiss me goodbye.
He didn’t say I love you.
He only looked at me, long and steady, the way a man memorizes something he might never see again. Then he pressed the spare key into my palm, folded my fingers closed around it, and said, “Lock it behind me. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”
The deadbolt clicked like a period at the end of a sentence.
Now I wait. Waiting is worse than fear. Waiting gives my mind too much room to imagine every possible ending.
I pace to the front door, pressing my forehead to the cold wood, and listen for footsteps that don’t come. Then back to the window. Then to the counter where the landline sits useless and the radio Silas left is silent as stone.
A low growl rolls up the mountain.
My stomach drops.
Through the parted curtain I watch a black SUV nose into the clearing, slow and deliberate, headlights off despite the bruised sky. It stops at the edge of the open ground, fifty yards from the porch, engine idling like a predator deciding whether to pounce.
The driver’s door opens.
A man steps out. Tall. Lean. Dark wool coat buttoned to the throat. Even from here the scar is unmistakable: a pale slash above the left eyebrow, the souvenir from the summer he fell off the garage roof chasing me with a water gun.
Ethan.
My brother.
He doesn’t move toward the cabin at first. He simply stands there, hands loose at his sides, head turning slowly as he scans the tree line. As though he already knows someone is watching.
As though he knows Beck is out there.
My throat closes so tightly I can’t swallow.
He starts walking. Each step is deliberate. His boots crunch through the softening crust of snow. His hands stay visible. No weapon drawn.
Yet.
He stops at the bottom porch step.
“Sabrina.” His voice carries clear across the frozen yard, calm and familiar, the same timbre that used to coax me out of nightmares when we were children. “I know you’re in there. I just want to talk.”
I don’t answer.
He sighs, the sound heavy with disappointment, the way he used to sigh when I forgot to unload the dishwasher.
“I’m not here to hurt you. I just need the drive. Give it to me and this ends. You go back to your life. I go back to mine. No one has to know.”
The lie tastes metallic on my tongue even from inside the cabin.
I back away from the window until my spine hits the table. The coffee mug I’ve been clutching tips and shatters on the floorboards; scalding liquid splashes across my borrowed socks. I barely notice.
He climbs the first step. The porch groans. Second step. Another groan. “I’m coming in, Sabrina. Don’t make this harder.”
The doorknob rattles. Locked.
He tries again. Harder. The frame shudders. Then silence. Then a low, almost amused sound. “You really think a deadbolt’s going to stop me?”
Wood groans again, louder this time, as he puts his shoulder to the door.
I stumble backward into the hallway, pulse roaring in my ears, eyes darting toward the bedroom, toward the back door, toward anywhere that might buy me another second.
Then the back door—the one that leads to the woodshed—clicks open.
It’s soft and deliberate. Not forced.
Ice floods my veins.
I spin.
Beck stands in the open doorway. Snow dusts his shoulders and clings to his beard. The rifle rests across his chest, barrel angled down but ready. His face is calm, too calm, the way still water looks right before a storm breaks across it.
He doesn’t look at me. He looks past me, toward the front porch where Ethan has just shouldered his way inside.
Ethan freezes mid-motion. Recognition flashes across his face, quick and ugly, followed by something almost like resignation. “You,” he says. The word carries a bitter half-laugh. “The guy who said no. Should’ve known you’d turn into a problem.”
Beck steps fully inside. He kicks the door shut behind him with his heel, reaches back, and throws the deadbolt without breaking eye contact. “Funny thing about no,” he says, voice low and even. “It sticks.”
Ethan’s hand drifts, slow and careful, toward the inside of his coat.
Beck’s rifle comes up in the same heartbeat. Smooth. Practiced. Barrel centered on Ethan’s chest. “Don’t.”
Ethan’s palm stills.
Beck glances at me then, just once, a flicker of his eyes to make sure I’m still breathing, before returning to my brother. “Hands where I can see them. Step away from the door. Now.”
Ethan complies. Slowly. Palms lifted, empty. “You’re making a mistake,” he says. “She’s my sister. This is family business.”
“She’s my future wife.” Beck’s words land flat and final, like stones dropped into deep water. “That makes it my business.”
Ethan’s gaze snaps to me, sharp, searching, almost wounded. “Sabrina—”
“Don’t.” My voice cracks on the single word. “Don’t say my name like you still have the right.”
Something flickers in his eyes: pain, maybe. Or anger. Or both. He looks back at Beck. “You really going to shoot me in front of her?”
Beck doesn’t blink. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe. You already know that. You tried to buy me once. I said no then. I’m saying it louder now.”
Ethan exhales through his nose. He shakes his head once, slow. “You’re both going to regret this.”
“Maybe.” Beck takes one measured step forward. Rifle steady. “But not today.”
Outside, distant sirens slice through the quiet, faint at first, then growing, insistent. Red-and-blue light flickers between the pines.
Ethan hears it too. His shoulders drop a fraction. Then he smiles, small, bitter, resigned. “Tell me one thing,” he says quietly. “Was it worth it? Betraying your own blood for… what? A cabin and a man who lives like a ghost?”
I step forward before I can stop myself. “Yes.” The word comes out clear. Certain. “It was worth every second.”
Ethan looks at me, really looks, like he’s seeing me for the first time in years. Then he nods. Once. “Fine.”
He lets his hands fall to his sides.
Beck doesn’t lower the rifle.
The sirens grow louder. Tires crunch snow. Shouts carry across the clearing. Hands up. Cuffs click. Ethan doesn’t resist. He doesn’t look at me again. He lets them lead him away, head bowed against the wind, coat flapping like a broken wing.
When the cruiser disappears around the bend, Beck finally lets the rifle drop to his side. He turns. He crosses the room in two long strides. He pulls me into his arms so hard my feet leave the floor.
I bury my face in his coat—pine, gun oil, sweat, him—and inhale like I’ve been drowning.
Alive.
Whole.
Home.
He presses his lips to my hair, voice rough and low against my scalp.
“Still here,” he murmurs. “Still yours.”
I cling tighter, fingers knotted in wool and flannel. “Still yours,” I whisper back.
And for the first time since the storm swallowed the mountain, the quiet doesn’t feel like waiting.
It feels like peace. The fight is over. We’re still standing. Together.