Chapter One
Noah
The heat hits first—the kind that comes off open fire. It rolls across the sand in waves, thick and suffocating, carrying the sharp bite of smoke and burning metal.
My boots grind against gravel as I move forward, rifle tight in my hands, every muscle locked into the kind of alertness that never really leaves you once you’ve been out here long enough.
“Clear left,” someone says through the comm.
My gaze sweeps the broken structure ahead of us. Windows blown out. Walls cracked. Every shadow a possible threat.
“Left’s clear,” I answer automatically. My voice is calm. Steady.
We move in formation, slow and deliberate, the way we’ve done a thousand times before. My eyes track every rooftop, every doorway, every piece of rubble that might hide something waiting to kill us. Somewhere in the distance, a helicopter cuts through the sky.
Then…the world explodes.
The blast throws me sideways. Sound disappears for a second, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in my ears. I hit the ground, my shoulder slamming into rock.
My grip tightens on my rifle automatically. Move.
That’s the only thought that matters. I push up onto one knee, vision swimming through the haze. My lungs burn as I drag in air thick with smoke.
“Status!” someone shouts.
My head snaps toward the voice. A body lies a few feet away. Not moving.
“Shit.” I’m already moving toward him before the thought finishes forming. “Hold on,” I bark, dropping to my knees beside him.
My hands press against his chest. “Stay with me,” I say, my voice sharper now.
His eyes flicker open for a second. Glassier than they should be. “Don’t—” he tries to say.
Another explosion rattles the ground somewhere behind us. My jaw tightens.
“Not today,” I tell him, pressing harder against the wound. “You’re not dying today.”
But even as the words leave my mouth, I already know the truth. His breathing grows shallow. The light in his eyes starts to fade.
“Medic!” someone shouts.
Too late. Life slips out of him right there in my hands. Another man gone. Another name added to the list I carry whether I want to or not.
The ringing in my ears grows louder. Then everything goes black.
???
I bolt upright in bed. My hands grip the sheets, knuckles white as my chest heaves. For a second, the room spins, the dream clinging to me like a second skin. Then the quiet reaches me—no explosions, no shouting. Just the faint hum of the ceiling fan above my head.
Wilder House.
I’m at Wilder House. My pulse still pounds hard in my ears, but I force my breathing to slow. Control it. Always control it. The clock on the nightstand reads 1:04 a.m.
Early. The middle of the night, and I already know how this goes. I won’t be sleeping again until the memories let go of me. They always take their time.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand. The wooden floor is cool under my feet, grounding me in the present. The nightmare lingers in fragments. The smell of smoke. Blood on my hands.
Some missions fade with time. Others stay buried under your skin like shrapnel. My last one belongs in the second category. I drag a hand down my face and cross the room toward the window.
The night is still dark beyond the glass, the street lit only by the single lamp near the front door.
Peaceful. Exactly why I came here. No loud noise. No chaos.
Then the guilt lands. My family still thinks I’m overseas, finishing out my contract. I didn’t correct them. Letting them believe that is easier than explaining why I needed to disappear for a while.
A few months here should be enough. Enough time to get my head straight, to let the ghosts quiet down.
The low rumble of an engine breaks the silence outside. My gaze drops toward the driveway just as a familiar truck turns in.
Wilder.
The vehicle rolls slowly across the gravel before coming to a stop near the front of the building.
I lean a shoulder against the window frame and watch him through the glass.
I haven’t spent much time around the man since moving in—a few brief conversations.
A nod here and there. That’s about it. Not because he’s unfriendly.
From everything I’ve heard, Wilder’s a solid guy.
Zane told me plenty about him before I came here.
About how he’d gotten out of prison and taken a broken-down building and rebuilt it into this place.
A quiet refuge for people like me who needed a second chance.
I respect that. Anyone who can build something like this from the ground up earns it. But that doesn’t mean I’m looking for friends. I didn’t come here for that.
He climbs out, shutting the door with a quiet thud that barely carries through the glass. He moves like a man who’s used to being aware of his surroundings—his eyes sweep the property once without looking like he’s doing it. Habit. I know because I have it too.
He opens the passenger door, and Millie gets out. She smiles up at him like he’s the only person in her world, and I know immediately that it’s my cue to look away. I straighten slightly, ready to step back from the window.
Then the rear door opens.
And everything stops.
A third person climbs out. For a second, I forget how to breathe.
She stands there beside the truck, clutching a worn duffel bag to her chest like it’s the only thing anchoring her to the ground.
Small. Fragile. But that’s not what hits me first. It’s her face—pale as porcelain, dirty blond hair falling to her shoulders, and large round eyes I can’t quite see from here but already want to. I want to know what’s in them.
Her fears. Her pain. Hell, what makes her tick.
Why am I even thinking about her?
But it’s like I’m glued in place. Unable to move. I watch her look around, her gaze moving across the property—slowly, cautious, taking in the building, the windows, the quiet yard like she’s deciding whether to believe in it.
Attraction comes first. Immediate. Primal. But it’s not the only thing. Something deeper follows right behind it. Possessive. Protective. The instinct lands hard in my chest, fast and undeniable, like my body has already decided something my brain hasn’t caught up to yet.
My gaze narrows slightly. I don’t want this. I didn’t come here for this. Whatever I feel needs to be buried. She doesn’t deserve a man like me—someone with baggage, with his own demons. Millie says something to her. Then she disappears into the building.
I’m still standing at the window, staring at the empty space where she stood. The nightmare’s gone—somewhere in watching her, the tension finally bleeds out of me. The next time I close my eyes, sleep takes me without a fight.
***
The shrill vibration of my phone cuts through the quiet. I notice faint light streaming in from the window—meaning I actually slept for more than two hours.
I glance down at the nightstand. Zane’s name flashes across the screen. I pick it up on the second ring. “Walker.”
“Jesus,” Zane’s voice comes through immediately. “You answer the phone like you’re still in the damn Army.”
My mouth twitches faintly. “Old habits.”
“Yeah, well, try not to sound like you’re about to kick down a door next time.”
I lean back against the wall beside the window. “What’s up?”
“Just checking on you.” I can practically hear the grin in his voice. “Figured I’d see how my favorite tenant is settling into my old place.”
My gaze circles the room. Bare and tidy. “It’s good,” I say simply.
“Yeah?”
“Clean. Quiet.”
“Exactly why I told you about it.” He pauses. “So, Wilder House treating you alright?”
“It is.”
A faint chuckle comes through the line. “Wilder keeping the place running smooth?”
“Seems like it.”
“I told you the guy was solid.”
“You did.”
Zane had talked about Wilder House plenty back when we were deployed together—long nights sitting on crates beside a helicopter while he ran through stories about the strange halfway house he’d stayed in for a few months. At the time it sounded like the last place I’d ever end up.
Funny how things change.
“You still planning on staying a few months?” Zane asks.
“That’s the plan.”
“What then?”
My gaze drifts back toward the building entrance. I exhale slowly. “Haven’t decided yet.”
That’s the truth. After the Army, everything feels like an open question. No mission. No orders. Just a wide stretch of empty road I haven’t figured out how to walk yet.
Zane pauses. “You’ll figure it out.”
“Maybe.”
“Hey,” he adds after a second. “At least you’ve got a roof over your head for now.”
“Thanks to you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get sentimental on me.”
I almost smile. I know he’s just trying to make small talk to keep my mind off everything.
“And the furniture’s still there?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Good.” He chuckles. “Figured I’d leave it for whoever came next. Didn’t think it’d be a six-foot brick wall with a thousand-yard stare.”
“Funny.”
“You know I’m right.”
My mind drifts—back to the pale girl with blond hair and frightened eyes, stepping out of Wilder’s truck like she wasn’t sure what was waiting around the next corner.
Zane keeps talking, but part of my attention stays fixed on the building around me.
To the studio apartment just down the hall. She could be anywhere in the building.
Still, I feel the strange, steady pull settling low in my chest. I don’t even know her name. But somehow, I know one thing for sure.
She’s the reason Wilder House suddenly doesn’t feel quite as quiet as it did yesterday.