Chapter 9 Hale #2
Inside, the cabin smells like wood and iron and the faint sweetness of her.
I set two cast irons on the stove, splash in oil, and season the meat while she handles onions and rosemary with a concentration that makes me want to lean in and bite the corner of her smile.
She hums something aimless, hips bumping the cabinet in rhythm.
The domesticity shouldn’t fit here, in a place built for silence and steel, but it does.
Somehow, she’s softened the angles without dulling them.
“You almost look happy when you cook,” she says, sliding the onions into the pan. They hiss, perfume lifting warm and sharp.
“I look less murderous,” I correct.
She grins. “Semantics.”
We work well together. We don’t bump, don’t trip; we pass knives handle-first and grab the same spice at the same time. Her knuckles brush mine. I pretend it doesn’t register. She pretends she believes me.
“Tell me something true,” she says around the steam.
“I prefer cast iron to nonstick,” I say.
She levels me a look. “About you.”
I flip the venison. “I don’t like waking up alone anymore.”
Silence. Then softer, “You don’t have to.”
The meat sears, onions go sweet, potatoes crisp at the edges. I plate generous, because she forgets to eat when she’s anxious and I’m not interested in watching her shake. We sit at the small table. She tucks one foot up on the chair and steals a potato from my plate without asking.
I let her.
“Something’s on your mind,” she says after the first bite. “Besides the usual doom.”
“Doom is a constant.”
“So… extra doom.”
I fork a piece of venison. Chew. Swallow. Meet her eyes.
“Liam was seen,” I say. “Two towns over.”
Her breath stills. Then she sets the fork down and lifts her chin like she refuses to flinch. “Alone?”
“Looked like it. Rental SUV. Keeping his head down.”
“And?”
“Three girls are missing from around there.” I don’t soften it. She doesn’t need porcelain versions of the truth. “Two filed reports. One hasn’t.”
The bravado drains out of her face, replaced by the thing that made her take the card in the first place—anger with a backbone. “He’s still doing it.”
“He never stopped,” I say. “Men like him escalate when they’re cornered.”
Her eyes shine, but they don’t spill. “We have to stop him.”
“We will.”
“How?”
“By staying smart. By not giving him what he wants. By letting my people run the net while I hold the line here.” I lean in. “He’s counting on you to bolt. Or to break.”
She bristles. “I’m not running again.”
“I know.” I let a corner of my mouth tip. “You’re stubborn.”
“Says the man who sleeps on hardwood to avoid me.”
“That’s survival,” I say, deadpan.
She kicks my shin, gentle enough to be flirting, and takes another bite.
Between mouthfuls she asks, “Who are your ‘people’?”
“Men who don’t miss,” I say. “Nate. Micah. A medic we call Doc.”
Her eyebrows climb. “Found family.”
I test the phrase and find it doesn’t itch. “Yeah.”
She sits with that, then reaches across the table and drags her thumb across my cheek.
“Thanks,” I say, voice rougher than a thank-you warrants.
“Don’t mention it.” She sucks the seasoning off her thumb, eyes on mine while she does it. Absolutely intentional. Heat coils low and tight. She smiles like she knows exactly where my thoughts go and flicks her gaze to the pan. “You gonna hoard the crispy bits or share?”
I push the plate across the table. “All yours.”
“Careful,” she says. “I might mistake that for love.”
The word hits. I don’t show it. “Eat.”
We do. And we talk, not about ghosts and guns for once but about small things that shouldn’t matter and do. Her favorite lake from childhood. The first book that made me sit still. The way she burns toast and doesn’t mind. The way I hate clutter and pretend I don’t.
By the time the plates are empty and stacked in the sink, the light outside has gone navy. The stove ticks. The cabin breathes.
She leans back in her chair and studies me. “You’re still somewhere else.”
“Plotting,” I say.
“Share with the class.”
“Micah will try to pick up the SUV’s trail. Nate will squeeze a few informants who owe him. If we get a credible address in the next forty-eight hours, I move first.”
Her mouth tightens. “Alone?”
“Not bringing you into a live site,” I say. “Not while we don’t know who else is in play.”
“I didn’t say take me,” she says. “I said alone.”
“I’m not dragging family into this if I don’t have to.”
“Hale.” My name in her mouth does something to me it shouldn’t. “You do have to. If Liam’s working with others, walking in solo is suicide. Your friends want to help—let them.”
She’s right. I hate that she’s right. I nod once. “If we get an address, I’ll call Nate and Micah. We do this clean.”
“And me?”
“You stay,” I say, firm. “You lock down, you answer my texts, and you don’t open the door unless it’s my voice and it’s bright daylight.”
She watches me, then tilts her head. “You think I’m going to argue.”
“I know you are.”
“I’m not,” she says, surprising us both. “I’m mad. I’m scared. I want to be there when he falls because I want to see his face when he realizes he loses. But I’m not going to jeopardize this because I need a front row seat. You say I stay, I stay.”
It shouldn’t ease me like it does. “Good.”