57
W indows down, Wyatt drives his pickup down the pitch-black winding road that leads to my cottage. A slow country tune plays on the radio. Stars shine brightly in the sky. I stifle a yawn. I’m ready to be home, in our bed, wrapped as tight around Wyatt as I can get.
It’s been two days since I’ve had him inside me, and I’m fucking boiling over.
Wyatt reaches over and links his fingers through mine. “Fuckin’ great night.”
I roll my head across the seat to look at him. “It was. For everyone.”
“Damn happy for Ruby and Charlie.” He grins at me, that adorable smile of his warming my heart. “For us.”
I arch a brow. “No regrets?”
“None. Maybe I’ll get my own ring,” he husks. “One to match.”
My heart flips over in my chest. “Wouldn’t stop you.”
A flapping noise fills the cab.
I sit up. “What’s that?”
“Shit,” Wyatt says, checking the rearview mirror and pulling over onto the side of the road. “We got a flat.”
He cuts the engine and hops out. I follow suit, watching as he pulls a spare tire and a tire-changing kit from the pickup truck bed.
“Shit,” he mutters. “It’s dark as hell.”
I pull out my phone. I don’t have service this far out, but I do have a flashlight.
“Here,” I say, offering him some light.
Wyatt’s face is creased in a frown.
I move closer. “What’s wrong?”
He splays his long fingers over the tire. “It don’t look like a nail.”
I peer over his shoulder. Instead of a puncture, there’s a long cut in the tread. “What the hell?”
Headlights sear my eyes. The sound of a vehicle approaching. My stomach dips.
“Hey.” Tripp pulls up beside us. “You need some help?”
“Sure.” Wyatt’s voice is dry. “You’re here. I’ll take it.”
Tripp reverses his pickup, parking behind us on the shoulder of the road. Flashlight in hand, he hustles up to us, giving Wyatt some more light.
“What can I do?” I ask.
Wyatt glances at me. “I want you to stay off the side of the road, Fallon.”
I roll my eyes.
As they work on getting the tire off, manly grunts and growls filling the night air, I pace the side of the road. My hip’s tight. Walking will get the kinks out.
“Here, I’ve got gloves,” Tripp says, drawing my attention back to him and Wyatt.
A thought strikes me like a brick to the face.
What’s Tripp doing here? He left the bar before us.
I turn, glancing at Wyatt. Relax , I tell myself. Just fucking relax. It’s nothing.
Boots crunching gravel, I pass by the passenger side of Tripp’s pickup. Through the windows, in the shadowy light, I see bottles of water on the backseat. And on the floorboards—
I suck in a breath. Every hair on the back of my neck stands up.
My cane.
The beautiful, glossy cane Wyatt gave me. Tripp has it.
That pit-in-the-stomach feeling grows.
He was in my house that day.
He took my cane.
He turned up the gas.
I shift my leg, wince, and remember more.
My nightmares the last four months. Not Aiden. But someone else. Another man.
Oh god. Oh fuck.
But there’s more. My brain grasps at the memories, at—
“Find what you’re looking for?” a voice says, snapping me out of my head.
I whirl around, blinking into a blinding bright light.
“Tripp, Jesus.” I lift a hand to my face, blocking out the harsh glare of the flashlight. My heart hammers in my chest. But I school my face into annoyed neutrality. “You scared the fuck out of me.”
His face is serious as he stares at me. “I wouldn’t want to do that now, would I?”
Gooseflesh pebbles across my skin, and I cross my arms.
The crunch of gravel. Wyatt stands behind us, fists clenched. “What’s goin on?”
“Nothing.” I stare at Wyatt, wishing I could talk to him telepathically. “Are you ready?”
“Yeah. We’re all set.” Wyatt sticks out a hand, his wedding band glinting in the truck’s headlights. “Let’s go.”
But before I can take his hand, Tripp grabs my arm. “I need to talk to you.”
“Keep your fuckin’ hands off her,” Wyatt growls. He yanks me to his side then glares at Tripp. “What’s your fuckin’ problem, man?”
“You.” The flat tone in his voice makes me shiver. Everything about him has changed. Chameleon-like. Aiden-like. Tripp’s cold gaze drops to Wyatt’s hand. The wedding band. “You’re my fucking problem.”
Fuck.
I grip my husband’s arm. “Wyatt, he’s—”
It’s all I can get out.
Tripp swings.
The flashlight arcs in the moonlight, aimed directly at us.
Wyatt’s eyes shoot open, and he yells, “Fallon, move!”
He twists his body, trying to cover me, but the flashlight slams into his head. He tries to stand, reaching for me, but I watch in horror as he crumples to the ground, groaning. Blood streams down his scalp.
I scream as loud as I can. “Wyatt!”
“I’m sorry,” Tripp says. “He was in the way.”
I fucking lose it. Rage blooms inside of me. “You motherfucker,” I snarl, whirling around, ready to kill Tripp. “You’re dead.”
From out of his pocket, Tripp brings out a bunched white rag and presses it against my mouth.
I try to scream, but it’s muffled by his hand clamping the rag down harder. A cold, metallic smell fills my nostrils. When I go to hit Tripp, I find my arms won’t work.
“I’m sorry, but there’s no other way.”
Lightheaded, I sway, falling, falling, falling…
Into Tripp.
I sag limply against his chest.
His dark gaze bores into mine as he adjusts me in his arms. “Shhh,” he soothes, caressing my cheek. “Go to sleep. Time for a nap. Time to let me take care of you.”
I open my mouth, but my shouts and pleas die in my throat. Lashes fluttering, my head lolls against his chest as warmth slips over me, like a campfire. My rage subsides. A soft whimper falls from my mouth.
“I have you,” Tripp whispers. “I have you now, Fallon.”