Chapter 8
STONE
Frankie moved like she was born to the swamp, sure-footed, fast, and focused. No hesitation. No glancing back to check if he was still behind her. She just kept going, mud sucking at her boots, branches clawing at her clothes, arms swinging hard like she could outrun the ruin behind her.
He understood that kind of forward momentum.
After Dane had been killed, moving forward was the only thing that kept him breathing.
One step. Then the next. Stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant drowning in guilt and grief.
There were days he came close to quitting altogether.
What got him through wasn’t hope, it was vengeance.
Cold, clear, and necessary. Revenge gave him purpose when nothing else did.
It would drive Frankie, too.
She’d said she wanted revenge, but it wasn’t her words that convinced him.
It was the look in her eyes. Focused. Unflinching.
Lethal. She wouldn’t stop until she found the bastards responsible for lighting that fire.
And when she did, they would pay. But whatever she had planned for them probably didn’t even scratch the surface of what he would do if he got to them first. They’d crossed a line targeting her.
She was an innocent in this bullshit. She was just caught in someone else’s war.
That was a mistake those bastards wouldn’t walk away from.
Keeping pace behind her, Stone adjusted the acetylene tank on his shoulder.
He considered dumping it; carrying the thing wasn’t exactly ideal.
But Frankie had risked her life to save the tank, and if it was important to her, it was important to him.
He scanned the dense vegetation, watching for movement and checking the terrain, on high alert for threats.
If he or his Shadow Hounds team had been tasked with lighting that fire, they would’ve doubled back to clean up loose ends.
Frankie was a loose end.
It pissed him off that they had her name. She was an innocent civilian, and yet they’d still marked her for elimination. That told him exactly what kind of operators they were: efficient, connected, and absolutely ruthless. The speed they’d tracked her down meant they had resources and intel.
Even if they hadn’t torched her house, she wouldn’t have been safe there.
She wouldn’t be going back to her normal life anytime soon. Not until every last one of those bastards was neutralized.
Dragonflies skimmed the surface of standing water. Frogs croaked from unseen hollows. Birds darted out of the underbrush.
But so far, nothing hostile.
He barely knew Frankie. They’d been together twelve hours tops, yet she’d already defied his expectations too many times for comfort. She was reckless, sharp-tongued, and more confident than many operators he’d served with. That made her dangerous.
It also made her fascinating.
The flex of her spine was mesmerizing as she ducked beneath a low branch in a fluid, sure movement. Mud streaked the backs of her toned calves. Her shoulder-length hair was a tangled mess. She looked like hell.
She also looked incredible.
Focus, dammit.
This wasn’t a rescue mission. It wasn’t babysitting.
He had an objective to find out how the digital signatures on Blackwater Deep linked to Dane’s murder.
Now he had a woman whose house was still burning, whose father had died five weeks ago, and who wasn’t acting like someone in mourning.
She had been alone on that rig in the middle of the night for a reason.
Somehow, she was more involved than she was letting on, and whatever had driven her to that oil platform, mattered enough to risk her life.
That made her someone he couldn’t walk away from.
Not anymore.
Especially now that it appeared she had no one to back her up.
Except, apparently . . . him.
He could take her somewhere safe. Should.
That was the smart call. The detached call.
He didn’t do attachments. Didn’t do partners anymore .
. . not since Dane. But something about this pint-sized, fire-eyed wildcat made walking away impossible.
Maybe it was the way she’d promised revenge like she intended to burn the world down to get it.
Or the way she’d risked her life to save that book.
That leatherbound notebook nagged at him.
She’d nearly ripped his hand off when he touched it.
And that was enough to spike his interest.
Because people didn’t risk everything for nothing.
The trees thinned, and ahead, a rickety stilt house leaned like it was drunk. Frankie didn’t slow. She marched straight toward a warped jetty jutting into the brown creek water, stepping onto the boards like she owned them.
No knocking. No asking. Just straight to the boat.
Stone’s brow ticked up.
Ballsy.
He followed her onto the jetty, scanning the narrow waterway. No movement in the tree line. No armed men charging from cover. The house was quiet too.
Halfway across the jetty, the screen door slammed open.
“Get away from my boat, you bitch!” a voice roared.
A wiry man stormed out of the stilt house in threadbare overalls, waving a double-barrel shotgun like he was born with it in his hands. “What the hell you think you’re doin’?”
“Taking your boat, Weasel,” Frankie shot back, not even breaking stride. “File a complaint with someone who gives a shit.”
Stone almost smiled. She was fearless. No bluff, no hesitation. Just steel. Hot damn.
“Like hell you are!” Weasel bellowed, stomping down the warped steps, double-barrel swinging wide. “I’ll blow your damn head off, you crazy bitch!”
Stone stopped in the middle of the jetty, placing himself between Weasel and Frankie, and lowered the acetylene tank to the weathered planks so his hands were free. “We’re borrowing the boat. You’ll get it back.”
“Borrowing?” Weasel’s face flushed red, veins bulging. “You think you can just barge in here—” He raised the shotgun.
“Gun!” Stone roared.
Weasel fired. The blast cracked through the air, deafening and sharp. The shot hit near the boat’s bow, spraying mud and algae across the boards. A flock of startled birds exploded from the trees.
Stone charged at Weasel. He grabbed Weasel by the bib of his filthy overalls and slammed him down hard on the jetty. Wood groaned under the impact. The shotgun clattered away, skidding out of reach.
“We’re taking the boat,” Stone growled, pinning him with one knee and a forearm across his throat.
Weasel choked, clawing at Stone’s arm as he gagged. “Get off me!”
Stone gave a quick jab into Weasel’s nose. Not enough to break it. Just enough to bleed.
Weasel yelped, eyes wide, face contorted.
“That’s for spying on her.” Stone leaned in, voice dropping to lethal calm. “And for messing with her crab pots.”
Stone tightened his grip. “If I hear you so much as breathed in Frankie’s direction again, I’ll be back. And next time, I won’t stop at your nose. Understand?”
He eased the pressure just enough for a response.
Weasel gagged. “Yes! Fuck, yes!”
Stone shoved him in the throat one last time, then stood, scooped up the shotgun and acetylene tank, and turned without another word.
Frankie had already untied the boat.
By the time Stone stepped aboard and dropped the shotgun and tank beside her pack, she was in the passenger seat, one knee up, arms crossed, her jaw locked tight. She didn’t say a word, just stared straight ahead.
He started the motor.
As they peeled away from the jetty, Weasel was still on his back, cradling his bloody nose and whining threats that didn’t carry past the engine’s growl.
Frankie didn’t even glance back. Just lifted her arm and gave him the bird without a word.
Stone smirked.
When she turned to him, her expression wasn’t smug. It was more complicated. Gratitude, maybe, frustration, and grief, all rolled into one and held together by sheer will.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
When they passed what was left of her house, his chest tightened at the utter sorrow on her face.
The flames had finished their work, leaving only a blackened skeleton of walls and sagging beams. Smoke curled into the sky like a ghost unwilling to leave.
Stone knew what it was like to lose everything and feel helplessness crawl under your skin like fire ants. He wanted to reach out, pull her in. Shield her from the ache.
But she wouldn’t want that.
Frankie didn’t break. She simmered.
Still, he couldn’t ignore the way her eyes stayed locked on the wreckage . . . not wide with shock, or wet with tears. Just focused. Like she was imprinting the devastation into her memory.
Frankie guided him through the empty waterway. Between her murmured instructions, only the low churn of the motor disturbed the silence.
The waterways narrowed, winding deeper into the bayou until the trees closed in and the world went still.
The brown water lay flat and glassy, undisturbed.
When sunlight pierced the canopy through narrow gaps, it struck the surface in sharp flashes, forcing him to squint against the glare.
No wind moved through the dense vegetation crowding the banks.
No birds, no frogs, no rustling in the reeds. Even the gators were lying low.
It felt like hours before they reached his cabin, which was barely a faint silhouette tucked deep in the trees, making it nearly invisible from the creek.
Moss draped low-hanging branches like curtains, and thick underbrush swallowed the shoreline.
Most folks passed right by without ever spotting it.
That was the point.
Stone had bought the place for next to nothing. No one wanted it after the previous owner died there of natural causes in his armchair. All alone. Over seventy years spent living inside those same four walls.
Honestly, it sounded like a damn good way to go.
Where Old Man Hammond died didn’t bother Stone. If anything, he respected it. A quiet exit, in a place that felt like home. He would take the same ending, given the chance.
Lately, dying old and peacefully was starting to feel like a long shot. Especially with a new set of crosshairs on his back.
He eased the boat up to the old wooden jetty, tied it to a post, and killed the engine.
Frankie stood without a word, steady despite the sway, and hooked her pack over her shoulder. When he offered his hand, she took it without hesitation, and that surprised the hell out of him.
Adrenaline could only carry her so far. But sooner or later, she would crash. And judging by the shadows under her eyes, she wasn’t far from it.
Neither was he.
They were both running on fumes.
He grabbed her acetylene tank, hurled it onto his shoulder along with Weasel’s shotgun, and led Frankie up the path to his log cabin.
It was just rough-hewn logs, a tin roof, and a porch that creaked every time he stepped on it.
Inside, it was clean and functional with one bedroom, an open kitchen, and a bathroom that just barely fit a shower stall.
“This is it,” he said, setting the shotgun by the door. “Not much, but it’s safe.”
Frankie hovered inside like she wasn’t sure if she should sit or bolt.
“You want food or sleep first?” he asked.
“Shower.” Her voice was hoarse as she glanced down at the soot smudging her arms, then turned her palms over. The backs of her hands were filthy, but it was the red, raw blisters on the tips of her left fingers that made him pause.
“Shit, Frankie, those look—”
“I’m fine,” she snapped, slotting her hands behind her back.
He watched her, taking a beat to see what she did next.
“I’ve had worse.” Sighing, she shrugged. “Burns come with my career choice. Well, it used to, anyway.”
Her voice was quieter and dull. Her fight was completely drained.
“Right. Shower it is then.” He stepped closer, and gently gripping her shoulders, guided her to the bathroom. “Take your time.”
He pulled a spare towel from the closet and handed it to her. “I’ll have food ready when you’re done.”
She didn’t argue, just gave a small nod, clutching the towel to her chest as she stepped inside and quietly shut the bathroom door.
The second the latch clicked, Stone darted into the bedroom and swept through it like a storm, ripping off the old sheets, tossing on fresh ones, cramming loose clothes into drawers, and kicking his boots into the closet. He fluffed the pillow, then punched it flat again.
What the hell are you doing? She’s not here for sex. You don’t need to impress her.
Still, the image of her barely ten feet away, water running and steam rising off her naked body was a hell of a thing to ignore.
Focus, dammit.
Exhaling hard, he stalked to the kitchen, pushing down the heat crawling up the back of his neck.
He yanked open the fridge, grabbed the container of leftover beef stew, dumped it into a pot, and turned the burner high.
Needing a distraction, he made both of them a strong coffee .
. . thinking way too much about how Frankie took her coffee.
By the time she emerged, the rich scent of pepper and slow-cooked meat filled the cabin.
She wore a pair of pale pink shorts and a plain black T-shirt, soft and worn thin with age. Thin enough to leave damn near nothing to the imagination. Her wet hair was slicked back, and her cheeks were flushed from the shower.
She looked fresher. Calmer.
And so goddamn beautiful it stole the air from his lungs.
She crossed the room with a slight limp and eased into the chair across from him without a word.
He slid the bowl toward her. “Eat.”
She picked up the spoon and nodded. “Thanks. I’m starving.”
“Well, eat up. There’s more if you want.” He grabbed a clean towel from the shelf. “My turn.”
He headed into the bathroom, peeling off his shirt as he went.
Under the spray, he scrubbed away the soot, the sweat, and the scent of fire clinging to his skin. But he couldn’t wash away his thoughts about her . . . the softness of her mouth. The steel in her spine. The brave, raw defiance in her eyes.
The way she’d stared him down over that damn leather-bound notebook, like she would fight to the death for it.
She was hurting and fighting it. Just like he did, every goddamned day.
She was broken, yet still strong.
And he wanted to help her more than he cared to admit.
No . . . needed to help her.
Which meant he was in a hell of a lot more trouble than he thought.