Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Hopper
During the drive to the abandoned lodge, my hands grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles ache. I’m not trembling because of fear—this is something else entirely. It’s anger. Pure, blistering anger, the kind that could tear a man apart from the inside out.
I’ve felt rage before. When my father beat the hell out of us as kids. When I found out Maddie’s mother had betrayed her best friend and planned on destroying her marriage. Even when I realized someone had been stalking Nysa, leaving threats meant to break her spirit.
But this?
This is on another level.
It’s like fire coursing through my veins, an inferno eating away at every shred of patience and logic I have left. I can’t think straight. I can barely breathe. All I see is her—Nysa—taken from me. And if we don’t get to her in time?—
No.
I can’t think like that. I won’t let myself think like that.
Beside me, Atlas is quiet, his jaw set as he checks the GPS on his phone for the hundredth time. Mal sits in the back seat, gun already loaded, his eyes scanning the woods outside like he expects someone to jump out at us. No one says a word, and I’m grateful for it because I’m not sure I can hold it together long enough for conversation.
The hunting lodge finally comes into view, small and isolated, crouched at the base of a hill deep in the woods. There’s no driveway, no proper road—just a beaten-down path carved by hunters, poachers, or men who don’t want to be found.
And right now?
I’m one of those men.
Atlas parks the truck a good hundred yards away, killing the engine as the three of us step out. The air out here feels thicker, quieter, like the forest itself knows something bad is about to happen.
Atlas checks his gun, his movements deliberate. “You good?” he asks, his voice low but steady as he glances at me.
“Am I good?” I let out a humorless laugh, shoving the keys into my pocket. “I’ll be good when I’ve got her back.”
Mal steps up beside me, his expression unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. “We stick to the plan. No surprises, no hero bullshit. Got it?”
I shoot him a glare. “Don’t worry about me. I’m getting her out of there.”
He nods once. “Yeah, and we’re making sure you don’t get yourself killed in the process.”
Atlas smirks faintly, but there’s no humor behind it. “It’d be real awkward explaining to Maddie why her dad went full Rambo and didn’t make it back.”
I grunt, checking my weapon. “Let’s go.”
He lifts a finger, then touches his earpiece. Mal nods. I wish I had one of those, but apparently there weren’t enough and I don’t need it. I’m not part of the team. I still want to know how Atlas became part of it. Why he has not one but two guns and knives. Malerick, I get. He’s the sheriff. Him . . . there’s something off, but right now I don’t give a fuck.
We move in silence, keeping low as we approach the lodge. The place is as decrepit as it gets—wooden planks sagging, the roof patched with mismatched shingles, and the air around it feels wrong. Not just unsettling—wrong.
A place that swallows people whole and spits out nothing but stories. My grip tightens on the gun Mal insisted I register. It already is—just not to me.
“Eyes open,” Mal murmurs, his voice low but firm. “We don’t know how many are inside.”
“Don’t care how many there are,” I reply, my tone flat, cold. “I’m walking out with her.”
Atlas elbows me, a flicker of teasing cutting through the tension. “Try not to blow the whole place to hell before we get her, yeah?”
I glance at him, the corner of my mouth twitching. “No promises.”
We reach the side of the lodge, pressing our backs against the rough wooden wall. Mal leans forward, peering around the corner before signaling for us to hold. I barely register the movement. My mind is locked on one thing.
Nysa.
She’s in there. And whoever took her?
They’re not walking out.
Sanford’s voice is calm, almost detached, as he peers through the scope of his rifle. “Two guards on the porch. Another circling the perimeter.”
“That’s just outside,” Fish mutters. “No telling how many are inside.”
Sanford’s finger hovers near the trigger. “Two men down,” he says. “I’ll watch your backs. Good luck, gentlemen.”
“What?” I snap, glancing at Atlas. “He’s not coming with us?”
“He’s a sniper,” Atlas replies, his tone clipped. “You want him watching your back.”
“We move in quiet,” Mal cuts in, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Fast and clean.”
Atlas rolls his shoulders, cracking his knuckles. “No mistakes.”
I don’t respond. There’s nothing left to say.
We split up, Atlas and Mal flanking left, taking out the guy circling the back of the lodge. Fish and I head right, moving silently through the trees. We catch the perimeter guard before he even knows we’re there.
On the porch, two men sit smoking and laughing, passing a flask between them, completely oblivious.
They don’t even see me.
Until it’s too late.
The first man barely has time to blink before I raise my gun and fire. One shot, clean, precise.
The second lunges for his rifle, but Fish is faster, his gun already up. One more shot, and it’s over. I feel nothing. No remorse. There’s no hesitation. All I can think about is her.
Where the fuck is she?
Atlas and Mal clear the back door while Fish and I push through the front. The inside is worse than I expected—dusty, decaying, with rusted tools hanging from the walls and a smell that makes my stomach churn. This place isn’t just forgotten. It’s wrong.
And then I hear it.
A muffled noise. A struggle. A thud against a door down the hall.
And then her voice, muffled but angry, sharp with defiance. She’s fighting. She’s still fighting.
That’s all it takes.
I don’t think. I just move.
I sprint down the hall, kicking the door open so hard it slams against the wall.
The scene inside stops me cold.
Nysa is on the ground, blood streaking her face, her chest heaving as she grips a rusted nail in her hand. A man looms over her, his fist raised, his face twisted with rage.
I don’t hesitate.
I raise my gun and pull the trigger.
The shot echoes in the small room, and the man collapses, lifeless.
For a second, everything goes quiet.
Then her eyes meet mine, and the rage that’s been burning through me softens, just for a moment.
“Nys,” I breathe.
She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t scream. She just looks at me, her lips trembling, her body shaking with exhaustion.
“You came,” she whispers, her voice cracking.
I’m across the room in seconds, catching her before she collapses. My arms wrap around her, holding her close, her head tucked against my chest.
“Of course I came,” I murmur, my voice rough with emotion. I press my forehead to hers, brushing a kiss against her temple. “I’d tear the whole fucking world apart to find you.”
“More coming from the north side,” Fish shouts from the hallway. “We’ve got to move.”
I pull her to her feet, keeping her close, my arm wrapped around her waist as we push out of the room.
“We’re getting you out of here,” I tell her, my voice firm.
She nods weakly, her fingers clutching my shirt like a lifeline. But I see it—the pain, the bruises spreading across her skin, the exhaustion in her eyes.
She’s been through hell.
And I wasn’t there to stop it.
We move fast, cutting through the trees as gunfire erupts behind us. Sanford covers the rear, picking off stragglers as Atlas and Mal handle the last of the guards.
Then, just as the truck comes into view, a single shot rings out.
Nysa screams.
I whip around, instinct taking over as I pull her against me. Another shot. Atlas fires back, dropping the shooter before he gets another chance.
My eyes scan her frantically, my pulse roaring in my ears. Blood on her shoulder. A graze—not fatal.
But it’s enough to snap whatever was left of my control.
I lift her into the passenger seat, securing her in place. “I’ve got you,” I murmur, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.
She looks at me, her breathing uneven but her trust clear. And I know one thing for certain. This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.