Chapter 9 Raine
Raine
Owen Kettering turns out to be younger than I expected.
Early thirties, neat hair, collared shirt buttoned to the throat. The kind of man who looks like he irons his jeans. His handshake is firm but careful, the kind people in small towns use when they’re not sure which side you’re on yet.
“The place has good bones,” he says, crouching near the porch steps. “Needs structural reinforcement, maybe a new railing. Nothing too major.”
“That’s good news,” I say, jotting notes in my planner.
“Depends how you look at it,” he replies, glancing toward the ridge. “Upkeep like this takes manpower. And not everyone’s gonna line up to work the Voss property these days.”
I set my pen down. “Because of the feud?”
“Because of the Blackwells,” he corrects gently, brushing dirt from his hands. “They’ve got most of the contracts up here—distribution, equipment, even building permits. The board signs off on everything, and, well… the board’s mostly their people.”
A prickle crawls up my spine. “I don’t need their permission to fix a railing.”
Owen’s mouth twitches like he wants to agree but won’t. “Technically, no. But you might want to file your paperwork quietly before word spreads. The Blackwells don’t like surprises.”
Too late for that.
I follow him down the steps as he checks the foundation near the east wall. “You grew up here?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Born and raised. Left for a few years, came back when my dad retired. Your uncle was… different. Traditional, but fair. Most people respected him.”
“Most,” I echo.
He gives a noncommittal shrug. “The Blackwells respected him enough not to cross him outright. But now that he’s gone…”
“They think they can run me off.”
He straightens, meeting my gaze. “Can they?”
“No,” I say simply.
A smile flickers. “Didn’t think so.”
We walk the perimeter together, the morning sun sharp against the damp grass. He points out water lines, notes the slope of the land, and marks where drainage might need rerouting. His professionalism is steadying—for a while.
But that uneasy feeling won’t leave.
Every time he turns his back, I catch myself glancing toward the tree line. The ridge road glints faintly beyond the vines, hidden and open all at once.
His phone rings and he frowns at the screen, then walks a short distance away, taking the call.
I slowly turn, my eyes coming the area. The feeling of being watched still haunts me.
“Something wrong?” Owen asks as he steps beside me, following my line of sight.
“I thought I saw movement,” I admit, embarrassed by how tense my voice sounds. “Probably a deer.”
He frowns, scanning the trees. “You’re pretty exposed up here. Anyone driving that road can see the whole property.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I’ve noticed.”
He scribbles something on his clipboard, then lowers his voice. “Word of advice, Miss Voss—if you plan to stay, get cameras. Good ones. And keep your doors locked.”
“I already do.”
“Good.” He clears his throat. “And, uh… You might get a visit from Tristan Blackwell before long. He’s been asking about you.”
The words hit harder than I expect. “Asking?”
“Wanted to know if I was inspecting the ridge properties. Said he likes to keep the access roads safe.” Owen hesitates. “He’s not subtle, if you catch my drift.”
I swallow, my heart thudding in my throat. “Maybe he’s just being neighborly.”
Owen gives me a look that says he doesn’t buy it. “Maybe.”
We finish the inspection, his tone easy again, but I can tell he’s watching me carefully—like he’s measuring how deep I’m already in.
When his truck finally pulls away, I stay on the porch long after the sound fades. The wind moves through the vines, whispering over the wet leaves.
For a moment, I let myself believe I’m imagining the feeling of being watched, the hum of awareness that starts at the base of my neck and won’t fade.
But then I see a flash of movement at the far edge of the trees. Dark. Subtle. There and gone.
Maybe a shadow. Maybe not.
The air feels heavier when I turn toward the house. The porch boards creak under my feet, the sound swallowed by the quiet.
Inside, I close the door and press my palm against it, my pulse still racing. I tell myself it’s fine. That I’m safe. That I’m not crazy.
But the feeling doesn’t leave.
It just settles deeper—like something in the valley has started breathing with me.
By late afternoon, the house feels too quiet again.
The kind of quiet that doesn’t mean peace—just absence.
Owen’s truck has been gone for hours, but his warning keeps echoing in my head. “The Blackwells don’t like surprises.”
I try to shake it off by throwing myself into work. Scrubbing old countertops. Wiping down cabinets. Writing a to-do list in a half-dried marker across the calendar I hung on the fridge door because my planner’s already a mess.
Replace porch rail.
Call electrician.
Order tasting room signage.
But no matter how long the list gets, that restless feeling doesn’t go away. It’s like something is pressing against the windows, watching me.
I tell myself it’s nerves. The adjustment to this house. The sudden weight of running something on my own.
Still, I find myself double-checking every latch as the light starts to fade.
The estate feels bigger at night—every creak in the floorboards, every sigh in the pipes amplified until I can’t tell what’s real.
I flip on the old radio by the sink, hoping for noise. The signal crackles, sputters, then clears.
A familiar voice filters through the static, low and smooth. It’s that same damn song again—"Every Breath You Take.” Like I’m cursed by the Police or something, doomed to hear it whenever I turn on the radio.
I snort softly. “Great. Just freaking great.”
It should be funny. But it creeps me out. The hair on the back of my neck stands up in warning.
I turn the dial a little louder, drowning the silence with the rhythm of the song as I move through the kitchen, trying to focus on something mundane. Dinner. Washing dishes. Anything.
When the song ends, the static returns—a low hum that almost sounds like breathing. I glance at the radio, frowning.
“Seriously?”
I reach to turn it off, but before I touch the knob, the static shifts—a faint pop, then quiet.
I look out the window over the sink. The vines are motionless, the last light slipping behind the ridge. For a heartbeat, I swear I see something near the far fence—a darker shape, too solid to be shadow.
Then lightning flashes on the horizon and it’s gone.
The radio begins playing “Bad Moon Rising” by Creedence Clearwater Revival. It seems like an omen. Like the radio is trying to warn me something’s coming.
My reflection stares back at me in the glass—pale, wide-eyed, ridiculous.
“Get a grip,” I whisper. “Everything’s fine.”
I make tea. Eat half a sandwich. Then force myself upstairs when the clock hits ten.
The bedroom feels emptier than usual, the shadows deeper. I leave the TV on for light—an old sitcom laugh track filling the space like borrowed company.
The wind rattles the windowpane, a sound too close to breathing.
I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket higher. My last thought before sleep is that the house feels like it’s listening.
Footsteps steadily thud lightly in the hallway.
The door scrapes open.
And that same hockey mask, white and blank, emerges from the dark.
I’m running before I realize it—through the house and out the door. I keep going, sprinting through the vineyard, vines clawing at my arms as thunder breaks overhead. The mask flashes ahead of me, then behind me.
When I turn, he’s there. Close enough to touch.
He grabs me, slamming me against the fence.
His gloved hand slides around my throat, tight enough to keep me there without cutting off my air.
“Hello again, gorgeous.” The voice isn’t quite real—half whisper, half static—but it vibrates through me like a pulse.
My heart thuds against my ribcage. My pulse races beneath my skin.
Even worse, my panties are wet from excitement.
My lips part. “Why are you doing this?”
He leans forward, the mask a breath away from touching my face. “Because you want me to. You enjoy this.”
I start to shake my head, but his other hand grips my chin. “Don’t lie to me, Raine.”
My eyes widen. “Y-You know my name.”
“I know you, Raine. Better than you think,” he says, his voice low and distorted. “I’ve been watching you.”
“W-Who are you?”
He stares at me for so long, I don’t think he’s going to answer.
“You’re worst nightmare.” His eyes bore into mine. “Your biggest protector.” He inhales deeply, breathing me in. “Fuck, you’re intoxicating. Wild honey and rain.”
I try to speak, but the sound won’t come.
His fingers trail from my throat down my chest, slowly and deliberately. “Your body is incredible.” His thumb strokes my nipple and I gasp, a firestorm of heat shooting between my legs.
“I bet your pussy is wet for me, Raine.”
I want to scream that it’s just a dream, that none of this is real.
But I can’t.
Not when he’s touching me.
When his hand leaves my breast and finds my jaw, tilting my chin, the world tilts with it.
“You can pretend you don’t want this.” His breath brushes my ear through the holes in the mask. “But we both know you do.”
My body burns—fear, want, and confusion tangling until I can’t tell one from the other.
I jerk awake, drenched in sweat and shaking, the feel of his hands burning my skin.
The TV is still playing. The laugh track loops softly, too bright for the darkness surrounding me.
I press my palms to my face, trying to breathe.
It was just a dream. Only a dream.
But the heat in my body says otherwise.
I lay on my pillow, staring at the ceiling.
Why the hell do I keep having dreams about a masked man?
Worse, why is it the best part of my life here?
I lay there for hours, contemplating those questions like a broken record, but don’t have any answers.
When the first rays of dawn break through my window, I force myself out of bed and into the shower, hoping the water will wash it away.
By the time I come downstairs, the sun’s breaking over the ridge. The fog drifts low across the vines, gold tracing the edges.
I tell myself the worst is over. That I’m fine.
But when I glance out the window, I swear I see a tire track fresh in the mud near the edge of the property.
The wind blows, leaves shaking, swallowing the mark.
When it stills, the print is gone.