Chapter Twenty-six – Holt
The second I catch movement at the tree line, everything else drops away. Not fades—drops.
The storm becomes pressure instead of noise.
The house behind me dissolves into the background until all that’s left is distance, direction, and the instinct that something is wrong in a way that can’t be ignored.
Rook is already gone, a dark streak across the yard, and that alone is enough to shove adrenaline straight through my system.
That’s always the problem. He doesn’t hesitate and neither does she.
Lark is already pulling against my grip before I’ve fully tightened it around her wrist, her body angled toward the yard like she’s about to bolt after him.
“Don’t,” I say, sharper than I intend.
“I’m not leaving him out there.”
“I know.”
That’s exactly the problem.
Lightning splits the sky again, closer this time, illuminating the entire field in one brutal, frozen moment. The barn. The fence line. The trees. The place where I thought I saw movement. Gone as soon as the dark crashes back in.
“Inside,” I tell her, turning toward her, but she’s already shaking her head.
“No.”
“Lark—”
“I saw it.”
That stops me. Her voice isn’t panicked.
It’s steady in a way that makes the air in my lungs feel suddenly thinner, because it means I didn’t imagine it.
Rain drives sideways across the porch, cold and immediate, soaking through my shirt the second I step off the first stair.
The ground gives under my boots, mud slick from the earlier storm, forcing me to adjust my footing without slowing down.
I can hear her behind me—close, too close—but I don’t waste time telling her to go back.
She won’t.
“Rook!” she calls, her voice cutting through the wind.
No response, just thunder rolling low and the sharp, metallic slam of something loose near the barn.
Then I hear it.
Glass. Sharp and sudden beneath the storm.
I stop immediately, turning toward the barn.
“What?” Lark asks behind me.
Another crash echoes through the wind. Not loose metal. Not the storm. Something deliberate.
My stomach tightens.
“Stay behind me.”
This time, she doesn’t argue.
We move fast across the yard, boots slipping through mud as rain lashes sideways hard enough to sting. Rook barks again—sharp, frantic—and the sound pulls us harder toward the small barn we’ve been storing some of Lark’s restoration pieces in.
The door slams against the frame as we reach it, swinging unevenly in the wind. The overhead light inside flickers. And then I see it. Wood splintered across the floor. Shattered glass.
One of the antique sconces Lark spent late nights restoring lies broken near the center aisle, pieces scattered through muddy footprints.
My pulse spikes instantly.
“Jesus,” Lark breathes behind me.
The worktables have been torn apart. Blueprints soaked. Paint splashed across stacked trim boards and salvaged materials waiting to go back into the inn. Deep gouges carved through cabinet fronts.
And written across one of the tarps in dripping black paint—
YOU DON’T BELONG HERE
The words hit like a punch.
Rook growls low beside me. Lark moves before I can stop her, crossing deeper into the barn, eyes scanning the destruction like she can’t decide what hurts worse—the damage or the violation of it.
“She was here,” she says quietly.
Yeah. She was.
My gaze catches on movement near the back stall.
A shadow.
Still.
Watching.
Lightning flashes, and for half a second, I see her face.
Smiling.
Then she runs.
“Fuck.”
I shove through the barn doors without thinking.
“Holt!”
Lark’s voice follows me into the storm, but adrenaline has already taken over.
Mud tears at my footing as I push toward the tree line, rain blurring everything beyond ten feet. I catch movement once—dark hoodie disappearing between the trees—but Kenzie knows this property too well now.
Too many blind spots.
Too many places to disappear.
I stop before I lose visibility completely, chest heaving as thunder cracks overhead hard enough to shake the ground beneath my boots.
That’s when I hear Lark gasp behind me. I turn instantly. She’s standing near the broken worktable now, one hand braced against the edge.
Blood runs down her forearm, not deep, but enough. Enough to make something violent twist in my chest.
I cross the space in seconds. “What happened?”
“Glass,” she says, breathing unevenly. “I didn’t see it.”
I grab her wrist carefully, turning her arm just enough to inspect the cut.
Rainwater drips from her hair onto the floor between us.
“She destroyed everything,” Lark whispers.
“No,” I say immediately.
Her eyes meet mine.
“Not everything.”
Something shifts in her expression then, not because of the words, but because she believes I mean them.
I press the cleanest part of my shirt against her arm before looking once more toward the open barn doors, toward the dark where Kenzie disappeared.
This isn’t random anymore. It isn’t intimidation. It’s obsession. And next time, I know she won’t stop at the inn. Or the farm.
She’ll come for Lark directly.
I check the cut again before pressing the rag back into place. “We’re done here.”
Her gaze sharpens. “The barn…my things…”
“Can wait.”
“It can’t—”
“It can,” I cut in, more forcefully than I intend. “You don’t stay out here after that.”
For a second, I expect her to push. Instead, something shifts in her expression. Not surrender, but understanding.
She nods once. “Okay.”
I help her to her walk, my hand settling at her waist without thinking. Rook stays close this time, quiet, watchful.
The walk back to the house feels longer than it should. The storm doesn’t let up, but something else has changed. Before, we were reacting. Kenzie isn’t circling anymore. She’s closing in.
And next time—I’m not letting her walk away.