Chapter 15 Wyatt
Wyatt
Sadie only left about ten minutes ago to walk Maisie toward the pasture fence, but my jaw is already tight, my shoulders locked, as if waiting for impact.
The cabin is too quiet without her in it.
It doesn’t make sense. We’ve only known each other for three weeks.
But it’s not about time. It’s about truth.
And everything about her feels true.
How she looks at me without flinching. How she hands me a mug like it’s natural. How she gives herself to me every night without reserve. How she softens when she curls against me afterward and whispers goodnight.
She’s burrowed under my skin and taken root so fast it ought to scare me.
Instead, it feels like breathing for the first time in years.
I grab my phone off the counter and tap open the group thread with Tank and Tex.
Tex: South fence cam picked up movement at 04:37. Just before dawn. Looked like a snowshoed figure. Could be nothing, but…
Tank: You think someone’s scouting the ridgeline?
Tex: I’ve got the drone up at first light tomorrow. If someone’s sniffing around, we’ll find them.
Tank: Jessie’s been jumpy too. I’m running extra sweeps before sundown.
Saint: I’ve got a bad feeling. Keep eyes out.
Tex: Locked and loaded. We got you.
Tank: We protect our own. No one touches our girls.
I stare at that last line for a beat.
Our girls.
He’s right. Every cell in my body knows Sadie is mine. And I’m hers.
I’m still staring at the screen when a crack splits the air like a thunderclap.
A gunshot.
The mug in my hand hits the floor and shatters, but I’m already through the door, boots pounding the porch, heart punching against my ribs like it’s trying to break free.
I don’t think. I move.
Snow churns under my feet as I sprint toward the pasture trail.
The air is sharp and still—and wrong. Maisie’s frenzied barking echoes through the trees.
Then I see a shape on the ground, half-hidden by the drifted edge of the field.
Sadie.
Christ. No.
My blood goes ice cold.
For one blinding second, I think she’s dead.
She’s not moving. Red spreads like an inkblot over her arm, staining my coat. Maisie stands over her, barking sharp and relentless, pushing her nose against Sadie’s shoulder like she’s trying to keep her awake.
“Sadie!”
I skid to my knees beside her, hands already reaching.
She lifts her head—barely. Eyes wide and stunned. Her breath comes in short, quick pants.
“Wyatt…” she gasps. “I think someone—”
Her voice shakes too badly to finish.
I cradle her face, checking pupils, pulse, anything that tells me she’s here.
She clutches her upper arm, blood seeping between her fingers. “I didn’t even see—didn’t hear it coming.”
“I’ve got you,” I say quickly. “Stay with me.”
I cradle her face with one hand, the other already running a fast, practiced sweep down her limbs.
Pupils reactive. Pulse thready but there. No signs of shock yet, but the adrenaline’s masking half of it.
Her shoulder’s bleeding badly, but it’s not arterial. I gently peel her fingers away from the wound.
“Upper arm,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “Through-and-through maybe. No exit?”
I check. No exit.
“You feel anything else? Chest? Back? Gut?”
She blinks hard, trying to scan herself, still caught in the swirl. “I-I don’t think so. Just my arm.”
I nod once, already pulling gauze from the side pocket of my coat. “Okay. Then we focus on that. You’re gonna be fine, Sadie. You hear me?”
I scoop her into my arms and rise, holding her tight against my chest. Her head drops to my shoulder. She whimpers once, soft and pained.
“I’ve got you,” I repeat, voice steady even though nothing inside me is.
Maisie follows at my heels, barking now toward the tree line—alert, alarmed.
I move fast across the field, boots crunching through snow. Sadie's weight is nothing in my arms, but every step jostles her, and she flinches against me.
The cabin door is still open from when I ran out. I shoulder through, Maisie darting in ahead of us.
I kick the door shut behind us with my heel, then flip the lock one-handed while keeping Sadie secure against my chest.
Straight to the kitchen table—the best light, the most space. I need to see what I’m working with.
My boots track snow and mud across the floor. Sadie’s boots are caked in it too, laces dragging. I don’t care.
I lower her carefully into the nearest chair, steadying her with one hand while I shrug out of my coat with the other. It hits the floor. Her coat is still on, soaked through at the shoulder, sleeve dark with blood.
Maisie circles us once, whining, then plants herself beside Sadie’s chair.
I push my sleeves up, rubbing my hands together fast. They’re cold from the snow, and I don’t want to touch her wound with frozen fingers.
“I’m okay,” Sadie says. Too fast. Too high.
“What happened?”
“I was standing by the fence, and there was a sound like a pop.” She swallows hard. “It was so loud. And then the pain…”
She’s pale, breathing fast, her gaze unfocused. Shock is setting in. I’ve seen it enough times to know the signs.
I quickly wash my hands, grab the med kit, and crouch in front of her. “Let me see.”
She hesitates, then nods.
I carefully help her out of the coat and toss it aside before peeling back the shredded sleeve of her shirt, assessing as I go.
The bullet grazed the outside of her upper arm and burned a furrow through skin and muscle about three inches long.
Deep enough to bleed, shallow enough that it missed anything vital.
No arterial spray. No bone fragments. The edges are clean, slightly cauterized by the heat.
A warning shot.
Someone is playing with her.
The thought almost drops me to my knees with rage, but I lock it down. She needs me steady.
“This is going to sting,” I warn, reaching for the antiseptic.
She nods, jaw tight.
I irrigate the wound with saline to flush out any debris. She hisses but doesn’t pull away. I work fast, checking for foreign material, making sure the track is clean. No fabric embedded. No powder burns beyond surface level.
“You’re doing good,” I murmur, applying pressure with gauze to slow the bleeding. It’s already clotting. Her body’s doing what it should.
I pack the wound with sterile gauze, then wrap it with even pressure. Not too tight—don’t want to cut off circulation. Secure enough to hold through movement.
She watches me with wide, frightened eyes.
I tape off the bandage, then check her pulse at the wrist. Fast, but strong. Her fingers are warm. Good perfusion.
“Can you move your fingers for me?”
She flexes them. All five respond.
“Good. No nerve damage.” I meet her eyes. “You’re going to be okay. It looks worse than it is.”
She nods, but her hands are still shaking.
Crossing to the sink, I wash my hands again, scrubbing hard until the water runs clear. The towel I drop on the counter is streaked pink. I fill a glass with water and grab strong painkillers from my med kit.
“These will help with the pain,” I say, handing both to Sadie and watching as she downs the pills.
I take her empty glass and place it in the sink. When I turn back, Sadie’s cradling her injured arm against her chest. The bandage is already showing a small red spot—normal seepage, nothing to worry about—but she’s staring at it as if it might fall apart.
“You’re good at this,” she says quietly.
“Lots of practice.” Too much practice. I don’t say that part.
She trembles. Shock is still working through her system. An adrenaline crash is coming any minute now.
Maisie whines from her spot beside the chair, nudging Sadie’s knee with her nose.
I move back to her, keeping my movements slow and predictable. “Come here, sweetheart.”
I pull her into my arms. Hold her tight. Feel her shaking against me.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I murmur. “But I’m not letting this slide. Someone took a shot, and they will answer for it.”
Tears pool in her eyes. “Jesus… I didn’t see anything.”
I press my forehead to hers. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you. They’ll never get close again.”
She breathes out, shaky. “I’m okay.”
“No,” I say gently. “But you will be.”
Maisie noses her side. Sadie gathers the dog close, burying her face in the fur as the shock trembles through her.
I let her cling until her breathing evens.
Then I ease her onto the couch, Maisie pressed close.
Once I’m sure Sadie is warm and stable, I step into the kitchen and grab my phone from the counter.
I type fast, my fingers still trembling, fury simmering under my skin.
Me: Someone took a shot at Sadie. Bullet grazed her upper arm.
The dots appear immediately.
Tank: Jesus. You need backup?
Tex: Drone picked up a heat signature on the tree line. Moving east. I’m tracking.
Tank: I’m sweeping west. Keep Sadie inside. Arm the cabin.
Tex: I’ll review the drone footage from the last three days. If anyone got close, we’ll find them.
Tex: You good? Sadie?
I stare at the screen, jaw tight. I’m nowhere near good.
Me: She’s shaken. But holding it together.
Me: I’m not okay until whoever did this is gone.
Three dots. Then:
Tex: We’ll find the fucker. Sadie is one of ours now.
Something inside me eases a fraction.
Yeah. She is.
And she’s not running anymore.
I tuck the phone away and look back toward the couch.
Sadie is curled under the quilt, hair mussed, face pale. But her eyes track me the moment she senses movement, as if I’m the only solid thing in the room.
And hell… maybe I am.
After the adrenaline fades and we’ve eaten a little, I make another sweep of the perimeter, scanning every tree line and ridge break for anything out of place.
When I return, Sadie is still curled on the couch, Maisie pressed tight against her side, the firelight flickering over her skin. She’s dozing lightly, but her hand is curled protectively around the dog’s paw.
My throat tightens.
Christ, this woman. I didn’t stand a chance. Not against this kind of quiet strength.
I sit down beside her, careful with her injured arm.
She stirs, blinking up at me. “I didn’t mean to sleep.”
“You needed it.”
She nods slowly, pushing herself upright. “Wyatt…”
“I know.”
I already know what she’s going to say—fear trying to take the wheel again.
Her eyes fill, and she blinks fast.
I open my arms.
She doesn’t hesitate.
I help her climb onto my lap, one hand firm at her back, the other sliding up to cradle the base of her skull.
She shifts closer, tucking her face into my neck. “I don’t want to be afraid anymore,” she whispers.
“You don’t have to be,” I murmur. “Not with me.”
She lifts her head, searching my face like she’s trying to decide whether she’s allowed to want this much.
Then she kisses me. Soft. Gentle.
I pull her closer, careful of her arm, angling her against me so she’s fully supported.
She breathes into my mouth, a small, wrecked sound that goes straight to my spine.
My thumb skims her cheek. “Sadie…”
Her eyes flicker, then settle on mine with something raw and certain. “I’m yours, Wyatt. Forever,” she whispers. “If you want me.”
I exhale hard. “I want you more than anything,” I say roughly. “But only if you choose it.”
Her breath shudders. “I already chose,” she says. “I’m choosing you.”
She melts into me, warm and real and alive.
And for the first time since that shot rang out, my heartbeat finally slows.
Because she’s here. And she’s safe.
For now.
But whoever took that shot?
They’re already dead.
They just don’t know it yet.