Chapter Nine
Atracking app sat in the corner of a folder he never used. Not his. Not something he’d downloaded. The icon stared back at him like an open eye.
Heat shot through his chest, fast and violent. Carter had put a tracker on him. Just like his father. No warning. No conversation. No trust—just surveillance dressed up as responsibility.
His pulse hammered in his ears. Heat shot through his chest, sharp and fast, and his grip locked around the steering wheel until the leather creaked.
A tight pressure climbed up his throat, the kind that made swallowing feel like dragging gravel.
His jaw clamped down hard, muscles bunching along the sides of his face.
The truck’s cab suddenly compressed smaller, the air heavier, as if the entire enclosure had shifted around him.
Of course Carter tracked him. His freedom came with strings attached. And once again someone else decided he couldn’t be trusted.
The slap of realization hit all at once, sharp and humiliating, and the truck suddenly shriveled and made it difficult to breathe in.
He locked the phone, tossed it onto the passenger seat, and gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles went white.
Freedom always came with strings. And apparently Carter tied his just as tightly as his father did.
Ethan started the engine anyway. The truck rumbled to life, loud and uneven, but steady enough to get him back.
He pulled out of the parking lot slower than before, checking the mirrors more than he needed to.
At every bend in the path, he felt a prickling sensation, as if unseen eyes were following him.
Every stoplight felt like someone was waiting to judge how long he sat there.
He eased off the gas. No more music. No more windows down. No more pretending he was just a guy running errands. He drove as if he were being graded.
At one point he almost took the long way back—an old habit, a leftover instinct from dodging his father’s trackers, but he stopped himself. Carter would see the detour. Carter would ask. Carter would know.
So he stayed on the straightest, safest route, hands locked at ten and two, jaw clenched so tight it ached.
By the time he turned onto the ranch road, his shoulders burned from tension. Dust kicked up behind the truck, curling in the rearview mirror like a ghost of the freedom he thought he had earlier.
Carter’s cabin came into view. And there he was—sitting on the porch like he’d been waiting the whole damn time. Ethan swallowed hard and parked. Before he could reach for a single grocery bag, Carter was already off the porch and walking toward him.
“Good timing,” Carter said, taking half the bags without asking.
Ethan nodded, falling into step beside him. His movements felt stiff, controlled—like he had to match Carter’s pace, Carter’s posture, Carter’s everything. He didn’t want to give the man another reason to tighten the leash.
They reached the inside entryway. Carter slipped off his boots, lining them neatly beside the door. Ethan mirrored him automatically, placing his own boots beside Carter’s at the exact angle. He didn’t even think about it. His body just… obeyed.
Inside, they carried the groceries into the kitchen. The cabin smelled like cedar and something warm—maybe the lingering scent of whatever Carter had cooked earlier. The counters gleamed under the overhead light.
Carter set the bags down and moved to the sink, bracing his hands on the edge. His posture was relaxed, but Ethan felt the weight of those eyes even without looking up.
Ethan stood there, heart thudding, the tracker burning a hole in his pocket. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask. Didn’t push. He just waited—quiet, careful, already slipping into the version of himself he had to be around men who scrutinized his every move.
And Carter watched. Even when he didn’t look like he was.
Ethan started unloading. He grabbed the milk first and opened the fridge, sliding it onto the middle shelf.
“No,” Carter said from behind him. Not sharp. Not loud. Just firm enough to stop Ethan mid-movement. “Top shelf. Left side.”
Ethan moved it without arguing.
Carter nodded once, then pointed to the next item. “Vegetables go in the bottom drawer. Fruit in the top one. Meat stays sealed until I prep it.”
Ethan followed each instruction, matching Carter’s pace, matching his order. When he set the strawberries in the wrong drawer, Carter reached past him, lifted the container, and placed it exactly where he wanted it—centered, label facing forward.
“Like that,” he said.
Ethan swallowed and mirrored the placement with the next container. Carter didn’t praise him, but he didn’t correct him either, which felt like the closest thing to approval he was going to get.
They moved through the rest of the groceries in a rhythm that belonged entirely to Carter. Ethan handled items; Carter pointed, adjusted, or silently approved. Every can, every carton, every bag found a specific home. No guessing. No improvising.
By the time the last item slid into place, Ethan’s shoulders had loosened, not because he felt relaxed, but because he’d slipped back into the version of himself that didn’t make waves. The version that followed rules before anyone had to repeat them.
Ethan stood there, hands empty, waiting for whatever came next—already tuned to Carter’s order, already bracing for the next instruction.
The tracker in his pocket felt heavier than the keys he’d returned.
Carter closed the fridge and wiped his hands on a towel, eyes flicking toward Ethan as if he was checking for something out of place.
“Good job at the store,” he said, voice steady. “Took you a while, though.”
Ethan’s stomach tightened. Of course, Carter knew. The tracker sat heavy in his pocket like a stone.
“Yeah,” Ethan said, keeping his tone light. “Ran into someone special.”
Carter leaned a hip against the counter, arms crossed—not confrontational, just… waiting. “Someone special?”
“Sarah,” Ethan said.
Carter nodded slowly, as if he were filing the name away.
The pause stretched just long enough to make Ethan’s pulse jump. Carter didn’t look suspicious—just curious in that unreadable way that made Ethan feel like he was being measured.
“Not a girlfriend.” Ethan said quickly. “I don’t have one.”
Carter hummed under his breath, a low sound that gave nothing away. “Didn’t say you did.”
He pushed off the counter and reached for the last grocery bag, but his eyes lingered on Ethan for a beat longer than necessary—like he was trying to decide what kind of “someone” Ethan might bring home if he had the chance.
Ethan grabbed the bag before Carter could, needing something to do with his hands. “Sarah just helped me shop. That’s all.”
“Mm.” Carter stepped aside to let him pass. “Good to know.”
The words were simple. The tone wasn’t.
Ethan carried the bag to the pantry—careful, controlled, already adjusting himself to whatever version of Carter he needed to face next.
Ethan stepped away from the pantry to the counter alongside it and pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered over Sarah’s name. The guilt hit fast—sharp, sour. Dragging her into his mess felt wrong, especially with Paris hanging over her like a promise she’d earned.
He typed anyway.
Ethan: Never mind about the file. Thanks anyway.
Sarah: Okay.
He locked the screen and slipped the phone into his pocket.
The tracker app sat there like a loaded gun he couldn’t unload.
If Sarah got caught, Dad would bury her chances for a Paris trip and to go to college.
If Ethan got caught snooping in Carter’s cabin, he wasn’t sure what Carter would do—but the tracker made one thing clear: Carter didn’t trust him.
Not really. Not enough to let him breathe without a leash.
His mind spun through possibilities. Maybe he could find the file himself.
Maybe Carter would leave the cabin sometimes—early mornings, late nights, those quiet stretches when Ethan had disappeared into the barn or the fields.
If Ethan timed it right, he could slip inside, check the desk, the drawers, and the laptop.
But the tracker.
The tracker ruined everything. Carter would see every step he took. Every detour. Every lie. Ethan’s stomach knotted. He wasn’t just being watched. He was being mapped.
He swallowed hard and forced his breathing steady. He needed a plan. He needed to figure out what Carter knew, what the file said, and how much danger he was actually in.
Behind him, footsteps approached—slow, deliberate, the kind that always made Ethan straighten his spine before he even turned around.
Carter stopped a few feet away.
“Are you pissed off about something,” Carter said, voice low and unreadable, “or am I imagining it?”
Ethan kept his eyes on the counter, pulse thudding against the tracker in his pocket. The most dangerous question in his mind wasn’t whether Carter knew he was upset. It was whether Carter already knew why.