Burned (The Bachman Obsession #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

ERIN

The kindling snaps in my hand.

A clean, sharp crack shatters the frozen silence of the woods around Red Shutters.

I stare down at the broken stick as if it’s betrayed me.

Ridiculous.

It’s only wood.

Just a branch. Just bark, splinters, and sap, frozen hard under my fingers.

Just one more thing I’ve broken without meaning to.

Clouds drift in front of my face as I lower the pieces into the basket at my feet.

We’re supposed to be in New York right now. All of us. Together. Safe.

We’re not.

The cold here is different from the cold in the city.

In New York, winter is alive and dirty and filled with exhaust fumes and curbs of gray snow.

Here, the cold is quieter. Clean. The kind that settles into your bones till it almost scares you.

Behind me, Red Shutters stands tucked between the trees, warm light glowing through the windows like something out of a storybook.

Safe.

That’s what everyone keeps calling it.

The safe house.

The place Lucian brought me after blood, bullets, and betrayal. Then he brought my family. The place where Ryan sleeps peacefully. The place where Cass can rest without bracing for a monster to come through the door.

The place where Gregory has found his place beside his brother.

The place where we should all be breathing easy.

I glance back at the cottage.

Two stories, its shutters painted green, not red. Stone walls. Deep porch. Smoke curling from the chimney into the pale morning sky.

Everything about it should make me feel protected.

Instead, I feel watched.

Not by the men stationed in the trees. I know they’re there even when I can’t see them.

Bayne’s people move like shadows. Silent, trained, and tough enough to stand outside in this ungodly cold without complaint.

The Kings don’t make me nervous.

The threat of Lucian’s one true love coming to life does.

He’s set an invisible boundary to keep me safe.

He never called it that, of course. He made it sound reasonable. Practical.

“Stay within sight of the cabin.”

That was the first version.

Then it became, “Don’t go beyond the woodpile.”

Then, after one of the guards found fresh tire tracks two roads over, it became, “If you want air, you take Mack or one of Bayne’s men.”

And when I gave him the look that usually makes him half amused and half aroused, he leaned down, brushed his mouth against my ear, and said, “Don’t test me on this, Erin.”

Which, naturally, made me want to test him.

Not because I’m stupid.

I’m not.

I know what waits beyond these trees. I know Carlos is waiting, biding his time and preparing to strike. I know the Morettis are not finished. I know my old life did not die with Caleb on that filthy floor.

But I also know what it feels like to spend years surviving under other people’s rules.

And Lucian Bachman has a terrible habit of making imprisonment look like devotion.

The trouble is that I like his control.

I like it too much.

I like the way his eyes follow me when I cross a room. The way he reaches for me in his sleep. The way his voice drops when he says my name.

The way he stands between me and danger like he was built for it.

I like the bad in him.

That is perhaps the most concerning part.

I like the command. The control. The dark, terrible certainty of belonging to a man who does not ask the world for permission before taking what he wants.

I like being what he wants.

God help me.

I bend to gather another stick and shove it into the basket.

My cheeks sting from the cold. My fingers ache inside my gloves. The snow is thin under my boots, more frost than blanket, but enough to crunch as I shift my weight.

The woodpile is only a dozen yards from the porch.

I am being good.

Mostly.

I straighten, hugging my coat tighter around me, and catch the low murmur of male voices from the far side of the cabin.

I still.

The sound carries strangely through the trees. Not clear enough at first to make out words.

Just tones. Deep. Serious. Controlled.

Lucian.

Even muffled by distance, I know his voice.

It does something to me I hate and crave in equal measure. A tug low in my stomach. A tightening in my chest. A stupid little flicker of relief.

Then I hear another voice.

Rafe, maybe. Or Raphael. I still haven’t decided what to call him. He has the kind of face that looks wrong with anything as casual as a nickname, but everyone else seems to use both.

“…not confirmed,” he says.

The wind steals part of the sentence.

I should not listen.

I tell myself this while tilting my head toward the sound.

After all, this is what I’m really out here for.

Information.

He’s not sharing, so I must steal it.

Which may require me to cross that invisible boundary.

“She matches the photograph,” Bayne says.

My hand tightens around the basket handle.

A photograph?

Lucian says something too low for me to catch.

Then Blaze, unmistakable because he speaks like every word has teeth, snaps, “Dead women don’t just stroll back into the city.”

Every muscle in my body locks.

Dead women.

But they’re only talking about one woman. A beautiful woman from Lucian’s past.

One who left scars all over his chest.

And on his heart.

My pulse gives one hard thud.

The sensible thing to do is to turn around. Go inside. Make tea. Pretend I heard nothing.

I have never had a talent for sensibility.

I set the basket down quietly and move closer to where the men stand, farther from the cabin than I’m supposed to be.

I have to know. Is she out there? Is she coming here?

And if she does, will she want him?

I move again. Not far. Still within the general safety zone. Still near the woodpile.

Still absolutely doing the wrong thing.

The ground dips slightly beside the house where the snow has melted and refrozen.

My boot slides, and I catch the rough siding with one hand, my heart in my throat.

No one turns.

Good.

I press myself against the wall, breath held.

Rafe’s voice comes again. “If Carlos has her, or had her, then this is bigger than a rumor.”

Her.

My stomach twists.

We all know exactly who he’s talking about.

Lucian is silent for so long that the woods seem to hold their breath with me.

Finally, he says, “Say her name.”

My heart drops with a thud.

Why? Why does he need to hear it? Why does he need Rafe to say it?

Can’t she just go back to the past?

And stay away from my future?

Rafe lets out a long sigh. He’s not one to obey. At least not on the first request. But Lucian isn’t relenting. He repeats himself.

Three words.

Three words that set a storm of jealousy raging in my tight chest.

“Say her name.” He says those words flat, cold, and deadly.

Yet beneath his tone, something else moves.

Pain.

Pain and a feeling I can’t quite trace, one that makes the brewing storm inside me gather strength.

Lucian continues, “If we are going to face ghosts, we have to name them.”

I’ve heard Lucian angry. I’ve heard him amused. I’ve heard him order men to their knees and me to mine.

This is different.

This is the sound of a wound pressed too hard, like nails raking across the delicate scars on his chest. He’s in pain and something even he can’t figure out.

Love? Please, don’t let it be love.

Finally, Rafe exhales, her name delivered in the whoosh of his breath. “Isobel.”

The name narrows my world.

My hand slips from the wall.

A strange ringing fills my ears.

Lucian had a woman before me.

Of course he did. I am not an idiot. Men like Lucian do not become men like Lucian without a history written in blood, sex, and terrible choices. I knew there had been women.

Paid ones.

Nameless ones.

Those who followed his rules better than I did.

Especially his cardinal rule we both broke.

One night. And we never see each other again.

We shattered that one to pieces.

But she isn't one of those women.

She’s the reason the rules exist.

Isobel.

Not a name I know.

Not really.

Only the shape of it from Lucian’s sleep. Murmurs from nightmares.. Names tangled with smoke, betrayal, and death.

Carlos.

Fire.

Isobel.

This name makes Blaze stop joking.

This name makes Rafe careful.

This name makes Lucian sound like something inside him has been ripped raw.

When I want to be the only woman he feels that strongly for.

“She’s alive,” Rafe says.

“Impossible,” Lucian says. “It’s only a photo. Bait from Carlos.”

No one answers quickly enough.

That silence is worse than any confirmation.

I look toward the trees. Past the woodpile. Past the invisible line.

My body wants to run.

Not away from danger.

Away from humiliation.

Tears burn hot behind my eyes.

Stupid, stupid girl.

How silly of me to think I was the only girl living under Lucian Bachman’s skin.

Before her, we’ve been building something together. A patchwork family with no storybook beginning, but something beautiful all the same. Something I was naive enough to think would lead to forever.

I grip the edge of my coat, fingers digging into wool.

I’m not enough to keep him. If she shows up—Isobel—she’ll push me out. Away.

Not his.

I was only one night. A transaction. Probably bought to help him forget her.

A body offered because my family needed saving.

Then I betrayed him.

I walked into his life carrying a key fob meant to help his enemies destroy him. I lied with my mouth and kissed him with the same lips. I made him want me while I was supposed to hand him over.

And still, somehow, he kept me.

He protected Cass. He saved Ryan. He killed Caleb.

He brought us here.

Time has flown since that night I first met him. I’m not the same person. I’ve grown, aged, and changed. It’s like I’ve been buried under every bad decision, every bad thing that’s happened, and had to dig my way out.

Brushing off the dirt as someone new, stronger. Sassier. I push back now.

Just to be sure, he’s still holding me tight.

To make him look at me like I am his everything.

To reassure me I’m still his.

But what if I am only what came after?

What if I am heat and need and obsession, but not the woman who mattered first?

The woman they all thought was dead.

The woman whose name makes the great Lucian Bachman go still.

What if… Was I only a placeholder?

A sharp crack erupts beneath my boot.

I look down.

A twig.

Too loud.

The voices stop.

Every hair on the back of my neck rises.

For one wild second, I consider bolting into the trees like an absolute moron.

Then I remember there are armed men in those trees, and I am not in the mood to be tackled by one of Bayne’s mountain assassins before breakfast.

“Erin.”

Lucian’s voice.

Not loud.

Doesn’t need to be.

My stomach drops.

I step back from the wall, clutching my coat as if he has caught me naked instead of eavesdropping. Around the corner, four men turn toward me.

Blaze’s expression tightens.

Rafe’s face goes blank.

Bayne looks mildly entertained, which feels offensive under the circumstances.

Lucian does not move.

He stands near the porch steps in a black wool coat, hair pushed back, eyes flashing. He looks like a man carved from winter itself.

Then his gaze drops to my boots.

To where I’m standing.

Beyond the woodpile.

Barely.

But beyond.

His jaw flexes.

Oh, brilliant.

I’ve been caught crossing the border of Lucianland while spying on his dead woman convo.

Wonderful morning so far.

“I was getting kindling,” I say.

No one speaks.

The basket is clearly several feet behind me and almost empty.

Even Ryan wouldn’t buy that lie, and he once believed Cass when she told him green beans were green French fries.

Lucian’s gaze lifts to mine.

Dark. Controlled. Too controlled.

One word.

“Inside,” he says.

But it’s enough to make me almost hold my tongue.

“I’m enjoying the fresh air.”

Blaze mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “Here we go.”

Lucian’s attention does not flicker.

“Inside,” he repeats.

There it is again. That tone. The one that used to make me want to defy him just to feel the consequences.

It still does.

But today, something else burns beneath it. As if he needs my obedience like air.

I glance at Rafe. “Is she alive?”

Lucian goes very still.

No one answers.

Which is enough of an answer.

The cold slips under my skin.

“Erin,” Lucian says, quieter now.

My name in his mouth is usually a chain.

Today, it feels like a warning.

I take a step back.

Not toward the cabin.

Toward the trees.

The tiniest step. Barely a thing. Petty, perhaps. Childish, definitely.

Lucian sees it.

His whole body changes.

The man disappears.

The predator takes his place.

Before I can take another breath, he moves.

Fast.

The distance between us vanishes. His hand closes around my wrist, not painful but unbreakable. Heat shoots up my arm despite the cold, my traitorous body waking to his touch.

“Do not,” he says, his voice low enough that only I hear, “take another step away from me.”

I look up at him.

Big mistake.

His eyes are not cold now. They are wild beneath the surface. Not with anger.

Fear.

Real fear.

The sight of it knocks the fight out of me for half a second.

Then I remember the name.

Isobel.

“Why?” I whisper. “Afraid I’ll vanish too? Or is there something you’d like to fill me in on?”

His grip tightens.

Behind him, someone swears softly.

Lucian leans closer, his mouth near my ear, heat and velvet. “You’re playing with fire.”

My throat closes.

For one dangerous moment, I almost let him pull me inside without bringing me into the fold.

But I am tired of being on the outside of my own life.

I am tired of secrets.

I am tired of rooms where men speak softly about the dangers that decide my future while I stand outside gathering sticks like some sheltered little fool in a fairy tale.

So, I lift my chin.

“Then tell me who she is.”

Lucian’s eyes search mine.

A muscle tightens in his cheek.

“Inside,” he says again.

The word is quieter this time.

Worse.

Because this time it is not only an order.

It’s a warning.

I glance past him at the cabin, then at the men watching us, then at the woods beyond.

The invisible line.

The one I crossed by inches and somehow turned into a cliff.

Fine.

I step around him and head toward the porch.

He does not let go of my wrist.

Of course he doesn’t.

He walks beside me like a guard. A captor. A lover. A man holding on too tightly.

At the porch steps, I pause.

“Lucian?”

He looks down at me.

I hate how beautiful he is in the cold. I hate how badly I want his mouth. I hate how much I want to crawl inside his coat and hide there from a woman who may not even arrive.

“If Isobel is alive,” I ask, my voice barely steady, “what does that make me?”

For the first time since I’ve known him, Lucian Bachman has no answer.

And that silence hurts more than anything he could have said.