Chapter Three
Marius
I do not believe in coincidences.
Coincidences are what careless men call consequences they failed to predict.
By the time the black SUV turns onto the long gravel drive leading toward Briar Hollow Exotics, I already know three things for certain.
Someone used this land without the owner’s knowledge.
The shipment I am looking for passed through these woods within the last seventy-two hours.
And the woman who owns the farm has no idea yet that her life has already begun to change.
Rain slicks over the windshield in a thin silver wash.
Pine crowds the narrow drive on either side, dark against the dying light.
Willem says nothing from the passenger seat, which is one of the many reasons I keep him close.
I have no patience for men who fill silence just to prove they are not afraid of it.
In the back, Daan shifts once, then settles again as the tires crackle over wet gravel.
I rest one hand loosely on my knee and watch the property reveal itself in fragments through the rain.
Fence line. Outer pasture. Barn. Main house with amber lit windows.
Secondary enclosures farther back, more secure than I expected.
Not amateur work. Not decorative. Functional.
Expensive where it matters. Reinforced where it counts.
She built this place to last.
Interesting.
I read the file twice before coming. Leona Vale.
Twenty eight. No husband. No boyfriend anyone can confirm.
No criminal history. No significant debt beyond what comes with land, feed, veterinary contracts, and the constant uphill fight of keeping a place like this operational.
Local reputation: quiet, competent, private.
Too soft hearted, according to one source.
Difficult, according to another. The second source was a man, which usually tells me everything I need to know.
A property tells the truth faster than people do. My father taught me that long before I was old enough to understand why it mattered. A man’s home, his land, his table. Those things always betray the shape of him. People lie with language. Their choices lie less often.
The estate where I was raised was full of polished wood, old maps, locked drawers, and the constant understanding that affection was conditional but power was not.
By seven, I knew the difference between being tolerated and being valued.
By thirteen, I understood that softness was a luxury other people could afford.
By twenty, I had built a reputation strong enough that men twice my age stopped mistaking restraint for weakness.
Now they call me disciplined to my face and brutal behind my back.
Both are true.
The SUV slows, then comes to a stop. Through the rain dim light, I see her.
She stands near the fence line with one hand wrapped around a post, hood down despite the weather, blonde hair braided over one shoulder.
She is not tall, but there is length in her frame, a spare sort of strength that looks built by work rather than design.
What catches my attention is not her face at first. It is the stillness in her.
Not the frozen kind. Not helplessness.
Something quieter than that. Stronger.
The kind of stillness I have seen in wild creatures deciding whether to flee or hold ground.
I take her in once and then again. Green eyes bright enough to register even through the rain. Work worn boots. Canvas jacket. No performance in her. No smile meant to soften the moment. No nervous motion designed to charm or defuse.
She looks at my vehicle the way a wolf might look at a trap. Alert. Assessing. Ready to hate it.
I step out into the cold.
Rain touches my face, my coat, the back of my neck. I ignore it. The first sound beyond the engine is a bird somewhere near the barn giving a low, unsettled click. Then the horses shifting. Then, farther back, something heavier moving inside one of the enclosures.
Animals notice everything.
So do I.
I shut the door quietly and let the moment stretch. Leona Vale does not move. Most people react too quickly when they are nervous. They fill the air with questions, apologies, brittle politeness. They try to control the moment through noise.
She does none of that.
She only watches me, hand firm on the fence, shoulders squared despite the fact that she is alone on a darkening farm with three strange men at her gate.
That, more than her face, makes me interested.
I start toward her. I do not need to look back to know Willem and Daan have remained where they are. Good. Better not to crowd her immediately. Fear distorts observation, and I came for answers, not theater.
Still, I know what I look like in moments like this.
Broad shoulders. Pale hair. A hard mouth.
Eyes too cold when I stop bothering to soften them.
Men have called me Viking as both joke and warning since I was old enough to break bones cleanly.
There is an old brutality in me when I allow it to surface.
Her gaze stays fixed on my face as I cross the yard.
Good.
Better that she understands instinctively where the center of control stands.
When I stop a few feet away, I see her properly.
Rain has darkened strands of her hair to honey and wheat. Her skin is pale from the weather, flushed faintly at the cheeks from cold or anger. I will determine which. Her eyes are green after all. Not soft. Not warm. The sharp green of crushed leaves, deep glass, and certain forests in winter.
A beautiful woman, yes.
Beauty alone has never interested me for long.
There is something else here, something tight beneath the surface. She stands like someone used to responsibility, used to deciding quickly, used to being the one left holding things together while everyone else panics or disappears.
I know that posture intimately.
“You’re Leona Vale.”
Not a question.
Her jaw shifts. “Who’s asking?”
“Marius de Witt.”
No recognition.
That is interesting too.
Most people in these mountains know the name, even if they pretend otherwise. If she has heard it, she hides it well. If she has not, then she has kept herself farther from the circles that matter than I expected.
She takes one small step back. Subtle enough that a careless man might miss it.
I do not.
“You’re afraid,” I say.
“I’m cautious.”
“You should be.”
Irritation flashes across her face, quick and clean.
Good.
I dislike compliance. It often hides stupidity.
“You rescued a serval three weeks ago,” I say.
Her whole expression changes at once. Surprise first, then protectiveness.
“If this is about him, he’s not for sale.”
A quiet approval stirs in me before I can stop it.
“I’m not here to buy a cat.”
“Then why are you here?”
Because someone got sloppy. Because a courier disappeared. Because anything that brushes against my business becomes mine to correct.
But none of that is hers yet.
“Because someone used your property to move something that belongs to me.”
The words land exactly as I expected. I watch her face closely. Surprise. Unease. No guilt. No false confusion either. No attempt to perform innocence too quickly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know.”
That is the problem.
If she were involved, this would be simpler.
Instead, I step closer.
I see the exact moment she registers it.
The shift in her breathing. The awareness threading through her body.
I have seen it too often not to recognize it.
Attraction in dangerous moments is primitive.
Adrenaline sharpens it. Fear feeds it. Still, I notice the pulse at her throat, the steadiness in her gaze despite it, the anger that rises each time I look at her a fraction too long.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she says.
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve already decided something.”
I have.
Silence settles between us while rain whispers through the dark.
Then she says, “You can leave.”
No.
I move fully into her space, not touching, but close enough that the air between us feels occupied by something heavier than breath.
“I don’t leave things unfinished.”
Her breath catches. I register it. File it away.
For one brief moment something old and unwelcome stirs at the edge of memory. My mother’s library. Stories about kings, treaties, marriages dressed up as devotion when they were only power in finer clothing. Control has always known how to disguise itself.
And this woman. She does not belong to softness. Danger recognizes danger. Behind me, one of my men says something low in Dutch.
Her eyes flick past my shoulder, then return to me. “What was that?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
That is only partly true. I take one step closer, close enough now to see rain caught on her lashes.
“You should worry,” I say quietly. “Just not about me.”
That is the first real lie of the evening. She absolutely should worry about me.
The anger in her sharpens rather than folds. I can almost feel it happening. She is not the type to retreat into silence when cornered. She wants to push back. Test the edges. Make me earn every inch.
When she calls me arrogant, rude, half insane, I almost enjoy it. Most people swallow those thoughts. She offers them without hesitation, not because she is stupid, but because she is angry enough to stop calculating.
“You’re still standing here,” I say.
I watch realization move through her. She is still standing here. Still holding my gaze. Still choosing not to run even now, when instinct should be begging her to put distance between us.
Interesting is no longer enough.
I want to touch her, not for softness, but for information. Reaction. Proof.
Instead, I lift one hand and catch the loose end of her braid between my fingers. The gesture is brief. Deliberate. My knuckles brush the side of her throat.
She goes still.
The heat that hits me is low, immediate, and unwelcome in its force. Soft, I think. Not weak. Never that. Soft the way certain things are just before they turn violent.
“I wonder if you always are,” I murmur.
Then a vehicle turns somewhere far off on the road, and everything in me shifts at once. Calculation. Angles. Timing. Visibility. I step back. Distance snaps into place again.
“One of my men will remain nearby tonight,” I say.
Her refusal comes exactly as expected.
“No.”
“He will.”
“I don’t need protection.”
Everyone needs protection. Some simply do not know from what.
“And if I say no?”
“You can say it.”
She understands the answer in that.
I incline my head once. Not surrender. Acknowledgment.
“Tonight,” I say.
I turn and walk back toward the SUV. I pause once with my hand on the door and look over my shoulder. She is still there in the rain, jaw tight, hand clenched, body rigid with fury and something more complicated beneath it.
Magnificent, I think.
I dislike the word immediately.
“Lock your doors, Leona.”
She says nothing.
“You won’t sleep much,” I add. “You’ll think about this conversation instead.”
That is true. I know the effect I have. But Leona will not lie to herself about it. That makes her dangerous. I get back into the SUV. The door shuts. Rain crawls across the glass in silver lines as the vehicle begins to roll. Willem glances at me once.
“You want the perimeter checked?”
“Yes.”
“And the woman?”
I look back toward Briar Hollow as it fades behind us, amber light burning warm against the dark and rain.
“Watched,” I say. “Not touched.”
A pause.
“You think she knows something?”
“I think someone chose her land because they assumed no one important would notice a woman like that.”
“And they were wrong.”
“Yes.”
Rain streaks the window. I close my eyes for two seconds and no more. A woman with green eyes. A sanctuary full of predators. A missing shipment. And beneath it all, interest sharpening into something far more dangerous.
I open my eyes.
“Get me everything on her.”
Willem glances back. “You already have a file.”
“I want more.”