Chapter 2
Chapter two
Megan
I’m already at Lookout Point, and the waiting is killing me.
The moon is a thin silver crescent tonight, casting just enough light to turn the lake below into a dark, rippling mirror.
My Jeep is parked nose-out on the dirt turnaround, engine off, headlights dark.
I’ve been here for fifteen minutes, my heart pounding like a war drum, the small digital recorder in my jacket pocket humming with anticipation, the cash envelope clutched in my hand like a lifeline.
The wind whispers through the cedars, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine, and something sharper underneath.
I keep my back to the cliff drop-off, eyes locked on the single dirt track that snakes up from the main road.
One way in. One way out. It’s a classic setup for a whistleblower meet, the kind that screams paranoia, but after six months of this story, I’ve earned every ounce of caution.
Sources vanishing like smoke, cryptic texts warning me off, shadows that feel like eyes on my back.
Tonight could be the break I need—the audio proof tying Deputy Harlan Tate to Victor Ramsey’s dirty money, the bribes that greased the wheels for those massive land grabs.
11:43.
Come on, Source_47. Don’t leave me hanging.
I shift my weight from one boot to the other, gravel crunching softly underfoot.
My fingers tighten on the envelope containing three thousand bucks in crisp twenties, a pittance for what this contact claims to have: recordings, timestamps, account numbers, the smoking gun that turns my story from local scandal to federal takedown.
Ramsey’s empire crumbles, Tate goes down with him, and I get the byline that finally puts me on the map.
11:44.
Any second now, those headlights should pierce the dark.
Instead, I hear footsteps. Not from the road, but from the shadows to my right, the dense cedar thicket, black as pitch.
I spin, my hand diving into my pocket for my pepper spray, heart slamming against my ribs.
A man materializes from the darkness like he was born in it.
Tall, easily over six feet, with broad shoulders that fill the night, long duster coat swaying with his stride, black Stetson pulled low to shadow his face. He’s moving fast, purposeful, boots silent on the gravel despite his size.
I open my mouth to scream, to demand who the hell he is.
His hand clamps over it first, his big, rough, calloused palm sealing my lips, smelling faintly of leather. His other arm bands around my waist like iron, lifting me off the ground in one effortless motion, pinning my arms to my sides.
Panic explodes.
I fight, twisting like a wild thing, kicking backward, my heel connecting with his shin. It’s like kicking a tree trunk—solid, unyielding. I throw my elbow back, and it glances off abs that feel carved from stone. I bite down on his hand, teeth sinking into the meaty part of his palm.
He doesn’t even grunt. Doesn’t flinch. Just shifts his grip, hoists me higher against his chest, and starts walking like I’m a sack of feathers, like carrying a thrashing, furious woman is just part of his evening routine.
I manage to wrench my mouth free for a split second. “Put me down, you bastard!”
“Quiet,” he says against my ear, voice low and calm, rough with a Texas drawl. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m getting you out.”
Getting me out? Out of what?
I thrash harder, nails raking at his arm, but he’s got me locked tight, his body heat bleeding through his coat into my back.
He’s solid everywhere, hard muscle, no give, the kind of strength that comes from years of pushing limits.
His breath is warm on my neck, steady, controlled, while mine comes in panicked gasps.
He carries me deeper into the trees, away from the overlook, to where a matte-black pickup is hidden under low-hanging branches.
The tailgate is down. He sets me inside it like I’m something breakable and explosive all at once, one hand still over my mouth, the other pinning my wrists together in his scarred grip.
Up close, in the faint moonlight filtering through the cedars, I finally see him.
Strong jaw shadowed with stubble, a thin scar running from the corner of his mouth down to his chin.
Eyes the color of a winter sky—pale blue, piercing, unreadable but intense, like he’s already mapped every escape route in my mind.
His hands are rough, scarred knuckles, calluses that speak of hard work, fights won, maybe lives taken.
And his voice, God, his voice, low, gravelly, the kind that vibrates through you, makes you feel it in your bones.
“Listen to me,” he says, leaning in close, his face inches from mine. “My name is Aaron Jenkins. Your editor, Laura Price, hired me. She knows you’re in danger. Those men coming up the track right now? They’re here for you. I’m your bodyguard. I’m getting you out alive. Nod if you understand.”
Bodyguard? Laura hired a bodyguard?
My mind races. Laura’s been nervous, sending me texts about pulling back, calls asking if I’m sure about the meet. But this? Sending a stranger to snatch me from the shadows?
I stare at him, heart still thundering. He’s not lying. I can feel the calm certainty in his voice, the way he holds me without hurting, just restraining. But trust? That’s a big ask.
Still, I nod once, sharp, reluctant.
He releases my mouth but keeps his grip on my wrists, loose now, almost gentle. “Good. We’re leaving. Stay quiet.”
I open my mouth to demand more. I want to ask how he knows Laura, why she didn’t tell me, what the hell is going on, but then I hear an engine, low and predatory, coming up the road. Headlights sweep the overlook, catching the edge of my Jeep in their glare.
Aaron’s eyes flick to the light, then back to me. “Decision time, Megan. You come with me now, or you stay and take your chances with them.”
The SUV rolls into the clearing. Doors open. Three huge men step out, moving with purpose, faces hidden in shadows.
I look at Aaron. He’s already sliding me deeper into the truck bed, pulling a heavy tarp over us both. Darkness swallows everything.
His body covers mine. He feels solid, warm, protective. One scarred hand stays lightly over my mouth, gentle but ready. His heartbeat is steady against my back. Mine is a wild storm in my chest.
The men’s voices carry. They’re muffled and angry.
“Where the hell is she?”
“Jeep’s here. She’s here somewhere.”
“Spread out. Find her.”
Boots crunch closer, gravel shifting under weight.
Aaron’s lips brush my ear, barely a whisper. “Breathe with me. Slow.”
I do. In. Out. Matching the rise and fall of his chest against my back. His body is a wall between them and me—hard muscle, controlled strength, the faint scent of soap and leather wrapping around me like a promise.
Minutes stretch. The footsteps circle the Jeep, pause near the tree line, then fade.
The SUV starts again, doors slamming, engine growling as it retreats.
They’re gone.
Aaron waits another full minute before he peels back the tarp.
Moonlight floods in again.
He helps me sit up, his scarred hands steady on my arms, lingering just a second longer than necessary. The touch sends a spark up my skin, unexpected but not exactly unwelcome.
I pull away, rubbing my wrists. “You could’ve just introduced yourself like a normal person.”
“Would you have come quietly?” His low voice rumbles, that drawl pulling at something low in my belly.
“No.”
“Then I made the right call.”
I glare at him, but it’s hard to hold when his face is this close. His strong jaw clenched, scar catching the light, blue eyes steady and intense, like he knows I’ll do whatever he says.
“This is kidnapping,” I say, voice sharper than I feel.
“This is protection.” He lifts me out of the truck bed with ease, hands on my waist, warm and sending another jolt through me. He sets me on the ground but doesn’t step back right away. We’re inches apart. I can feel the heat radiating off him.
“Protection from what?” I demand, ignoring the way my body reacts to his nearness.
“From the men who were coming to kill you tonight.” He rounds the truck, opens the passenger door for me. “Get in.”
I don’t move. “Prove it. Prove Laura hired you.”
He pulls a burner phone from his coat pocket, dials a number from memory, and puts it on speaker.
It rings twice.
Laura’s familiar worried voice comes through the speaker. “Jenkins? You have her?”
Aaron’s eyes meet mine. “I have her.”
“Megan?” Laura’s relief is palpable. “Oh God, honey, are you okay?”
I snatch the phone from his hand. “Laura? What the hell is this? You sent someone to kidnap me?”
“I sent him to save your life,” she says. “The story’s too hot. Sources disappearing. I couldn’t risk it. Aaron’s the best. Trust him. Stay with him until we know it’s safe.”
“I have a story to finish!”
“And you will. I promise. Just stay alive, okay? For me.”
I glance at Aaron. He’s waiting, arms crossed, strong jaw, scarred hands resting on his belt, that Stetson shadowing eyes that see too much.
I hand the phone back. “Fine. But this isn’t over.”
He pockets it. “Get in the truck.”
I climb in, slamming the door harder than necessary.
He rounds the hood, slides behind the wheel.
The cab feels smaller with him in it, his broad shoulders filling the space.
His scarred hands grip the wheel, knuckles white, and I can’t stop noticing the way his jaw flexes when he shifts gears, the faint scar that begs for a story, the voice that wraps around my name like velvet.
We pull onto a hidden back road, headlights off, driving by moonlight.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, voice steadier now.
“My cabin at the Lone Star Security ranch compound. It’s safe and secure. No one will find you there.”
I cross my arms. “And if I say no?”
“You already said yes.”
I glare at his profile. “You’re infuriating.”
He glances over, eyes meeting mine in the dim dash light. “You’re trouble.”
His look lingers—too long, too intense. Heat creeps up my neck, and I look away first.
The drive is tense, silent at first. But the chemistry is there, crackling in the air between us, in the way his low voice fills the cab, in the scarred hands that steer with quiet confidence.
This man just kidnapped me.
And I’ve never felt more alive.