Chapter 1
SNEAK PEEK COMMANDER DADDY
Chapter One
Kayley
The world is white.
Not pretty, postcard white—more like erase-you-from-the-road white. The kind that swallows headlights, eats sound, and turns every mile marker into a dare.
My hands are locked on the steering wheel so tight my fingers ache, and the heater is blowing air that smells faintly like burning dust. The wipers slap back and forth in a frantic rhythm, but it doesn’t matter. Snow keeps rebuilding the windshield like it’s determined to win.
In the backseat, my baby makes a sound that slices straight through my ribs.
A thin, tired cry. Not the indignant, angry kind. The weak kind.
“No, no, no,” I whisper, leaning forward as if that will somehow make the road appear. “Hang on, sweet girl. Just hang on.”
I glance at the little mirror clipped to the visor.
Her cheeks are blotchy and flushed, her lashes damp.
The knit cap I pulled down over her ears is already sliding up again because she keeps turning her head, searching for me, searching for comfort I can’t give while I’m driving through a blizzard that feels personal.
The digital clock on the dash reads 2:17 a.m.
I don’t know where I am anymore.
I mean, I know the state. I know the general direction. I know the stupid, optimistic plan I made six hours ago—get to Timber Creek, find somewhere, disappear the way I’m supposed to.
But the storm came fast, like it was waiting.
My phone sits in the cup holder, black screen, dead as my hope. The charger cable is plugged in, but the car’s power port died when my check engine light started blinking an hour ago. Like the universe was making a list and checking it twice.
My tires hit a slick patch and the whole car fishtails.
My stomach drops.
“Please—please,” I gasp, correcting too hard, then too soft. The steering wheel shudders like the car is laughing at me. For one awful second, we drift sideways toward a ditch I can’t see until it’s right there—
Then I overcorrect again.
The world tilts, weightless and wrong, and I hear myself make a sound I didn’t know a human could make—something between a sob and a prayer.
The car slides. Spins. The back end swings out. The wipers keep moving like idiots.
And then—
Impact.
Not a crushing crash. More like a hard, jarring thunk as the tires hit something buried beneath the snow. A ridge. A rock. A drift turned wall. The engine coughs, rattles, and dies.
Silence slams down so fast my ears ring.
I sit there for a second, frozen, breath fogging the air, my heart a wild animal inside my chest. I wait for the airbags. For pain. For something.
Nothing.
Just the storm.
In the backseat, my baby whimpers.
That sound unfreezes me.
“Oh God—okay.” My voice is thin and shaky. “Okay, we’re fine. We’re fine.”
I twist around, reaching for her, unbuckling the straps with fingers that don’t feel like mine. “Mama’s here. Mama’s right here.”
Her skin is too warm when I press my lips to her forehead.
Too warm.
Panic crawls up my throat.
“Shh.” I scoop her up, blanket and all, and pull her against my chest. She’s heavy with sleep and fever and trust—like the world hasn’t taught her yet that trust can be dangerous.
My eyes flick to the rearview mirror.
White. White. White.
No other headlights.
No houses.
No sign.
Just snow, wind, darkness—and the knowledge that I made it this far and it still might not be enough.
I force myself to breathe slow. In. Out.
Think, Kayley.
The glove box. I pop it open, shove aside old napkins and a crumpled map, and find the cheap flashlight I bought at a gas station like I was a responsible adult. I click it on.
The beam is weak, but it’s something.
I grab the diaper bag, sling it over my shoulder, and open the driver’s side door.
The wind punches me in the face.
Cold air rushes in like a living thing, all teeth and fury. Snow pelts my cheeks and lashes, instantly melting on my skin and refreezing in my hair. I duck my head, clutching my baby tighter, and step out onto what I hope is the road.
My boots sink deep.
The cold bites through my jeans like they’re tissue paper.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “Okay, okay.”
My breath comes out in frantic clouds, and my brain starts doing that thing it does when fear takes the wheel—spinning through every worst-case scenario like it’s practicing for the apocalypse.
If I stay in the car, we freeze.
If I walk, I get lost.
If I call for help—
I swallow hard.
That last one is the problem.
Help has conditions. Help has paperwork. Help has questions. Help has men in uniforms who ask for your ID and look at you like you’re either lying or stupid.
And I can’t afford either.
Not when I can still feel the phantom pressure of a hand at the back of my neck, steering me like a possession.
Not when I can still hear the voice that said, You’re not going anywhere.
A gust of wind nearly knocks me over.
I stagger, catch myself on the car door, and squeeze my eyes shut.
My baby fusses, and I make a desperate decision.
We go forward. Not back. Not sideways. Forward.
I tuck my chin, hold the flashlight in front of me, and start walking.
Each step is a fight.
The snow is knee-deep in places, packed hard in others. The flashlight beam gets swallowed by the storm after a few feet, useless against the whiteout. My cheeks sting. My fingers burn. My shoulders strain from carrying the diaper bag and my baby and the weight of everything I’m not saying.
“Mama…” I whisper against her hat. “We just need lights. That’s all. Lights and warmth.”
I don’t know how long I walk.
Time turns weird in storms. Minutes stretch. Seconds compress. Everything becomes breath and step and the pounding of your own pulse.
Then—through the curtain of snow—I see something dark and solid.
A line.
Not a tree. Too straight.
A fence?
I push toward it, stumbling, and my boots catch on something buried. I go down on one knee, biting back a cry as snow floods the top of my boot.
But I’m close now.
The fence is made of thick wooden posts, heavy wire strung between them. Beyond it, shapes emerge—buildings. A barn-like structure. A cabin with a pitched roof. Another building with a wide porch, lights glowing faint and warm behind frosted windows.
Relief hits me so hard I almost sob.
A sign, half covered in snow, leans near the gate.
I wipe at it with my glove until the letters appear.
HAVEN 7.
My lungs seize.
I’ve heard the name.
Not from anyone I trust—no one says it casually, like Haven 7 is a diner or a motel. It’s always said low. Like it’s a place you don’t find unless you’re meant to. A mountain compound. A rescue center. A safe house. A rumor.
My throat tightens as I push through the gate, the hinges groaning in protest.
My baby whines again, face scrunching, and I bounce her gently. “I know, sweetheart. I know. We’re almost—”
The porch light flicks on.
My heart stops.
The door opens.
And a man steps out holding a gun.
He’s huge—broad shoulders, thick chest, the shape of him filling the doorway like a warning. He’s dressed in dark clothes that make him blend with the night, but the porch light catches his face.
Angular. Hard. Cut from stone and sleepless nights.
His hair is dark, his jaw shadowed, and his eyes—God, his eyes—are sharp enough to cut through the storm.
They lock on me.
Then drop to my baby.
Something changes in his expression so fast I almost miss it.
The gun stays raised, but his posture shifts. Not relaxed. Not safe.
More like… contained.
“Don’t move,” he calls, voice low and carrying over the wind like it was made for commands. “Hands where I can see them.”
My arms tighten around my baby.
“I’m not—” My voice cracks. I clear my throat and try again. “I’m not here to hurt anyone. Please. My baby’s sick.”
His gaze snaps back to me, scanning my face, my clothes, the diaper bag. He takes a step down onto the porch.
Snow collects on his shoulders instantly, dusting him like ash.
“What’s your name?” he demands.
My heartbeat stutters.
I should lie.
I should give him the name on the fake ID tucked into my wallet. The one that isn’t mine. The one I practiced saying in the mirror with steady eyes.
But the way he’s looking at my baby—like he’s already calculating how fast she’ll freeze, how quickly her breathing could change—makes honesty slip out of me like a confession.
“Kayley,” I say. “Kayley Banks.”
His eyes narrow.
“Banks,” he repeats, like it means something.
My stomach twists. “It’s just—my name.”
He studies me for a half-second longer, then his gaze flicks past me into the storm, alert, suspicious. Like he’s listening for something that isn’t wind.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes,” I say too fast. “I mean—yes. It’s just me and my baby.”
“How old?”
“Ten months.” My voice shakes. “She’s burning up. Please, I—I ran out of gas. The car—”
His jaw tightens.
He walks down the steps.
The gun lowers slightly, but it doesn’t go away.
He stops a few feet away, close enough that the heat of him feels real—close enough that I can see the faint scar slashing through one eyebrow and the lines carved beside his mouth, the kind you get from clenching your teeth through too much.
“What’s her name?” he asks.
I blink, thrown by the softness in the question.
“Maisie,” I whisper.
His gaze drops again. Maisie’s face is flushed, her lips parted, her breaths too fast.
The man swears under his breath.
Then he makes a decision.
“Come inside,” he says.
Hope hits me so hard it hurts.
I take one step, then hesitate. “Are you—are you going to call the police?”
His eyes snap to mine, cold again. “Do you want me to?”
Fear lances through me.
I shake my head. “No. Please.”
He watches me for a long moment, and something heavy passes between us—an understanding I don’t earn but somehow receive.
“Then I won’t,” he says. “Not unless I have to.”
My breath comes out trembling.
He motions with his head. “Move. Now.”
I hurry forward, boots stumbling through the snow, and when I reach the porch steps, he steps to the side to let me pass.
Up close, he’s even bigger. A wall of muscle and control, the kind of man who’s used to being the strongest thing in any room.
As I pass him, his gaze catches on something near my collar—my skin exposed where my jacket fell open.
A bruise.
I feel it like a brand.
His expression turns lethal.
I pull the jacket tighter, heart racing.
He says nothing.
But when he follows me inside and shuts the door against the storm, the click of the lock sounds like a promise.
Warmth hits me first—woodsmoke, clean air, something faintly like coffee. Then light. Golden and soft, spilling over wide-plank floors and heavy beams, a big stone fireplace roaring at the far end of the room.
A man’s voice calls from somewhere deeper in the building. “Boss? Everything good?”
The man behind me answers without turning his head. “We’ve got a medical situation.”
Boss.
That word lands.
This isn’t some random cabin. This is a place with hierarchy. With trained men. With rules.
My pulse skitters.
The man steps past me, finally tucking the gun away like it was never there. He turns back, eyes cutting over me again like he’s trying to decide if I’m a threat or a responsibility.
“Name’s Gavin Messer,” he says.
The way he says it—flat, like it’s just a fact—makes it somehow more intimidating.
I swallow. “I… I didn’t know who lived here.”
“You don’t.” His gaze stays on Maisie. “You just found it.”
I nod, bouncing her gently when she whimpers.
Gavin closes the distance in two long steps, and before I can flinch, his hand comes up—not to touch me, but to press two fingers to Maisie’s cheek, quick and practiced.
His face darkens.
“She’s hot,” he mutters.
“I know,” I say, voice breaking. “I tried—Tylenol, but she threw it up and—”
“Okay,” he interrupts, and the way he says it is pure command. “Listen to me. You’re safe here. Your baby’s safe here. But you do exactly what I say, when I say it. Understand?”
I stare at him.
Safe.
That word feels like a lie my body wants to believe.
My throat tightens. “Yes.”
Gavin nods once, like he’s filing that away. “Good.”
Then he raises his voice. “Doc!”
Footsteps thunder from a hallway.
My stomach twists, and I clutch Maisie tighter, suddenly aware of how I must look—snow in my hair, cheeks raw, eyes wide, holding my sick baby like she’s the last good thing in the world.
Gavin’s gaze flicks to my face. For a split second, something almost human flashes there.
Not softness.
Recognition.
Like he knows exactly what it looks like when someone walks in carrying fear and pretending it’s just exhaustion.
“Rafe handed me this place two months ago,” he says, almost to himself, as if he’s explaining it to the air. “Said he wanted more time with his family. Said Haven 7 needed a steady hand.”
His eyes meet mine again.
“And you,” he adds quietly, “just showed up in a blizzard with a feverish baby and a bruise you’re trying to hide.”
My blood turns cold.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Gavin steps closer, close enough that his voice drops low, meant only for me.
“Tell me who you’re running from, Kayley Banks,” he says. “Because if they’re close enough to make you drive into my storm…”
His eyes flick past the window, to the white darkness beyond the glass.
“…they’re close enough to find you.”
And right then—out there, somewhere in the blinding snow—
a faint, distant engine hum cuts through the wind.
Headlights flicker against the trees.
My heart stops.
Gavin’s head turns, sharp as a weapon.
His hand moves—not frantic, not panicked.
Calm.
Deadly.
He reaches for the gun again like it’s an extension of his body.
And I realize, with a sick drop in my stomach, that I didn’t make it to safety.
I made it to the place where the fight starts.