My Girl to Take (Wilder House #6)

Prologue

Logan

“I think it’s time we talk about your next steps.”

My father’s voice is calm, measured in that way he uses when he’s already made a decision. I know before he even says anything else that whatever comes next isn’t going to be good.

I lean back slightly in the chair, my arms folding as I watch him. There’s a tightness around his mouth, and his gaze flicks briefly toward the doorway before it comes back to me. That alone sets something sharp and restless loose in my chest.

“What kind of next steps?” I ask, keeping my tone even. I already have a feeling I know where this is going, and I want to hear him say it out loud.

He exhales slowly, his fingers tapping once against the polished surface of his desk before going still. “You’ve just turned eighteen, Logan. You’re an adult now, and I think it’s important that you start learning independence. Responsibility.”

I let out a quiet, humorless breath, my back teeth clenching as I tilt my head. “Independence,” I repeat, like I’m testing the word. “And you think I don’t have that already?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” he replies quickly, and that’s when I know for sure. This isn’t coming from him. Not really.

I push to my feet slowly, the chair scraping softly against the floor as I straighten to my full height. “Then what are you saying, Dad?” I press.

He hesitates. “I think it would be good for you,” he says finally, his tone firmer now, like he’s convincing himself as much as me, “to find your own place, to stand on your own two feet without relying on me. You’ve been…comfortable here for too long.”

A quiet laugh escapes me, sharp and disbelieving, as I drag a hand down my face. “Comfortable,” I repeat, my eyes narrowing as I take a step closer to the desk. “You mean living in my father’s house is suddenly a problem?”

His silence stretches just long enough to confirm it. “I think it’s time,” he says again.

And there it is. For a beat, I just stand there, staring at him, waiting for something else.

For him to take it back or say this is a misunderstanding.

That this isn’t really happening, but he doesn’t.

He just sits there, shoulders slumped, eyes heavy with guilt.

It makes something inside me twist harder than the words themselves.

“This is her, isn’t it?” I ask quietly, the anger settling deeper. “Ivy.”

His head lifts a fraction, his expression tightening. “This has nothing to do with—”

“Don’t lie to me, Dad,” I cut in. “You’ve never had a problem with me being here. Not once. So don’t sit there and pretend this is suddenly about independence.”

He looks away, and that’s all the answer I need.

“She said I’m spoiled, didn’t she?” I continue. “That I need to grow up. That I shouldn’t still be living here. Or what—she’s uncomfortable having me around now that I’m an adult?”

“That’s enough,” he says, a hint of steel entering his voice, but it’s not directed at me. It never really is.

I shake my head slowly, a bitter smile pulling at my mouth. “You’re choosing her,” I say, the realization settling in fully now, solid and undeniable. “You’re actually choosing her over me.”

“I’m not choosing anyone,” he insists, pushing to his feet now, his hands braced against the desk as he leans forward. “I’m doing what I think is best for you.”

“Best for me?” I repeat, my voice cracking with disbelief before hardening again. “You’re kicking me out of my home because your wife doesn’t want me here. And you’ve decided that’s what’s best for me?”

His face tightens, pain flashing across it, but he doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t take it back. And that’s what hurts the most. For a moment, neither of us speaks. The silence is thick and suffocating as everything between us shifts, cracks forming in something I always thought was unbreakable.

“Fine,” I say finally, the word coming out quieter than I expect. “If that’s what you want.”

“Logan—”

“No,” I cut him off and step back, putting distance between us because I can’t stand too close to him right now without saying something I won’t take back. “You’ve made your decision. I get it.”

“Son, listen to me—”

“I said I get it,” I repeat, my voice sharper now, my control slipping just enough to let the anger bleed through. “You want me out? I’ll go. But don’t stand there and pretend this is for me. At least have the decency to own it.”

I turn away before he can say anything else—before I can see anything more in his face that might make this harder than it already is. I head for the door without looking back.

“Logan,” he calls after me, his voice rougher now, almost pleading.

I pause for half a second, just long enough for the hurt to settle deep.

Enough to remember every version of him that never would have done this.

Then I keep walking. I don’t stop until I’m out in the hallway.

The door closes behind me with a quiet click that somehow sounds louder than anything we just said.

And it’s done. I don’t want to pack any of my clothes.

My father has just reminded me that nothing is really mine since I didn’t earn it.

Good riddance. As I make my way toward the front of the house, my steps steady despite the storm raging inside me, I barely notice the small figure standing near the staircase until I’m almost past her.

Kiera.

She’s watching me with wide, uncertain green eyes. Her small hands are clasped tightly in front of her like she’s not sure if she should say something or stay quiet. And for a moment, I just look at her, trying to place her in the middle of everything that just happened.

She’s never been a problem. Never been anything, really, beyond a quiet presence in the house. So I give her a brief nod, more out of habit than anything else, and keep moving.

By the time I reach my car, the hurt has settled into something colder, something heavier. I yank the door open, sliding into the driver’s seat with a sharp exhale as I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white. If I could, I’d leave the car behind, but I need it to get away from here.

I don’t look back at the house. I’m just about to start the engine when I hear footsteps, quick and uneven. Before I can react, there’s a small knock on the window. I turn, irritation flaring for a split second before I see her again.

Kiera.

She’s slightly out of breath. Her reddish-brown hair is a little messy, like she ran the whole way, holding something in both hands and clutching it carefully like it matters.

I roll the window down a few inches, frowning slightly. “What is it?”

She doesn’t answer right away, just holds something out toward me. It takes me a second to recognize it. And when I do, everything else fades. A photograph, framed, the wood chipped at one corner but unmistakable—my mother, smiling softly, holding me as a baby.

My chest tightens, grief and hurt hitting me right in the middle of everything else. I reach for it without thinking, my fingers brushing hers briefly as I take it.

“I…you left it,” she says quietly, her voice small but steady. “I thought you’d want it.”

I stare at the photo, my throat closing as memories I don’t usually let myself sit with push forward, uninvited and relentless.

“Yeah,” I murmur finally, my voice rougher than I expect. “I do.”

I glance up at her then, really looking at her this time, taking in her anxious stare. “Thank you,” I say, the words simple but genuine.

She nods quickly, then steps back. I don’t say anything else.

I just roll the window back up, start the engine, and pull away from the house without looking back.

This time, I don’t hesitate. As the gates close behind me, sealing that part of my life off for good, I make myself one promise, cold and absolute.

I’m not coming back. Not for him. Not for anyone.