Chapter 8
Eight
Russian mob. The words hammered against Liam’s skull as he slouched in Noah’s worn leather office chair, hands gripping the armrests. The file on local teens was spread across the desk—a half-finished puzzle, but his mind wasn’t on it.
How could it be when Nimue could be in danger? What if they were there now? The knot in his chest squeezed a little tighter.
He stared at the dog-eared pages of notes he’d reviewed dozens of times, but the names and dates blurred. How had his life spiraled into this? Barely more than two weeks ago, Nimue hadn’t existed in his world. Now the thought of her vanishing put a fist into his chest, swept out his breath.
Anyone with functioning brain cells would’ve let her go when she’d mentioned moving on.
What did he know about outrunning organized crime?
Absolutely nothing. But the image of her packing that mint-green bus, disappearing without a trace—his stomach twisted into knots that had nothing to do with skipping breakfast.
Besides, she’d been scared. And he didn’t like anyone he cared about being scared.
So yeah, he meant his words. He was in this.
He just prayed she believed him.
Just prayed she wasn’t back at her campsite, loading her gear. Maybe he should have made her stay with him…
What, like a puppy? She had work to do—the kind of work that meant tracking down whoever was after her. So after Meg stitched her up, he’d taken Nimue back to her bus.
And left his heart there with her as he clocked in for work.
So here he sat, fighting the urge to sprint back to her, duty chaining him to this chair. He could tell Noah the truth—his boss might understand—but every person dragged into this mess became another target. His jaw clenched. The pencil in his grip snapped.
He stared at the broken pieces, hands shaking.
This wasn’t just about her leaving. Someone wanted to hurt her. The idea sent a surge of anger through him, his pulse hammering in his ears—hello, what was that about? She wasn’t his to protect—not officially—but every instinct screamed otherwise.
He tried to focus again on the teen file that lay open before him.
Then he glanced at a few shots he’d taken of the destroyed bus—emptied drawers, shoe prints they’d found in the walkway, her shattered monitor.
His gut screamed the kids were responsible, especially with that high-end beer can left behind like a signature in the mystery package.
Their calling card, taunting him. But connecting them legally?
He sighed.
Noah appeared in the doorway, papers clutched in one hand, brow furrowed. “This damage report lists thousands of dollars’ worth of stuff. You really think teenagers did this?”
Liam’s throat constricted. Did he? Maybe. But voicing his suspicion about the Russian mob without proof meant potentially putting Noah in the crosshairs.
“Who else?” His voice came out flat, unconvincing. He needed acting lessons.
Noah’s gaze sharpened, reading between the lines. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Before Liam could fumble for an answer, Eden appeared beside Noah. “Line three’s holding. One of those parents you’ve been chasing.” She gestured toward the desk phone’s blinking green light. “Want to take it, Henry Cavill? Or should Sasquatch handle it?”
Eden looked between them expectantly, as if they’d automatically decode her latest nickname system.
Noah’s eyes narrowed. “Sasquatch? Seriously?”
She rolled her eyes with dramatic flair. “Trust me, mountain-man, it’s getting that bad. You are basically a hairorist. Clean up and ask Meg out before someone else swoops in. Eddie was practically drooling over her at lunch yesterday.”
Noah’s expression darkened, but Liam lunged for the phone. “I’ll take it.”
Noah pointed toward the speaker button.
Liam jabbed the button. “This is Liam.”
“Dan Carter here. Jason’s dad.” The voice sounded gruff and tired. “Look, I don’t have details, but Jason was mixed up in something yesterday with those other boys. Missed curfew. Came home acting cagey. I grounded him, but that’s all I’ve got.”
The knot in Liam’s chest loosened slightly. Unruly teenagers he could handle. He lifted one of the muddy shoe-print photos from Nim’s camper. “Any chance you could send pictures of Jason’s shoe treads? Long shot, but might help connect some dots.”
“Give me a few minutes.”
“Thanks, Dan. If you find out more, call me.”
The line went dead. Liam met Noah’s gaze. “I need to see Nimue. Tell her it’s just kids, not…anything else.”
Noah studied him, his expression unreadable, and Liam’s stomach clenched. He knew he should stay, compare evidence, do his job. But the thought of Nimue loading her bus right now, disappearing forever—
Stop panicking.
Still, his hands balled into fists.
“It’s important.” His voice dropped, nearly pleading.
Noah leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You’ve been off-kilter since you met her. What’s really going on?”
Liam’s pulse kicked up a notch.
“She’s a friend.” The words tasted like sawdust. “She’s been through a lot. I just need to check on her.”
Noah’s expression softened slightly, but his tone stayed firm. “You sure you’re thinking straight? You’re jumping at shadows. If she’s in real trouble, tell me. We handle things together.”
Liam shot to his feet, grabbing his ranger cap. “I’ll fill you in when I know more. Promise. But I have to see her now.”
Noah sighed, stepping out of his way. “Go. But be careful. Trust your gut, but don’t let it blind you to everything else.”
Liam nodded, already moving. Noah’s words followed him out, but his focus had narrowed to a single point—Nimue.
His Bronco roared to life, tires kicking up gravel as he peeled out. Forest blurred past his windows, but his mind stayed locked on her—that guarded smile, the way she’d leaned into him by the fire, her quiet strength.
He had zero experience protecting someone from Russian mobsters. Didn’t know if she’d even let him try. But he couldn’t let her face them alone. If Dan Carter’s kid and his friends had messed with Nimue’s bus, then it wasn’t the Bratva and maybe—maybe he could convince her to stay. To trust him.
But if she was right, if the mob had found her trail, he’d do whatever it took. Run, hide, fight—anything to keep her safe. Abandoning her wasn’t an option.
His knuckles went white against the steering wheel. When had she stopped being just an intriguing woman with secrets and become essential? When had her safety become more important than his own job, his own peace of mind?
The answer hit him as he took the final turn toward her campsite. Somewhere between that first run and that almost-kiss, she’d stopped being a mystery to solve and started being the person he…well, that he didn’t want to run from.
Now he just had to convince her to give him a chance.
Silence pressed against the bus walls like a living thing.
Nimue stared at her laptop screen, every blind drawn tight, the glow of the screen casting harsh shadows across the cramped interior.
Her palm throbbed where six fresh stitches held the gash together.
She dry-swallowed two more Advil. Too bad they didn’t make painkillers for the kind of ache crawling up her spine.
They’d x-rayed the package that morning, and the results had been a relief—a giant neon arrow pointing at teenage vandals.
But that was the problem. Everything pointed too neatly toward the kids.
The package with Liam’s name filled with trash and beer cans.
The lipstick message scrawled across her bathroom mirror: “Stay out of it.” The ransacked bus.
Breadcrumbs leading to an obvious conclusion.
The biggest tell? They’d destroyed everything—even slashed one of her tires. But her laptop and satellite equipment? Untouched. Pristine. Only one group would care about her digital lifeline, and it wasn’t a bunch of entitled teenagers.
Her fingers attacked the keyboard, pulling up logs from her network sniffer, searching for any trace of intrusion, hunting for digital fingerprints. She cross-referenced IP addresses, checked for unusual pings, anything that might confirm her growing dread.
Coco’s warning echoed in her skull. Could they have tracked her this fast?
The Bratva didn’t leave warnings. They left corpses.
And despite her momentary lapse of clear brain function when Liam told her they were in this together, she would have been long gone by now if not for that slashed tire.
Because if she went far enough, fast enough, surely she’d draw them away.
Because they may suspect she cared about him, but they didn’t really know for sure.
Maybe they’d assume Em had taught her well and she was just using him.
His promise to stick around only made her more sure of her resolve.
Leave. Keep him safe.
A soft ding interrupted her spiraling thoughts.
A new window bloomed on her screen—video feed incoming.
She clicked the keyboard, trying to stop it.
Her security measures shouldn’t even have allowed it.
But one thing she’d learned in this field.
No matter how good you were, there was always someone better.
Her blood turned to ice as a familiar face materialized. Angular cheekbones. Cold eyes. Sleek black hair pulled back.
Cruella de Vil, a.k.a. Teresa. The woman who’d tried to kill her.
“Good to see you again, Nimue.” Teresa’s voice was smooth, almost amused.
Nimue’s fingers froze over the keyboard. Her throat tightened, a cold knot settling in her chest. She forced her voice to stay level. “You here to finish the job?”
Teresa’s mouth curved into a predatory smile, eyes glinting. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be breathing. But don’t test my patience.” She leaned closer to the camera, voice dropping to a purr. “You took something from me. I need it back.”
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t play stupid. Four million dollars. Plus those files you thought you could hide.”