Chapter Eighteen
Darhg
The bitterly cold air hits my lungs like broken glass, but my rage burns hot in the winter night. That bottom-feeding gnome has trespassed on my property and violated our privacy. He's photographed Rona in our home, in the one place I promised she'd be safe.
Anger flares red-hot inside my veins, making my vision sharpen. Thousands of years of protective ogre instincts flood my brain.
I have the advantage of my long legs, but gnomes are famous for their speed and Gribble's legs carry him quickly toward his van, parked behind a tall pine at the far end of my driveway. Just far enough that I didn’t hear it come up the drive from inside the house.
I redouble my effort, pumping my legs as fast as I can through the knee-deep snow that crunches and sprays with each thundering step.
Gribble rounds the corner fast and trips in the drift, then he scrambles back up with the lens clutched to his chest like stolen treasure.
Snow explodes around his stumbling feet as he flails toward his vehicle, when I reach for him and slip on a patch of ice underneath all that fresh snow.
He glances over his shoulder, a grin on his face.
He thinks he’s going to get away with this.
Not happening.
But the gnome is even faster than I expected.
He reaches the van when I’m still over a dozen feet away.
He yanks open the driver’s door with surprising agility, his pointed ears flushed red from cold and exertion.
The engine roars to life just as my boots find purchase on the icy gravel of the drive.
"Hey!" I bellow, close enough now to see his panicked yellow eyes in the side mirror.
Gribble slams the van into reverse, tires spinning wildly on the snow-slicked surface before finding traction. I lunge forward, veering to the side and running toward my SUV. I jump behind the wheel a few seconds later, just as Gribble’s van lurches forward with the crunch of tires on snow.
I hit the fob and my SUV roars to life. I don’t hesitate.
I have years of experience in dangerous driving situations.
I performed many dangerous extractions before.
A slimy reporter is not going to get the best of me.
My SUV surges forward and I swerve just in front of Gribble’s van to block his path out of the narrow mouth of the driveway.
He hits the brake hard, and I see his terrified face when he looks at me through the windshield. His yellow gaze is wide and panicked as he glances around.
But he has no escape route. This cabin is remote enough that if he wants to get away from me, he’s going to have to make a run for it. But we both know he has no chance of escaping me.
Not in my territory.
He still slams the van into reverse and floors the gas, but it’s just one of his many mistakes. He’s not used to driving in winter conditions, apparently. His tires spin uselessly in the packed snow. He doesn’t stop, even when I step out of my vehicle and stalk toward him.
As I approach, the only sound above the tires spinning is the shouted curses that he threads on, one after the other.
My hand closes on the handle of his driver’s door with deliberate force, and I jerk it open to a cascade of used coffee cups and take-out containers emanating from his cramped mobile office.
"Out," I say, my voice level and final. "Now."
Gribble protests on reflex, his voice thin and reedy in the frigid air, his breath visible in puffs of condensation in front of his face.
"You can't just do this. This is kidnapping. I’m a member of the press!"
I growl as I grab him by the shoulders and pull him out, then drop him on the ground. He scrambles to his feet, still cursing under his breath.
I stay silent, then extend a flat palm. "Phone. Camera."
He stalls, clutching the equipment to his chest like a shield. "You can't take this. It’s mine!"
Oh, is this how you want to play this?
"What's written on that tree line?" I ask, tilting my head toward the posted signs barely visible through the swirling snow. "Private Property. No Trespass. You crossed that line knowing full well what you did. I'm done being polite. Now hand over your devices."
His shoulders sag as reality settles in. He's alone in the middle of nowhere with a pissed-off ogre and zero legal ground to stand on. He hands over his phone with trembling fingers, then reluctantly surrenders the camera.
“Unlock it.” I pick up the camera, then wait as Gribble unlocks his screen and hands over the device.
I thumb through the phone's gallery one by one, my jaw clenching with each invasion I discover.
Fresh frames fill the screen: Rona's silhouette at the window, soft and unguarded in the lamplight.
The paint box in her hands, her face lit with pure joy at my gift.
The moment she threw her arms around my neck, vulnerable and trusting. And mine.
Rage builds in my chest like a wildfire, but I keep my movements controlled as I delete the entire set and clear the phone's trash. I take out the SIM card, then I tuck the device in my inside pocket. I’m going to hand this over to Malcolm as soon as possible.
Whoever sent information to Gribble Nix won’t be able to hide from this.
When I’m done, I pop the camera's hatch and slide out the SD card, the small piece of plastic weighing almost nothing.
It disappears into my pocket a second later.
Gribble finds some bluster as he watches the SD card disappear. “This is theft.”
"I can call the sheriff for you if you want to complain. Once he’s here, he can also book you for trespassing," I say, my eyes steady on his.
"I had a friend in the police force look you up, and it’s not your first offense.
Your last trespass got you a night in lockup.
I doubt a judge will be so lenient next time around. "
The fight drains out of Gribble like air from a punctured tire.
“Stay away from my mate.” I cross my arms and glare at him.
The word mate lands with territorial weight that echoes through the frozen air.
Gribble actually flinches despite his earlier bravado, his pointed ears flattening against his skull.
Something primal in his gnome brain recognizes the danger he's stumbled into, a mated ogre protecting his mate and his lair.
I step back deliberately, giving him room to retreat while making it clear this is his only chance.
"Get in. Drive away. Do not come back."
Gribble obeys with the jerky movements of someone whose survival instincts have finally overridden their greed.
The van grinds over the frozen asphalt, tires struggling for purchase on the icy surface as it circles my SUV.
I watch the taillights smear red streaks through the falling snow until they disappear down the ridge, swallowed by the winter darkness.
But I don't move. I stand in the bitter cold for long moments, scanning the tree line while I regain my countenance. My breath forms white clouds that dissipate immediately in the dry air. Every protective instinct I possess remains on high alert.
The violation burns in my chest like acid. The sacred space where Rona felt safe, where she threw her arms around my neck and let me see her joy has been compromised by a bottom-feeder with a camera and no conscience.
I think of her face when she opened the paint set, the way her eyes lit up like I'd given her the world. The cold finally drives me inside, but the rage follows like a faithful hound.
I find Rona standing in the center of the darkened room, white as fresh snow, hands clenched tight at her sides as she processes what just happened. The paint supplies still sit on the kitchen table where I'd placed them.
The sight of her fear, her vulnerability, makes something savage and protective roar to life in my chest. She shouldn't have to live like this, constantly hunted, never safe.
But for now, there’s no other choice for us but to run.
"Pack," I tell her gently but without room for argument. "We're moving."
She nods without protest. Her movements are quiet and efficient as she gathers her things—bag, boots, coat, everything she brought with her and she acquired since she came to my lair.
I do the same, packing the bare minimum into a duffel bag. I meet her in the entrance five minutes later. She’s already packed and wearing her puffy coat.
I notice the new easel and other supplies, still untouched, unpacked. They sit like abandoned promises.
I look to Rona questioningly, ready to carry them to the SUV if she wants them.
"It stays," she says softly, meeting my gaze with a shaky smile. "Because we're coming back."
Her words steady something frantic and desperate in my chest, but not enough to loosen the protective tension in my jaw. I open the door to the brutal cold and escort her out into the night.
Rona sits silently beside me, her face pale in the dashboard's glow. I grip the steering wheel tighter and press the accelerator, carrying my mate away from the place where we used to feel safe. The road ahead disappears into swirling snow and winter darkness, but I drive forward anyway.
Because that's what you do when someone you love believes in tomorrow.
You keep moving toward it, even when you can't see the way.