Chapter 14
Jenna
It’s so dark, I almost miss the turnoff for Calvin Bradford’s house.
I kill my headlights a hundred yards out, and coast down the icy back road. I park deep in the tree line, every single hair on my body thrumming with the need to run, or maybe just dig a hole and never come out.
But I’ve totally got this.
I sit for a few moments, watching my own breath fog the windshield, hands tight on the wheel until my knuckles threaten to split.
This isn’t the first time I’ve broken into a house, having an affinity for abandoned houses when I was younger.
But this is the first time I’ve done it knowing the man who lives here is the kind of predator who’d probably sense me the second I stepped onto his property, like he’s part wolf.
The risk isn’t the alarm or the cops. The risk is being caught by Bradford himself.
Which, apparently, is a risk I am willing to take.
And the thought is disturbingly thrilling.
I scan the property one more time, then slide out of the car.
The air is raw, biting cold. My sneakers slip on the ice, but I keep my stride steady, arms close to my sides.
The forest is thick here, but the path to the house is so well-worn, it makes me wonder how often it’s used, since it’s adjacent to the tree farm.
I hug the shadow side, mind cycling through every possible way this could go wrong. The cabin is just ahead, and the windows are all dark, save for one faint glow in the far corner—probably a nightlight in the kitchen, if I’m still remembering the layout right.
I circle wide, eyes peeled for sensors, dogs, motion cams, or whatever someone like Bradford might have.
There are none visible, but I know better than to trust the obvious.
I inch my way around the perimeter, searching for the best entry point.
There’s a side window, just high enough that maybe he wouldn’t think about it as much.
He strikes me as feeling somewhat invincible.
And lucky for me, I find a crack in the siding, wedge the toe of my sneaker in, and hoist myself up with a grunt.
The window is locked, but it’s a shitty double-pane that gives when I rock it hard with my shoulder. It pops with a clunk and the tiniest shriek of old metal and the stupidly, the frame shatters. I freeze, heart beating so loud I’m convinced someone in the next county can hear it.
But nothing sounds off.
I let out a breath, and then carefully wedge my torso through. I snag my jeans on the frame, skinning my hip, and immediately bang my knee on sill. I stifle a hiss, then haul myself all the way inside, repeating my mantra in my head.
I got this. I totally got this.
I let my eyes adjust, and then scan. I realize I’m standing in the laundry room, noting the machines in the corner. I take two steps and almost fall into a pile of gear—men’s boots, coveralls, muddy Carhartt. I move through the room, listening for any sign of life.
Still nothing.
I inch into the hallway, and I recognize where I am, my eyes drifting to the table that I tutored Molly at coming into view. My eyes then stop where Calvin stood the entire time, a flutter of nerves erupting in my chest.
He’s the kind of man that just gets under my skin. And probably everyone else’s, too.
I slide along the wall, touch light switches just to make sure, but keep them off. I use the screen of my phone for a sliver of blue backlight. Every step I take feels like a challenge, like if I breathe wrong, a tripwire will go off in the next dimension and he’ll be on top of me with a knife.
And that thought causes a strange surge of fear and excitement to roll through me.
Yikes.
When I make it to the end of the hall and push open the bedroom door, I realize it’s the master’s.
The bedroom is enormous with log beams, a king-sized bed, blackout curtains, and a dresser.
It’s freakishly tidy, sheets stretched with military precision, but the desk in the corner is a tangle of paper and cords.
I move to the dresser first, opening drawers.
I doubt signs of my brother will be inside, but my curiosity gets the best of me.
Underwear, socks, and undershirts folded tight fill my view. I find a single, rumpled photo stuck under the tray in the jewelry box off to the side. It’s of a little girl, laughing under a Christmas tree. I flip it over. No names, no date, but the girl has Molly’s eyes.
And it’s strikingly endearing.
I move to the closet, pull the door open slow. There’s nothing special, but in the back, there’s a locked gun safe. I brush my hand over the lock, but it’s a fingerprint reader.
No dice.
Frustration gnaws at me. I check the clock on the wall. I have no idea how long I have, and fucking with something I probably won’t get into does me no good. So, I move to the desk.
The laptop is closed. I try the lid. It’s shut with a cable lock, but the cable is just wound around the leg of the desk.
Easy fix. I untangle it, set it aside, and then lift the lid.
The screen is password locked. The sticky note on the side says MOLLY2021 but it’s a decoy.
I try it, and the lockout timer instantly triggers.
Fuck.
In the nightstand, I find a dusty old Bradford family Bible. How cliché.
I check the bathroom, the medicine cabinet. More neatness, more order. There’s a toothbrush, a tube of face cream I doubt he uses, and a razor with a black hair caught in the blade.
I look at myself in the mirror for a split second and see the ghost version of Jenna Kellan—pale, anxious, hair straggling loose from the ponytail, and eyes ringed with worry and insomnia. I look like someone you’d cross the street to avoid.
Which is probably for the best, really.
I look away from myself, and then freeze.
A roar of a diesel engine. And a door slams.
My heart stutters, and I retreat to the edge of the door.
The sound of boots on the gravel, and then steps on the porch echo through the night.
Shit, shit, shit.
I slip into the hall, and then quickly duck into the office as the front door jiggles. It’s so dark that I nearly trip over my own feet, but I find the closet by touch and wedge myself in behind the coats and the utility shelf.
This is so bad. So, so bad.
The front door opens with a bang. He doesn’t even bother to be quiet. I hear him toss his keys on the counter, then stomp into the kitchen. There’s the pop of a fridge door, the clink of glass. Then a sigh, long and raw.
I want to throw up. I am so fucked right now.
I wait, muscles locked, every part of me aching for an escape. He’s moving through the house and heading my way. I inch my eye to the crack in the closet door. I can see the edge of the office—just a sliver of the desk, the top of the chair.
And then he enters, tall and broad and backlit by the glow from his phone. He still has that stupid cowboy hat on that accentuates his jaw and probably gives every woman a mini orgasm when they see it. He sits at the desk, cracks his knuckles, and then opens the computer.
Oh my god. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to give myself away with my freight train breathing. When my lids open, I swallow the nerves and just focus on the man who is both terrifying and intriguing.
He types with two fingers, punching the keyboard in a way that’s angry and calm, all at once. He opens a browser. His face glows blue, then white, as he clicks through tabs.
Then my stomach drops through the fucking floor.
He types Dr. Jenna Williams into the search bar. He finds my Instagram in three seconds flat, clicks it, and then just…stares at my profile photo.
Before hitting the request to follow button.
My phone lights up in my pocket with the notification. I angle the phone in my pocket and use my thumb to do the dumbest thing possible.
I approve it.
The room is so silent I can hear my own pulse.
He leans back in the chair as my pictures fill the screen, most of them just generic photos that point to nothing about my life. Calvin’s jaw seems to tick, and he leaves one hand on the mouse, while the other…slides down into his lap.
My jaw drops. No. No fucking way.
But yes. He’s staring at my photos and his hand is on his dick, working slow, almost bored.
I can’t move. I can’t even breathe.
He focuses on the pictures, and for a long time, just strokes himself, face calm and blank like he’s thinking of baseball or mortgage rates or the best way to break someone’s neck.
Then he lets out a sound, not a groan, but like the exhale from a heavy barbell.
His thumb circles the head of his cock, glistening in the computer light.
But then he jerks faster, hips shifting in the seat. He’s muttering, under his breath, his face contorted with pleasure. “Make me come, you little fucking slut.”
I’m paralyzed by the horror of it, but something else is happening inside my chest—a spark, a heat, a pulse that echoes his movement. I absolutely hate myself for it, but my hand slides down the waistband of my jeans, fingers pressing against the every-growing wet spot against my underwear.
I shouldn’t do this.
I really, really shouldn’t.
But watching him, knowing it’s my face on the screen, knowing he wants me…
It’s too much. I rub slow, desperate circles, feeling my breath go short, biting down on my lip to keep myself quiet. I imagine what it would be like if he caught me here, now, panting and wanting him.
‘You little fucking slut,’ echoes in my head as I edge myself in rhythm with him.
His hand moves faster. “Oh fuck,” he starts to groan, his body stiffening. “Jenna.”
I swallow the gasp, as my knees go weak and my body pulses with my orgasm. I explode with him, as he pulls a rag from the desk and catches his come in it.
Calvin leans back in his desk chair, and lets out a guttural, “Fuck.”
He then slams the computer shut, startling me. He wipes his hand, rubs his face, and mutters something I can’t make out. He sits there for another few tense beats, just breathing, before getting up and heading to the bathroom. I hear the water run.
I wipe my hand on my own jeans, ashamed and exhilarated all at once. My clit throbs, my heart races. And I know I have to get the fuck out of here while I have my chance.
He’s still in the bathroom as I slip out of the closet, down the hall, back to the laundry room. I reach for the frame without thinking, and wince as I slice my palm.
Fuck. I bite back the whimper, and then slide through the window. I drop into the ground, and make a run for the trees, my pussy still aching from the disturbing shit I just did.
Every nerve in my body is on fire, as I sprint. I don’t feel the cold, I don’t feel the bruises on my legs, or the gash on my palm. I get to my car and fumble with the keys, cursing under my breath, until I’m in and the doors are locked.
I sit there, panting, staring at my own hands as blood soaks my jeans. My fingers smell like my pussy and adrenaline and blood.
I don’t know if I’m disgusted with myself or if this is the first time in years, I’ve actually felt alive.
There is so much fucking wrong with me.
I check the rearview. No sign of pursuit.
I turn the ignition, but before I drive away, I take one last look at the glow of the cabin, the man inside, and the knowledge of what I just saw.
Calvin Bradford wants me.
And I’ll be damned, if I don’t use this to my advantage to find my brother.
If I can just keep my head on straight.