Chapter 4 Rhett
FOUR
RHETT
Emma Lincoln is going to get herself killed. Not in the poetic, slow-motion, “girl runs into danger because she’s brave” way. But in the brutally predictable way civilians die when they wander into the orbit of bad men with badges and secrets.
She’s sitting on the edge of the couch in our meeting room, knees bouncing like she’s trying to physically outrun her own anxiety.
Her hands are clasped together so tight her knuckles are pale, but she’s still holding her chin up like she refuses to be intimidated by anything—including the fact that she’s surrounded by a group of ex-military men who look like the before shots in a “don’t mess with me” PSA.
And the worst part?
I can’t stop looking at her. I keep telling myself it’s surveillance.
Assessment. Threat evaluation. That’s what I do.
Recon. Read people. Identify weaknesses—mine included.
But when her mouth quirks and she mutters something under her breath about “testosterone volcanoes” while Gavin’s giving orders, I feel something in my chest shift like a lock clicking open.
And I don’t like it.
Because I don’t do locks.
I do doors. Breaches. Exits.
I do leaving.
Gavin’s voice cuts through the room—calm, controlled, commander energy that makes even the air straighten up.
“Okay. We’ve got nothing solid on Mark Renshaw’s current location.
That’s the reality. But we do have a potential connection chain through Hanover Falls PD and some off-book calls tied to a burner pattern. ”
Wyatt taps his keyboard and throws up a map on the screen. Dots. Routes. A big red circle over the county line like a target.
Rafe is leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. He looks relaxed, but I know better. Rafe’s relaxed is still lethal. It’s just quieter now that he’s not wearing the commander mantle. Harper did that—pulled him back toward living.
Gavin’s gaze flicks to me, then back to the room. “Silas has put feelers out with his contacts. FBI isn’t officially involved, but we’ve got a local field office agent who owes us a favor.”
Silas nods once from the corner. Sheriff hat tossed on the table, jaw tight. “Doesn’t mean they’ll move fast. Renshaw’s a cop. Paperwork has to be airtight.”
Chase makes a face like the word paperwork is a personal insult. “Monsters always hide behind paperwork.”
Boyd, sitting with his big frame folded into a chair like it’s too small for him, rumbles, “They hide behind anything.”
Eli—medic, calm, annoyingly sane—glances at Emma. “How are you doing?”
Emma’s eyes dart to him, then to me, then to Gavin. “I’m… great,” she says with the kind of fake brightness that fools exactly no one. “I love being the center of a very hot, very scary meeting.”
Thorne snorts from the back of the room—tall, quiet, the kind of guy who doesn’t waste words and doesn’t miss much. “She’s got jokes.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “That’s what worries me.”
Emma’s gaze snaps to mine. “Excuse me?”
I don’t answer. Because the truth is: the jokes aren’t the problem.
The problem is the way her voice cuts through the tension like sunlight through trees. The way she won’t fold, even when fear is crawling up her spine. The way she looks at this room full of dangerous men and still somehow decides she’s allowed to talk back.
That kind of courage gets you killed.
It also gets you under my skin.
Gavin turns the conversation back to operational. “Emma, you’re staying on property. Non-negotiable. Until we find your sister or we confirm she’s not in immediate danger.”
Emma flinches at the last part. Immediate danger. Like she’s trying not to imagine what “not immediate” might mean.
She swallows. “And if she is in danger?”
Gavin’s jaw tightens. “Then we bring her home.”
Something softens in Emma’s expression—hope fighting through fear. It makes my chest do that stupid thing again.
Gavin looks at me. “Rhett. Your call on where she stays tonight.”
Every head turns.
Emma blinks. “Wait. He gets to decide?”
Chase’s smile turns wicked. “Oh, yeah. Rhett is our hospitality director.”
“I am not,” I say flatly.
Rafe’s mouth twitches. “You’re the only one with a cabin that’s been untouched by Chase’s chaos for more than twenty-four hours.”
“Because I threatened to bury him in the snow,” I say.
Chase lifts a hand. “Worth it.”
Emma’s brows lift, amusement flickering. “You threatened to bury him in snow?”
“I have standards.”
“You have… homicidal tendencies.”
“I have boundaries.”
She stares at me for a beat, then says, “I like boundaries.”
The words should be normal. They aren’t. Because her voice goes soft around them, and my brain immediately supplies images that do not belong in a war room.
I clear my throat, irritated with myself. “She stays with me.”
Silence hits.
Wyatt’s fingers pause over his keyboard. Thorne’s eyes narrow. Boyd’s gaze lifts slowly like he’s re-evaluating gravity. Even Gavin’s eyebrows rise a fraction, which—if you know Gavin—is basically a full-body reaction.
Chase breaks the silence first. “Ohhh. Rhett has a guest.”
“I said she stays with me,” I repeat, sharper.
Chase holds up both hands. “Relax, big guy. I’m happy for you and your… new roommate.”
Emma’s head snaps toward Chase. “Roommate?”
Eli coughs like he’s choking back a laugh. “We’re all adults here.”
“No,” Emma says, eyes wide. “I’m not staying alone with—” She gestures at me like I’m a wild animal that wandered in. “—Mr. Tactical Mood Swing.”
“Good,” I say. “Because you’re not staying alone anywhere.”
Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “That didn’t sound comforting.”
“It’s not meant to be,” I say. “It’s meant to be safe.”
Gavin’s voice turns low. “Rhett—”
I cut him off with a look. “Don’t question it.”
The room goes dead quiet again. Gavin holds my gaze. Commander to operator. He’s trying to decide if I’m making an emotional call.
He’s right to worry.
Because I don’t know why I’m doing this.
I tell myself it’s tactical. If she’s with me, I can control the variables.
I can keep eyes on her. I can make sure she doesn’t slip out a window and go playing Nancy Drew in the snow.
But there’s another reason, and it’s uglier.
If she’s not with me, I’ll be thinking about where she is. About whether she’s safe.
Or, if she’s scared. And I don’t like how quickly she became a thought I can’t shut off.
Gavin finally nods. “Fine. But rules are rules. She stays on property. Radios on. Perimeter protocol. And Rhett—”
“I know,” I say. “I’ve got her.”
Emma’s cheeks flush, and her eyes dart away like the words landed somewhere private.
Chase grins like he’s about to explode. “He said ‘I’ve got her.’”
“Shut up,” I growl.
Thorne’s voice is quiet from the back. “No leads on Renshaw means he knows we’re looking.”
Silas nods. “Or he’s already moved Mia.”
Emma goes still. Her humor drains out of her face so fast it’s like someone pulled the plug. “Moved her… where?”
Gavin’s tone is careful. “We don’t know yet.”
That’s the worst answer in the world. I see it in Emma’s eyes—the panic trying to rise, the helplessness she’s been fighting for too long.
I step closer without thinking, just enough that she can feel I’m there.
Her gaze flicks up to mine, and for a second she looks like she might fall apart.
Instead, she swallows hard and says, “I’m not leaving.
I’m not going home. I’m staying until you find her. ”
Gavin nods once, respect in his eyes. “Good.”
The meeting breaks after that—everyone moving into motion again. Wyatt back to digging through digital trails. Silas heading out to make calls. Boyd, Harlan, and Thorne taking perimeter shifts. Eli checking gear.
Chase lingers long enough to stage-whisper to Rafe, “He’s totally into her.”
Rafe replies dryly, “Rhett doesn’t get into people. He gets into trouble.”
Chase points at me. “See? Trouble.”
I throw him a look that would make a lesser man reconsider his life choices.
Chase blows me a kiss and saunters off like he hasn’t just poked a bear.
Emma stands slowly, pulling her hoodie tighter around herself. “So… is this where I ask if your cabin is serial-killer-themed?”
I head toward the hallway. “My cabin is functional.”
“That’s what serial killers say.”
I stop and look back at her. “Do you want to be safe, or do you want to keep making jokes about me murdering you?”
She lifts her chin. “Both.”
Of course she does.
I gesture for her to follow. “Come on.”
She falls into step beside me, boots scuffing the floor. She smells like winter and something sweet—vanilla maybe. It shouldn’t matter.
It does.
We pass through the main hall where Kayley’s photo is still pinned on the community board from last week’s “Welcome to Haven 7” bulletin Harper made—because Harper is determined to domesticate the entire compound through emotional manipulation and baked goods.
Emma slows, staring at it. “Who’s that?”
“Her name’s Kayley. We rescued her a few weeks back. She’s living here with Gavin now, and her nephew, Aidan.”
Her eyes soften. “She looks… happy.”
“She is,” I tell her, then add before I can stop myself, “She fought like hell to be.”
Emma’s voice goes quieter. “I’m afraid Mia didn’t.”
The words are small. Barely spoken. But they hit me like a punch to the ribs. I don’t have comfort for that. I’m not good at it. So I do the only thing I know how to do. I keep walking. Keep her moving. Keep her from drowning in the dark.
Outside, the cold bites immediately. Snow crunches under our boots. The compound is lit by warm perimeter lights and the glow of cabins scattered like guarded hearts around the main lodge.
Emma tilts her head up, staring at the mountain line. “It’s… beautiful.”
“It’s isolated,” I correct.
“It can be both,” she says.
I open my mouth to argue, then shut it. Because she’s right.
She glances at me sideways. “Which one is yours?”
I point. “Far end.”
“Sure thing,” she mutters. “Broody men always live at the far end.”
“I live there because it’s strategic.”
“Strategic brooding.”
I ignore that.
We reach my cabin. I punch in the code, open the door, and usher her inside.
Warmth hits us. Fire crackling. Simple interior—clean lines, minimal clutter. A weapon mounted above the mantle. Boots lined neatly by the door. A couch that has seen more naps than it should admit.
Emma steps in and spins once, taking it all in. “Okay. This is… annoyingly cozy.”
“It’s not cozy,” I say automatically.
She points at the fire. “There’s a fire.”
“It’s functional heat.”
She points at the throw blanket folded perfectly on the couch. “There’s a blanket.”
“It prevents hypothermia.”
She points at a small shelf of books. “There are books.”
I glare. “I can read.”
Her lips twitch. “Didn’t say you couldn’t. Just didn’t expect you to have… literature.”
“It’s manuals,” I lie.
She walks closer and reads a spine. “That’s not a manual. That’s a romance novel.”
I feel my face heat. “It’s not mine.”
She looks up slowly, eyes sparkling with wicked delight. “Oh my God. It’s yours.”
“It’s not.”
She’s full on smiling now, and the sight of her takes my breath away. “So you’re telling me you do not secretly read about emotionally unavailable men falling for sunshine women who force them to feel feelings?”
I step closer, lowering my voice. “Emma.”
She grins wider. “Rhett.”
I hate that she says my name like it’s a dare.
I point toward the hallway. “Bathroom. Extra toothbrushes in the drawer. There are clean clothes on the bed. You can sleep in the bedroom.”
Her brows shoot up. “And where are you sleeping?”
“Couch.”
“Wow,” she says. “So chivalry is alive and thriving in your murder cabin.”
“It’s not a murder cabin.”
“Sure.” She walks toward the bedroom, then pauses, turning back with her hand on the doorframe. Her face is softer now, less teasing.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For… not making me feel crazy.”
The words snag in my chest. I don’t move for a second, because if I move, I might step too close. Might touch her. Might do something I can’t take back.
“You’re not crazy,” I manage.
Her gaze holds mine. “You don’t even know me.”
I hear myself say, “I know you’re brave.”
Her throat bobs. She nods once, then disappears into the bedroom.
I stand alone in the living room, staring at the fire like it’s going to tell me what the hell is happening to me.
A week ago, my biggest concern was perimeter integrity and whether Chase had stolen my coffee again.
Now I’ve got a woman in my cabin who smells like vanilla and trouble, and a missing sister case with a dirty cop who vanished into thin air.
No leads on Mark Renshaw. Which means he’s either dead, hiding, or planning. And every instinct I’ve got says this isn’t over.
I glance toward the hallway where Emma just vanished, and my gut tightens.
Because if it’s not over…
Then she’s in danger.
And I already know the part that scares me most. It’s not that I’m protective of her. It’s that I don’t understand why.
My radio crackles once—low, sharp.
Silas’s voice. “Rhett. Heads up. We’ve got a possible vehicle sighting near the county line. Nothing confirmed. Stay alert.”
I stare at the radio, then toward the door, then toward the hallway again. And I realize something with a cold, sinking certainty… keeping Emma in my cabin tonight isn’t just a decision.
It’s a line I’ve drawn.
Because if Mark Renshaw—or anyone connected to him—comes for her…
They’re going to find out what happens when you threaten what I’ve decided to protect.
I lock the door. Check the windows. Double-check the perimeter feed. Then I sit on the couch, facing the hallway, listening to the quiet. Waiting. And hating how much I’m looking forward to hearing her voice again.