3. Sloane
SLOANE
C onsciousness creeps back like a tide, bringing with it the scent of cedar smoke and something else.
Coffee, rich and dark, drifting from somewhere nearby.
My bones ache as awareness returns, muscles protesting every subtle shift against what feels like worn leather beneath me.
The floorboards creak under my weight as I push myself upright, my eyes adjusting to the dim interior.
Rustic beams stretch across the vaulted ceiling, drawing my gaze toward a stone fireplace that dominates the far wall. Shadows dance where flames lick weathered granite, casting amber warmth across scattered throw pillows and well-loved furniture.
The bag.
My heart slams against my ribs as I lunge for my messenger bag, still propped against the couch where I must have dropped it. My fingers shake as I dig through its contents—laptop, thumb drive, burner phone. All here. All untouched.
Why?
The question burns in my throat. Men like him—military-precise, combat-trained—they don't just help strangers without wanting something. Without taking something.
A car engine rumbles in the distance. My pulse spikes.
Time's up.
I shove everything back into the bag, movements quick but controlled. No noise. No traces. Five states of running have taught me how to disappear without a sound.
I snatch the blanket too, fingers curling into the worn fabric like it might shield me from whatever comes next. One more borrowed thing from a man who's already given too much.
The door hinges don't squeak when I ease it open. Small mercies.
Cold air hits my face like a slap as I slip outside, and for a heartbeat, I hesitate. Look back at the warmth, the coffee scent, the strange safety of a stranger's space.
Don't be stupid. Safety is an illusion that gets people killed.
I turn away and vanish into the trees, leaving nothing behind but footprints in the snow—and those will disappear by noon.
My lungs burn with every breath, frigid air searing down my throat.
My legs barely cooperate, muscles quivering beneath me as if they've forgotten how to carry my weight.
My mind races, the memories swirling like a whirlwind of chaos.
My head throbs as I stumble between the trees, thoughts fracturing into jagged, panicked pieces. How did I faint? Did he attack me? Who the hell is he?
Every muscle in my body screams in protest. My feet have gone numb, which is probably a blessing considering what the frozen ground is doing to them. My ribs ache with each labored breath. But I don't stop.
Heat radiates from my skin even as shivers wrack my body. The world tilts and sways, trees blurring into a nauseating smear of shadows. My thoughts swim through molten lead, each one taking forever to form and dissolving just as quickly.
Can't stop. Have to keep moving.
Sweat trickles down my neck despite the cold, and my clothes cling to me like a second skin. The forest floor seems to ripple beneath my feet, making each step a gamble.
I can't stop.
Not after crossing five state lines. Not after refusing to sleep for the past few days. And especially, not when I can still feel the consequences of one wrong move hanging over me like a noose.
Don't think about Max. Not now. Don’t let the weight of it crush you.
But it's too late. His face flashes through my mind—eyes vacant, throat cut, blood pooling beneath his desk chair. My source. My friend. The man who trusted me enough to pass me evidence that got him killed.
I try to remember what he looked like. The man from the cabin. Broad shoulders silhouetted against the darkness.
Worn combat boots. That voice—deep, calm, cutting through my panic with the precision of a surgical blade. The kind of man who doesn't flinch when a woman tries to claw his face off.
And still... he didn't hurt me. He could have. Easily. But he didn't.
No. I can’t trust calm men.
Especially those who look at you like they already know everything.
What secrets does he hold? Men who don’t explain themselves have hidden motives. I learned that lesson years ago from my father’s empty office chair and the suffocating silence that followed his disappearance.
Twenty years later, that silence still gnaws.
My legs buckle beneath me without warning, and I slam into a tree, bark rough against my palms as I struggle to stay upright. The blanket slips from my shoulders. My knees wobble at the thought of bending to retrieve it. I shuffle past, knowing if I crouch down now, I won't make it back up.
My palm? I don't even feel it tear the skin. Adrenaline has turned my body into a machine with one purpose: survive now, feel pain later.
I push away from the tree and force myself onward, each step more unsteady than the last.
The moon is hidden behind clouds, and the forest floor is treacherous in the dark. Roots catch at my ankles. Branches whip across my face. Every shadow looks like a man with a gun.
Suddenly, the world tilts beneath my feet.
A patch of earth gives way—wet snow concealing treachery—and I plunge down, a startled cry ripping from my throat like a wounded animal.
My body tumbles, smashing against hardpack snow, skidding across ice until I land on gravel, breath knocked out of me.
For a moment, I can’t process anything. Can't think. Can’t breathe.
Stars burst behind my eyes, and my body feels pinned under an invisible weight, suffocated by sheer panic.
And then, the dread washes over me.
Boot prints.
Fresh ones imprinted in the thin layer of snow dusting the gravel. Too deliberate. Too military .
Ice crystallizes in my veins, cold and paralyzing, distinct from the chill of winter. Someone else is out here, and it's not the man from the cabin. His were wider, heavier.
These instincts—my journalist instincts, honed through years of danger—scream at me now, a primal warning.
The silence around me presses against my ears, too still, too perfect. Natural silence has a heartbeat—subtle rustles, distant cries, the whisper of wind. This silence is void—the breath before the storm.
Then, I hear it. The ominous click of metal meeting metal.
A safety disengaging.
And from the trees, a voice emerges. Low, amused, weaving through the darkness with terrible ease.
“Found you, sweetheart.”