4. Logan
LOGAN
I track her through the snow, my boots moving in quick, silent strides, breath clouding in front of me in the frigid night air.
The temperature's dropped since sunset, hovering somewhere in the low twenties. Dangerous weather for someone in her condition.
She couldn't have gotten far—not in her state.
Not with no shoes and half her strength gone.
But when I spot the blanket abandoned in the trees like a fallen flag, something cold and sharp settles between my ribs.
Then I see it—blood smeared on a patch of bark. Not much, but enough.
Shit.
She ran.
Wounded. Freezing. Alone. With high fever.
I press my gloved fingers against the bark. The scent of blood twists my gut. I scan the treeline, eyes adjusting to the darkness, reading the forest floor like a map.
The snow holds her story in dented footprints—uneven, staggering, desperate.
I move faster now, following her trail with practiced efficiency. The rational part of my brain questions why I'm even doing this. Why I didn't just let her go.
One less complication in my carefully controlled existence. One less unknown variable that could bring unwanted attention to Iron Hollow.
But I know why.
The terror in her eyes wasn't random. It was targeted. Specific. She looked at me like she'd seen ghosts before and wasn't afraid of another one. Like she knew exactly what kind of monster she was running from.
I know that look because I've worn it.
Three minutes deeper into the woods, I spot the scuffed slope where the ground drops away suddenly.
The snow is crushed and displaced where she fell, a chaotic trail leading down to the ravine below. And then I see something that makes my blood run cold.
Boot prints. And they don't belong to either of us.
Combat tread. Heavy. Methodical. Tactical.
My instincts flare like a tripwire's been triggered.
This isn't just some scared woman running from thugs. She's running from a trained asset. And whoever's tracking her knows how to cover ground—and how to kill without being seen.
I drop into a crouch, senses heightening as my body remembers what my mind would rather forget.
I pull the rifle on my back, checking the chamber with practiced hands. I didn't come out here expecting a firefight, but five years of living as a ghost has taught me never to assume safety.
The forest is too quiet.
The natural symphony of nighttime creatures has gone silent—a warning sign more reliable than any security system.
Something dangerous has disturbed the balance.
I slip down the ridge, rifle raised, staying low.
My breathing slows, controlled and measured. My heartbeat steadies into the familiar combat rhythm, time stretching and contracting around me as adrenaline sharpens every sense.
Then I hear it.
The soft click of a rifle safety disengaging.
Shit.
I drop flat just as the shot cracks through the trees—too close, too sharp.
But it was not meant for me.
I roll behind a fallen log, scanning the darkness. The muzzle flash gives away the sniper's position—northeast, elevated, maybe 200 yards out.
Then I see her, the woman from my cabin.
She's crouched and frozen at the bottom of the ravine, a red laser sight still trained on her chest. Her dark hair is wild around her face, her clothes soaked, her breathing visible in quick white puffs of condensation.
She doesn't scream.
She doesn't flinch.
She doesn't run.
She just braces—jaw tight, breath shallow, eyes focused—like this isn't the first time she's stared death in the face.
Who the hell is she?
I lift my rifle and fire a shot, aiming to graze the sniper's shoulder.
Not to kill—but enough to disrupt, to force a decision.
It works. The sniper stumbles back, retreating into the shadows like smoke.
But I can’t let this end here—I can’t leave her in danger.
I take a deep breath, level my aim again, and fire another shot aimed toward the sniper’s position, hoping to scare him off entirely.
I don't waste the opportunity.
I sprint toward her, using the terrain for cover, moving in quick bursts between exposed stretches.
She hears me coming and grabs a rock, arm tensing as she prepares to fight—until recognition flickers across her face when she sees me.
First, confusion.
Then, something else I can't name.
Then, her body finally betrays her as the adrenaline crashes, and she starts to collapse.
I catch her before she hits the ground.
Again.
Her skin burns against my arms even through layers of wet clothes. Each breath comes ragged and shallow, her chest heaving with effort as the hypothermia and fever wage war in her system.
Frostbite threatens her exposed fingers, the tips already turning an angry red that will soon give way to worse if I don't act fast.
"It's me," I growl, eyes still scanning for the sniper. "You're safe now."
She doesn't fight me this time. Her eyes find mine in the darkness, pupils wide with fear and something else—a silent plea that says Don't let go . That look does something to me, cracks something I didn’t even know I was holding back.
I scoop her up—soaked, shivering, scraped raw—and run. One arm supporting her back, the other under her knees, rifle now slung awkwardly across my shoulder. Her head falls against my chest, her body trembling violently as hypothermia sets in.
Even as I sprint, I can't ignore how her body molds to mine, or the exposed line of her throat pressed against my chest.
The primal part of my brain registers these details when it shouldn't , when there's no time for such thoughts.
"I've got you," I say, the words feeling foreign, strange. How long since I’ve said that to anyone? "Just stay conscious."
She mumbles something I can't catch, fingers weakly gripping my jacket. I scale the slope with her in my arms, using roots and rocks for leverage.
My muscles burn with the effort, but I push through it, hyperaware of every shadow, every sound. The sniper is still out there, watching. Waiting. I can feel it.
The temperature is dropping by the minute. She's soaked through. If I don't get her warm soon, the cold will do what the sniper didn't.
"My phone," she manages to say, teeth chattering so hard she can barely form the words.
"Later," I tell her, quickening my pace as the cabin comes into view. "First, we get you warm."
"N-no," she insists, her voice stronger somehow despite her failing body. "D-don't touch it."
I don't have time to argue. The clearing before my cabin lies exposed, a dangerous stretch of open ground with no cover. I pause at the treeline, scanning for threats.
Nothing moves.
The only light comes from the dying embers visible through my front window.
"Going to have to move fast," I warn her. "Hold tight."
I break from cover, sprinting across the snow-covered yard, her weight solid against my chest.
Every instinct screams that we're being watched, crosshairs following our movement.
But no shot comes. The silence only confirms what I already suspect—whoever was out there wasn't trying to kill her tonight.
I kick the front door open, cross the threshold in three strides, then kick it closed behind us.
I set her down long enough to lock it, then quickly move through the cabin, securing windows, closing blinds, resetting the perimeter alarms I disabled when I left to track her.
When I turn back, she's still standing where I left her, swaying slightly on unsteady legs, face pale, lips tinged with blue.
She looks like she might collapse again at any moment, but something stubborn in her posture refuses to surrender to weakness.
"Bathroom," I say, gesturing down the hall. "Hot shower. Now."
"My phone," she says again, more insistent this time.
She's fixated on it, which means it matters. Which means I need to check it.
"Fine," I say, approaching her slowly. "Where is it?"
Her right hand moves protectively to her messenger bag. She seems torn between her desperate need for warmth and her unwillingness to surrender whatever's in that bag.
Trust issues. I recognize those too.
But even as she stands there, swaying slightly, I can’t help but notice the curve of her lips, the fierce light in her eyes despite everything.
It’s disarming, and I have to force myself to stay on task.
"Just make sure it's not compromised," I explain, keeping my voice low and steady. The way you'd talk to a wounded animal. "That sniper didn't just stumble across you by accident."
Her eyes flash with understanding, then alarm. She hadn't considered that possibility.
The realization seems to break through her defenses. She reaches into her pocket with trembling fingers and pulls out a cheap burner phone—the kind you'd buy with cash at a gas station.
I take it from her cold hand, our fingers brushing briefly. She looks like she might argue, then sways dangerously, grabbing the wall for support.
I lift her up, her weight slight against my chest. Her head lolls against my shoulder, dark hair spilling across my arm like ink. The fever burns through her clothes, seeping into my skin.
My bedroom door creaks as I nudge it open with my boot. The bed lies unmade—I never saw the point of hospital corners when sleep comes in fragments anyway.
I lay her down carefully, trying not to notice how the moonlight catches her face. How it softens the sharp edges of exhaustion around her eyes. How her lips part slightly with each shallow breath.
Too close.
My hands linger a moment too long on her shoulders. I step back, forcing distance between us.
Distance is safe. Distance keeps people alive.
The burner phone weighs heavy in my pocket. I pull it out, pressing the power button.
The screen flickers to life, casting a blue glow across my palms.
One new message.
Unknown number.
The words turn my blood to ice:
"I KNOW WHERE YOU ARE."