Chapter 11
chapter
eleven
MILES
The knock echoes through the trees.
Close enough that every hair on my arms lifts.
Then all hell breaks loose, because those fucking assholes are here.
“GO! GO! GO!” one of the Ridgefield guys yells behind us.
ATV engines roar to life.
Branches snap violently somewhere downhill as the entire Ridgefield crew charges toward the sound like a pack of drunk linebackers chasing a bar fight.
Idiots. Absolute idiots.
“Jesus Christ,” I snap.
My body moves before my brain fully catches up.
In one swift motion, I grab Daisy’s waist and pull her the opposite direction into the trees.
“Wait—”
“Move,” I bark, rougher than I intended, my hand finding hers.
We break into a fast downhill jog through dense pine and scrub oak as shouting erupts behind us. ATV engines rev hard enough to shake the forest floor while Ridgefield crashes blindly toward the knocks.
Exactly where I do not want to be.
Pine branches whip across my shoulders as I push through the brush, dragging Daisy behind me over uneven terrain.
“Miles—” she pants.
“They’re driving directly into a possible corridor.”
“That sentence means nothing to me right now!”
“It means we need to get away from them, because whatever just knocked is also moving away from that area!”
Loose rock shifts beneath our boots.
Daisy slips, and I catch her hand fully this time instead of just her wrist. My fingers interlock tight around hers as she stabilizes before we cut hard through the trees.
The forest changes fast once you leave the trails.
It gets denser. Darker.
The kind of dark that arrives before sunset actually hits because the canopy swallows the light first.
Branches claw at us from every direction. Pine needles crunch underfoot while cold air burns sharp in my lungs.
Behind us, engines scream farther into the canyon, away from us.
Then another knock echoes through the woods.
Closer to us now. Much closer.
Daisy jerks beside me. “Miles.”
“I heard it.”
My pulse starts hammering harder immediately.
Not fear exactly. Adrenaline. Recognition.
I’m running through the sound in my mind, holding on to realism. The spacing is wrong for hikers. Too deep for woodpeckers. And too deliberate.
Three knocks. I stop in my tracks, Daisy slamming into me. Pause. Two knocks. So close to where we are.
Daisy is pushed up against me, her breath fanning up at my face.
“What-” I pull her down beside a cluster of fallen logs and crouch low.
“Quiet.” Again, the word comes out rougher than I mean it to.
But she listens this time.
The woods settle around us.
No engines now. No shouting.
Just towering ponderosa pine needles rustling overhead and both of us breathing way too hard in the cold air.
Daisy’s still clutching my hand.
Neither of us notices for a second.
Then she does. Her fingers tighten reflexively instead of pulling away.
And holy shit, this is not the time for me to notice how perfect her soft hand feels in mine.
Another knock. Closer again.
My entire spine locks.
Daisy shifts toward me.
“Is it—?” she whispers.
“I think so.” For once, I fully mean it.
The sound comes from somewhere uphill now. Measured. Intentional.
The forest suddenly feels enormous around us.
Every shadow stretches longer between the trees while dusk bleeds blue-gray through the branches overhead.
And the terrifying thing is, I can’t tell if we’re being watched. But suddenly every instinct I have is screaming that something is aware of us, and we are not in a position to capture footage or protect ourselves.
Daisy moves closer again.
Her shoulder presses against my chest as she crouches beside me behind the fallen log.
I become violently aware of every point of contact all at once. Her breath. Her hair brushing my jaw when she turns her head. The fact that she’s scared and trusting me anyway.
Then another crack sounds deeper in the woods.
Heavy.
Like something large stepping over deadfall.
Daisy grabs my arm.
Not gracefully—instinctively. Full-body instinct.
Which I understand, because lately, protecting her feels less like responsibility and more like reflex.
The sound stops. Silence crashes over the forest afterward. Not normal silence. The kind that presses against your ribs. Even the wind seems quieter.
Daisy’s fingers flex once against my jacket sleeve. “Miles.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know.”
“No,” I whisper. “I really don’t.”
Another beat passes.
Then somewhere far off downhill, ATV engines roar again. Fainter now. Still moving away.
The Ridgefield crew disappears deeper into the forest.
Absolutely reckless fucking idiots.
The knocks don’t follow them. That’s what unsettles me most.
The next sound comes from our left.
Close enough now that Daisy flinches against me.
I stand, considering our next course of action.
“Okay,” I whisper. “We’re moving. It’s getting dark, and we don’t have enough equipment to fully document this or camp tonight. So, there’s no use staying here.”
“What if it follows us?”
The question hits me right in the chest because not only does she believe something is out there, but she sounds genuinely scared now.
And weirdly, I feel calmer because of it. It makes me feel focused. Useful.
“We stay quiet,” I say. “We stay controlled. Fast movement triggers attention.”
“You’re saying things that sound made up.”
“They’re not made up.”
“You say that like you’ve studied Bigfoots in captivity!” Our whisper yells are comical at this point.
“No,” I admit. “But I know what not to do. And I know where we can go.”
Daisy finally quiets and nods. Because underneath all the conspiracy theories and weird niche obsessions, this part is real. Field work. Risk assessment. Reading environments.
I reach out and squeeze her hand once before letting go reluctantly.
“Stay close to me.”
Her eyes fix on mine. And even in the fading light, even terrified, she still looks devastatingly beautiful. Which feels unfair.
We move carefully through the trees now instead of running.
The temperature drops fast with the sun.
Cold air slides through the forest floor while shadows thicken around the canyon edges.
Daisy stumbles once over exposed roots. I catch her by the waist this time.
Her breath catches.
Mine does too.
My hand spans warm against her side for one suspended second too long, and I wonder what it would be like to kiss her again, my fingers woven through her hair, her hands clutching my shirt.
But I’d never do that because I’m not going to jeopardize everything I’ve built over the last ten years. What idiot would do that? Not me. Nope.
I let her go reluctantly. “Sorry,” I say.
“Never say sorry while manhandling me through forests.”
“It sounds worse when you phrase it like that.”
A nervous laugh escapes her. God. Even scared, she still does that. Still reaches for humor. The realization softens something in my chest.
Another knock echoes somewhere behind us. Farther now. Retreating.
I exhale for what feels like the first time in ten minutes.
“Okay,” I murmur. “Good.”
“What’s good?”
“It’s moving off.”
“You say that with way too much confidence.”
“I’m choosing optimism.”
“That’s a first.”
“Hey, I am pretty optimistic,” I counter.
“I think you’re optimistic for the crew. I don’t know if you’re always like that internally, though.”
We finally stop near a narrow rock outcropping tucked between dense trees.
The wind cuts sharper here, and Daisy rubs her arms to warm against the chill.
Without thinking, I strip off my jacket and hand it to her.
She blinks. “Miles—”
“Put it on.”
“You’ll freeze.”
“I run warm.”
“That is biologically impossible. You’re built like a ripped vampire.”
I snort softly despite everything. “Daisy.”
She finally takes the jacket.
And watching her pull it on nearly kills me in an instant.
Because now she smells like me. And looks small inside it. And the primal part of my stupid, exhausted, adrenaline-fried brain decides that means something. Like she’s mine.
Awesome. Love that for me.
I pull out my GPS while she zips the jacket higher around her neck.
The signal flickers weakly.
“So, what’s the plan?” she asks.
“We won’t be able to meet back up with the crew tonight, but I know where we can go for the night.”
“That’s only mildly comforting.”
I glance around the darkening forest.
Then toward the ridge line farther west.
A decision settles into place immediately.
“Come on.”
She looks up. “Where are we going?”
“There’s an old fire lookout cabin only about a mile from here.”
Her eyes widen. “You know a random cabin in the woods?”
“I know lots of random cabins in the woods.”
“That somehow feels both useful and threatening.”
“No, this is the area we were in on that last trip my family took. I remember this fire lookout because Owen and I ran in to explore—at the time, it felt like a treehouse for grown-ups.”
My mind runs through what the cabin looks like: small. One cot. Supplies in case anyone gets stuck there in an emergency.
Oh.
One cot.
I tuck the GPS away and offer her my flashlight. She takes it slowly.
Then narrows her eyes. “Why do you look nervous now?”
Because my brain just remembered we’re about to spend the night stranded together in a tiny isolated cabin while she’s wearing my jacket and smelling like cedar and campfire smoke.
That’s why.
“Don’t read too much into what’s about to happen,” I blurt out.
Daisy blinks.
Then grins slowly despite the situation.
“Oh, my God.”
“No.”
“You just realized we’re about to be alone in a remote cabin.”
“That is not what this is.”
“You’re spiraling,” she shakes her head, eyes lit with a twinkle of mischief.
“I’m assessing.”
“You’re panic-assessing.”
I push my glasses up and drag a hand down my face. “Can we just get there before you start bullying me?”
Her laugh bursts out warm and sharp into the cold air.
And somehow, being stranded in the middle of the forest, with danger somewhere in the trees and darkness closing around us, feels less terrifying than the fact that I’d follow that sound straight into the woods if it meant keeping her safe.