Chapter 1 #2
A low, hard knock sounds at the front door—three precise raps, each one sending vibrations into my molars. Mama flinches. Papa juts out his chin while he lifts my luggage, and marches through the narrow hall, heading to let the monster lurking outside in.
I smell him before I see him—cedar and oil and something metallic, masked under a crisp cologne.
I reluctantly make my way downstairs, aware there’s no way out of this situation.
The hallway door creaks open, and the sound of heavy boots echoes on the wooden floor.
Papa presents my bag, as if making a transaction.
My breath catches in my throat as I watch.
Jacob steps into the light, posture rigid, embodying the role of a lawman. His uniform is immaculate, and the badge on his chest shines brightly. His beard is short, tapered, and groomed. He scans the room before his dark eyes settle on me, lingering with a cool, assessing gaze.
“Everything ready?” Jacob’s voice is smooth and composed, like he rehearsed it.
Papa gives a firm nod, eyes gleaming with regret. “You’ll take care of her.”
Jacob’s lips twist into something resembling a smile, but his gaze remains distant and cold. “I’ll take good care of her. You have my word.”
Mama moves to me and cups my cheeks in her trembling, warm hands. She brushes a kiss across my forehead. “You’ll be okay, baby.”
Jacob snatches the suitcase from Papa with a cold indifference, eyes locked onto mine. “We need to go.”
I dig my heels into the ground defiantly. “Not until you explain why I have to go with you. Why can’t you just post an officer at our door until you catch these guys?”
He lets out a long breath, as if the answer should be seared into my mind. “Because they’re already hunting you, and a badge on your porch won’t deter them.” His gaze pierces through me, unwaveringly heavy. “With me, you stand a chance. Alone… who knows how long you’ll last.”
The words take a moment to fully register, settling in my stomach with a queasy, unsettling churn, like spoiled milk. “So what?” I ask, tone tinged with disbelief. “I’m supposed to climb into your truck and act like everything is perfectly normal?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“This isn’t up for discussion, Summer,” he commands, voice low and even. It carries a weight that feels heavier than any shout. “One way or another, you are leaving this house tonight. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
Before I can protest further, his hand gently touches the small of my back. It’s a light, calculated touch—not forceful or restrictive—just a quiet reminder that he now dictates my movements.
Mama’s tears glisten on her cheeks, and Papa’s eyes are bright and wet. “We love you,” he murmurs, trembling slightly. “This is only temporary.”
The truck waits outside, looming with its imposing black frame. The porch light casts a distorted glow over the hood, adding an eerie shimmer. Jacob swings open the passenger door, and the metal creaks in protest, as if even it knows I shouldn’t step inside.
“Climb in,” he instructs.
Reluctantly, I do. The leather seat is icy against my skin, carrying the faint scent of oil and smoke—so unmistakably him.
The door slams with a resolute, echoing thud that seals my fate. In the side mirror, the warmth of the porch light dwindles, swallowed by the night. The darkness outside is impenetrable, devouring the outlines of the trees.
We drive in silence for several minutes, the rhythmic hum of the tires against the road the only sound between us.
“I know I’m supposed to believe you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “But I know—”
His grip on the steering wheel tightens, knuckles turning white.
“I don’t care what you believe,” he cuts me off, his voice carrying threat underneath the calmness. “I care that you’re still breathing.”
His eyes flick toward me.
“Out there, safe doesn’t exist. You might not like me. You might not trust me… but you’ll still be here tomorrow morning.”
I turn to the window. The headlights carve a thin tunnel through the dark.
The rest of the drive is filled with shadows and the hum of the engine, but his words linger. And the worst part is—somewhere beyond the anger and the fear—I’m not sure he’s wrong.
The trees thin out, and the headlights illuminate the pale siding of a house.
The truck slows, gravel crunching beneath the tires.
We stop at the foot of a sloping driveway.
The house sits on the hill, two stories tall, with black shutters like closed eyes.
No streetlights. No neighbors. Just a jagged line of pines slicing the stars into shards.
He cuts the engine and turns to me.
“You’ll have your own room,” he says softly. “Fresh sheets. Toiletries. Everything you’ll need.”
I don’t respond.
“Thank you, Sheriff,” he taunts, letting the title roll off his tongue.
My head snaps toward him. He’s looking down at my legs—slow, calculating—as if he can measure exactly how far they spread.
“You think a guest room makes this okay?” My voice trembles, but I force it through my teeth. “If you think I’m going to thank you for this, you’re out of your fucking mind.”
He doesn’t answer—just keeps his white-knuckled grip on the wheel.
“I’ve seen you,” I hiss, voice jagged. “Circling my house like a vulture. Turning up wherever I went. Watching me from the shadows. You think I didn’t notice? Hell, I was only eighteen when all of this started.”
He answers, voice low enough to scrape bone. “You think this started because I’m a creep? No, sweetheart, it started as protection. You were too pure—too fucking good for the shitshow that surrounds your father.”
The air shifts as he continues.
“I stayed back because of him. Because I owed him the decency of keeping my distance.”
His jaw flexes, something dark twisting in his voice.
“But that didn’t stop me watching you. Didn’t stop me wanting you. You kept walking around this town like you didn’t see me. Like you didn’t know what it did to me every time you were near.”
His hand twitches—like he’s fighting himself and losing.
“Truth is, you were mine the second you smiled at me across your daddy’s yard. And every day after that, I fought even harder to keep my hands off you.”
His voice fractures with fury and hunger.
“But now?”
He’s so close his breath heats my skin.
“They’ve handed you to me, and I don’t have to pretend anymore. You belong to me now. Every breath. Every heartbeat. Every goddamn sin.”
With a single movement, he opens the door and drops from the truck. His boots crack against gravel as he glances up at his house—his fortress. I try my door, but it’s still locked. He looks back and smiles, then perches on the hood of his truck, mocking me.
“OPEN THE DOOR!” The scream rips free, tears at my throat. My fist strikes the dash so hard my knuckles sting.
He exhales—a patient man exasperated. Then he circles the truck and yanks open my door—
I bolt.
Two steps. That’s all I get before his arm coils around my waist and lifts me off the ground. I flail, boots kicking, nails clawing at his back, but he carries me like I weigh nothing.
“PUT ME DOWN!” My fists hammer into him, useless blows.
He strides to the front door, kicks it open in one brutal motion, and hauls me inside like prey draped over his shoulder.
My feet hit the floor—adrenaline propelling me toward escape—but he’s already there, a wall of muscle and menace. He shoves me backward; my spine slams into plaster, skin scraping against rough white. His hand snaps beside my head, caging me in.
“Do you think I enjoyed dragging you here like a fucking animal?” His voice is unyielding steel. “Do you think this was what I wanted?”
My lungs constrict. The room shrinks around us, oppressively small. His chest presses into mine, heat blistering through my ribs, pinning me in his orbit. Then—softly, dangerously intimate, like a secret carved from darkness—
“You don’t get freedom here. You get me. And I can be good to you…” His fingers catch my chin, tilting it up until I have no choice but to meet his eyes. “But only when you’re good for me.”
The hold is brief but absolute. He releases me after a moment, stepping back, leaving me pinned to the wall by the weight of his words.
“Your room’s upstairs. Second door on the left,” he says without looking back. “Don’t make me lock it.”
His boots echo down the hall, each step sealing the truth deeper in my chest.
This isn’t merely a nightmare. It’s a life sentence.
I wait until his footsteps fade, then another beat after that, just to be sure.
The house is quiet, but it isn’t empty. It’s the kind of quiet that listens. I take the stairs slow, every sound too loud. The hallway is narrow, lined with closed doors. One lamp at the far end bleeds a tired glow onto the carpet.
The second door on the left is already open.
The room is bare but not unwelcoming—somehow worse.
The bed is neatly made with crisp white sheets, a folded blanket at the foot.
A dresser. A small desk under the window.
Fresh toiletries lined up in the bathroom doorway, like this has been meticulously prepared.
It isn’t a guest room. It’s a holding cell with better linen.
I step inside. The floorboards creak under each timid step. The air smells faintly of detergent and cedar—his cedar.
The window draws me before I’ve decided to move. I part the curtain enough to peek through. The yard is swallowed by dark, the tree line a jagged shadow against the sky. No lights. No roads. No one to hear me if I scream.
A movement below catches my eye.
He’s outside, standing in the drive. The glow from his cigarette flares, bright against the dark, before fading back to ember.
Watching the house. Watching me.
He heads to his truck and pulls my suitcase from the back.
I let the curtain fall. My pulse hammers in my ears.
The bed is too precise, like it’s waiting for me to lie down exactly where he wants me. I don’t sit. I stand there in the middle of the room, listening to the house breathe around me.
Because it’s not the walls that make me feel trapped. It’s knowing he’s out there.