Chapter 26
The Knife and The Noose
Jacob
She said it. She fucking said it.
“I love you.”
Those three words out of her mouth… they could drop me to my knees faster than any blade shoved into my ribs. Hell, she even said she’d marry me.
It keeps replaying in my skull, a broken record that doesn’t grate—it brands.
Her voice, wrecked and trembling. That little quiver in her throat like she was scared of saying it.
Because she knows my feelings for her go beyond obsession.
Fuck, I told her I loved her. She knows how I feel.
But she held back. She’s tried to fight it.
The same way she tried to fight how badly her body craved me.
I’ve got her. All of her. Body and fucking soul.
Summer Miller told me she loves me, and I believe her. No lies in her eyes. No manipulation. No strings attached. Just the girl I tore out of her own life, who somehow still found a way to look at me like I was the one thing keeping her from drowning.
Christ, if anyone else had told me this morning that this day would end with her lips saying those words to me, I’d have laughed in their face and broken their jaw for mocking me.
Men like me don’t get love. We get violence.
We get fear. We get power and blood and the silence of graves.
But never love. But now it’s mine. Her love.
Her body. Her soul. I’ve been claiming all of it piece by piece, and tonight, she handed me the last fragment willingly.
My chest feels like it’s going to split wide open. I can’t breathe. For the first time in my entire life, I feel like I could break down and cry. Not shed a fragment of a tear, but really, completely break down and sob.
But I don’t. I won’t. Because she doesn’t need a man who weeps. She needs a monster who will stand, teeth bared, between her and the fire.
So, I make the promise. Quietly. Brutally. The kind of vow that isn’t spoken but etched into the marrow of my bones. Every single day from this one until the day I’m put in the ground—she’s it. The axis I spin on. The reason I wake, the reason I fight, the reason I keep breathing.
I won’t turn soft. She doesn’t want that.
My girl loves pain, loves my roughness, my obsession.
She drinks down every jagged edge I give her.
But I’ll still change. Not in who I am—I’ll never stop being the sheriff, the monster, the man who puts bodies in the dirt when they get too close. No, I’ll change in ‘why’.
Every bullet I fire will be for her.
Every son of a bitch I take down will be for her.
Every decision I make, every law I bend, every life I end—all of it, hers.
She’s curled against me, her body slack with exhaustion.
I can feel the faint tremor of her breaths against my chest, the warmth of her cheek pressed to the hollow of my collarbone.
Every once in a while, her lips twitch, like she’s about to speak, but sleep drags her under before the words can escape.
I should close my eyes. I should let my body rest—God knows I need it. My knuckles are torn open, my muscles ache, and my head’s a warzone of voices. But I don’t. Instead, I study her like a starving man memorizing the shape of bread.
I rise from the seat, careful not to wake her, and lift her in one motion. She grunts but doesn’t fully wake. I carry her to my bed. No—our bed. The bed where we will make our babies. Where we will sleep, fuck, and sleep again.
Me and my wife.
Her hair spreads over the pillow, strands curling from where I brushed it out earlier. I smile at the memory. The noise she made as it combed through her softness and released some of the tension she had built up from the worst day of her life.
Part of me feels jealous. I should have just pulled my fingers through her hair, to feel every single molecule of her being and not let anything else ever touch her. I almost laugh at the thought. Jealous of a goddamn hairbrush. What the fuck is wrong with me?
But then she shifts, sighs in her sleep, and the sound strips me raw. I reach out, careful, dragging the back of my knuckles along her jaw. Light enough not to wake her. Gentle—a word I don’t know how to wear, but I force it on anyway.
Her skin is warm, soft, a balm I don’t deserve. My chest tightens so hard I think my ribs might crack.
“Summer,” I murmur, my voice a rasp, just for her ears even if she’s too deep under to hear me.
“You have no fucking idea what you’ve done to me.
” I shake my head and laugh, but without a trace of humor.
“I’ve broken men without blinking. Put bullets between eyes without a flicker of regret.
But three words from you—three—I’m on my knees.
You think you love me now? You wait and see what I do with it. ”
I brush her hair back from her face, fingers sinking into the strands like roots.
If another man ever hears her say “I love you,” it’ll be the last sound they ever hear.
That, or the gunshot firing through their skull.
But then I think, maybe she should say it to another boy, maybe she should say it to our son.
The image of a miniature version of me flashes through my mind, wearing the Sheriffs hat I refuse to don— riding a pretend horse through the yard.
I’d give my son the life I should have had, the life I deserved.
Not a life of fearing his father—of wondering whether he’d get the belt for not cleaning the porch just right.
No—he would be loved, cherished and would grow to be a better man than me.
“One day,” I whisper.
She exhales, soft and shuddering, like her body knows the future I’ve planned for us, even if her mind’s too far gone to process it. I tuck the blanket tighter around her, press my mouth to the top of her head, and let the vow settle deep in my bones.
The vibration rattles against the nightstand, loud enough to slice through the silence. My heart doesn’t just skip—it fucking stops.
I rip the phone up before it can wake her. Carter’s name flashes across the screen, and every instinct in me turns to stone.
“Sheriff,” his voice crackles, too rushed, too clipped. “We’ve had a call from a neighbour. Black SUV parked outside Constance Bishop’s place. Reports of shouting, glass breaking. Possible domestic disturbance.”
My blood goes cold. Not a chill. A freeze that locks every muscle tight.
Constance. Adelaide.
I glance down at Summer—at the woman curled into me, finally breathing easy, finally letting herself rest. My woman, who I swore I’d never fail again.
And yet here I am, staring at the knife-edge of failure.
If I wake her, I rip her peace away. I throw her headfirst back into panic, back into the kind of nightmares I’ve been fighting to burn out of her.
But if I don’t….
My hand shakes against the phone, but my voice doesn’t. “How long ago?”
“It was called in four minutes ago,” Carter answers. “Units enroute, but….” He hesitates, and that hesitation is a death sentence. “Sheriff, neighbour said the SUV was tinted. They didn’t see anyone leave. No plates, either. It’s likely it could be—”
“Moore,” I snarl. The name tears out of me before I can stop it.
Summer shifts against my chest, murmuring something in her sleep. I freeze. Hold her tighter. Pray she doesn’t wake.
I’m split in half. One side of me is the man she just confessed to loving, the man who swore his world would spin around her. The other is the sheriff, the predator, the monster who knows the hunt has already come knocking at our door.
And I don’t know how the fuck to tell her.
What do I do? Wake her? Lie to her? Leave her behind and deal with it myself like I did last time?
Every option tastes like blood. But I do the only thing I can think of doing.
Carter’s still in my ear, waiting for orders, but my brain’s already running ten steps ahead. I know these roads like the veins in my hands. If I push my truck, I can get to Constance’s place in under six minutes. Maybe less if I don’t give a shit about the lights.
“Carter,” I bark on a whisper when he answers. “Get Haywood to my house. Now.”
There’s a pause, hesitation on the line. “Sheriff—”
“Don’t fucking argue. Summer knows him. He’s one of the only men I trust. Tell him I’ll be back in half an hour,” I whisper, making sure she doesn’t hear.
“Sir—”
“Half an hour.” My voice is quiet but steel, final, the kind that doesn’t leave room for anything but obedience.
He swallows whatever argument he has and hangs up.
I turn my gaze back to Summer. She hasn’t stirred. Her face is soft, lips parted, a little crease in her brow like she’s fighting shadows even in sleep. Christ, she’s been through hell. And I’m about to drag her deeper into it if I tell her now.
It’s 2:30 a.m. The world outside is dead quiet. The chances of her waking in the next thirty minutes are slim.
I’ll lock every door. Leave the hall light on so it looks like I’m still home. Haywood will park out front in his truck, the sight of it enough to make anyone think twice.
She’ll be safe. She’ll sleep. And I’ll sort this before she even knows there’s a threat.
Because if Moore is at Constance’s house—if he’s waiting there with his hands around the throats of the only two people Summer still has left—then I know exactly how this will play out.
He’ll threaten to kill them. He’ll dangle their lives in front of me like bait, make me hand Summer over in exchange.
And here’s the truth I can’t even say out loud.
The thought that would scorch me if she ever knew.
I’d kill the girls myself before I let Moore touch Summer.
I’d snap their necks, bleed them out on the floor, if it meant keeping her safe.
Because Summer isn’t just mine. She is me.
My axis. My obsession. My only reason for breathing.
The night air cuts against my skin as I step onto the porch.
It smells like damp earth and woodsmoke, but underneath it all I swear I can taste blood, like my body already knows what’s waiting.
I pace once, twice, my boots grinding against the boards, then stop when headlights swing around the corner.
Haywood’s cruiser.
I glance at my watch. 2:34 a.m. Four minutes. That’s all it took him to haul his ass out here. I’ll remember that. Loyalty like that means something in a world where I can’t trust a goddamn soul.
His cruiser crunches up the drive and idles in front of the house. Haywood steps out, uniform still crisp despite the hour, hand hovering near his belt like he’s already anticipating a fight. Good. I need that kind of edge right now.
“Sheriff,” he says, nodding once.
I step down off the porch, closing the distance until I’m right in front of him. My voice is low, jagged enough to cut. “She’s inside. Asleep.”
His gaze flicks to the windows, back to me. “You want me inside or posted out front?”
“Inside.” I don’t hesitate. “Lock the doors behind me. She knows you, trusts you. But listen to me, Haywood—” I lean in, my stare pinning him harder than any hand could. “No matter what happens, you keep her safe. That’s all that matters. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
I grab his shoulder, fingers digging hard enough to leave marks. “No matter what. Do not wake her up. If she wakes on her own, you tell her I’ll be back soon. But you do not mention Constance’s home. Not under any circumstances.”
His brows twitch, just slightly, but he doesn’t question me. Smart man.
“I don’t give a fuck if the world’s burning down,” I growl. “You don’t let her walk out that door.”
“Yes, Sheriff.”
I hold him there a moment longer, making damn sure he understands the weight of what I’m putting on him. Because this isn’t just a job. It’s a death sentence if he screws it up.
Finally, I let go, exhale deeply through my nose. “Thank you,” I mutter, the words foreign in my mouth, but true. “For coming.”
Haywood nods again, more firmly this time. “You can count on me, boss.”
I step back, scanning the house one last time. The hall light glows warm through the curtains, casting the illusion of home, of safety. She’ll think I’m still here if she stirs. She’ll roll over, see the glow, and believe. That’ll have to be enough.
Because I’m the sheriff, and I’m going hunting.
I head for my truck, keys already biting into my palm, my heart beating in time with the ticking of my watch.
2:36 a.m.
Every second from here could mean the difference between life and death. And if Moore’s touched her friends… if he’s waiting for me inside that house…. He’s already a dead man.
I drive like a fucking man possessed. Speedometer needle pinned, tires eating asphalt, siren lighting up the night. The truck bucks under me, engine growling like it knows the rage burning through my blood. By the time I barrel onto Constance’s street, my watch reads 2:41 a.m.
Two patrol cars already sit crooked at the curb, lights spinning red and blue across the clapboard houses. I kill my siren and leap out before the cruiser’s fully stopped, boots hitting gravel hard enough to shake my teeth.
The officers straighten when they see me, but I don’t waste breath on pleasantries. “Debrief.”
One clears his throat. “Nothing to report, Sheriff. House is dark. Silent.”
Silent. The word slithers down my spine, wrong. Too neat. Too clean.
“Put the door in,” I order. My voice is a growl, final.
We move fast. Guns drawn. One officer rams the door with his shoulder until the frame splinters, and then we’re inside, shouting commands into shadows.
“Sheriff’s department! Hands where I can see ‘em!”
Nothing.
I stalk down the hall, past the sagging wallpaper and overturned shoe rack, every sense on edge. When I hit the kitchen, the world stills.
On the counter, beneath the dim light of a single bulb, lies a knife. Clean. Laid out deliberate. Waiting.
And beside it—three Polaroids.
My stomach drops into ice as I step closer.
Elaine. Dead.
Michael. Dead.
And then—fuck.
Summer.
Her picture isn’t new; I recognize the background. The diner. But it isn’t just the photo. Someone’s taken a marker to it. Drawn a thick black noose around her neck, the rope trailing off the edge of the paper. My hand shakes. My vision tunnels.
“Sheriff!” an officer calls from deeper in the house. “Empty! No one’s here.”
Empty.
No. This isn’t nothing. This isn’t silence. This is a message. A warning.
A trap.
I step back, chest heaving, sweat prickling across my shoulders even as the air feels like ice.
2:49 a.m.
I glance at my watch again. Time slipping away too fast.
I tear my phone from my pocket, thumb hitting Haywood’s number before the thought fully forms.
It rings. And rings. And rings.
Panic claws at me, something I’ve spent my whole life keeping buried, but it’s here now, bleeding into every crack.
Then—finally—an answer.
But it’s not Haywood’s voice.