Chapter 9
Wyatt
Devil’s Peak is the kind of town that can smell a secret from three blocks away.
Ellie steps out of my truck in my flannel, boots crunching on old snow, chin lifted like she’s daring the world to say something. She’s got that stubborn shine in her eyes, the one that usually means she’s about to do something reckless just to prove she can.
I slam my door and come around the hood without hurrying. It’s not a race. It’s a statement.
Her phone is in her hand. Her knuckles are white around it. I don’t like that. I don’t like anything about this situation—Graham’s photo, the fact he knows where my cabin is, the fact Ellie had to run to me at all.
But I do like one thing.
I like that she’s here with me.
I stop close enough that my shoulder brushes hers. Ellie stiffens, then doesn’t move away.
“Remember the plan,” I say.
She glances up at me. “I get my things.”
“You stay where I can see you,” I correct.
Her lips press together. “You’re not my dad.”
“No,” I murmur, eyes dropping to her mouth for half a second. “I’m worse.”
Heat flashes in her cheeks. She looks away fast like she hates that her body hears me.
Good.
I take her elbow and steer her toward the door. Ellie’s shop sign swings above us—DEVIL’S KISS CHOCOLATES—cute cursive, little devil tail curling under the K. She built this place from nothing. I can feel her anger in the way she walks, like she’s trying not to explode.
The front door is still locked with the new hardware, bright and smug.
Ellie jabs the keypad like it personally offended her. “It’s not even my lock.”
“It’s his,” I say.
Her jaw tightens. “I want to smash it.”
I glance down at her. “You want to smash something, you tell me first.”
Her eyes narrow. “Why?”
“So I can hold you back,” I answer, easy.
Her breath catches. She glares at me like she hates that sentence more than she hates the lock.
I step past her and scan the street. People are pretending not to stare, which is how you know they’re staring. Two teenage girls slow down like they’re “window shopping.” Old Mr. Danner stands outside the diner with a coffee, watching like it’s a soap opera.
Ellie’s phone buzzes.
Her shoulders stiffen.
I hold out my hand. “Give it.”
She hesitates, pride flaring. “It’s my phone.”
“And you’re my wife,” I say, loud enough that Mrs. Hargrove across the street suddenly finds the clouds fascinating.
Ellie’s head snaps toward me. “Wyatt.”
I don’t look at her. I keep my gaze on the street. “Phone.”
She exhales hard and slaps it into my palm.
I glance at the screen. No new message. Just her bank alerts still screaming.
Good.
I tuck it into my pocket and tilt my head toward the shop window. “Back door.”
Ellie follows me around the side like she knows this place by heart. There’s a service entrance with another new lock. Whoever did it was thorough.
I study the hardware, then the frame. I don’t miss the fresh scratches near the latch, the kind you get when someone’s been practicing.
Ellie notices my stare. “What.”
“Later,” I say.
She huffs. “You keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Acting like you’re ten steps ahead and I’m—” She stops, jaw tight.
I lean closer, voice low. “You’re not behind. You’re just not trained for this.”
Ellie’s eyes flash. “Trained for what. Being a paranoid caveman?”
“Being hunted,” I correct.
Her throat works as she swallows.
Before she can fire back, a voice booms from the alley behind us.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Devil’s Peak’s newest married couple.”
Levi.
Of course.
He strolls toward us like he owns the town, firefighter jacket open, grin sharp, eyes already locked on Ellie in my flannel like he’s about to throw a parade. Sadie walks beside him, hands tucked in her coat pockets, expression calm enough to be dangerous.
Ellie mutters, “Oh my God.”
Levi points at her. “You’re wearing his shirt.”
Ellie’s cheeks flush. “It’s cold.”
Levi nods solemnly. “Sure. It’s cold. And you decided the warmest thing in Devil’s Peak is Wyatt Cooper’s chest.”
Sadie elbows him hard. “Levi.”
He winces, then grins wider. “What? I’m supportive.”
Sadie’s eyes slide to me. “You okay?”
I hold her gaze. “We’re handling it.”
Sadie’s expression doesn’t change. “Uh-huh.”
Ellie turns toward her, voice sharp. “Don’t do that.”
Sadie’s brow lifts. “Do what?”
“That… ‘I see right through you’ thing.”
Sadie’s mouth twitches. “I can’t help it. It’s my face.”
Levi claps his hands together. “So. Protection detail. You brought the cavalry, right? I told Saxon you’d try to do this alone like an idiot.”
I ignore him and step closer to the back door, checking the latch again. “How’d you even know we were here?”
Levi gestures at the town around us. “Small-town Wi-Fi. News travels. Mrs. Hargrove texted three people and somehow it ended up in our group chat.”
Ellie groans. “Kill me.”
I glance down at her. “Not funny.”
She rolls her eyes. “It was a joke.”
“I don’t do jokes today,” I say.
Levi whistles. “Ooooh. Daddy voice.”
Sadie hits him again, this time with no warning. “Stop.”
Levi holds his hands up. “Okay, okay. I’m done.”
He’s not done.
He steps closer to the back door and sniffs the air theatrically. “Smells like chocolate and rage.”
Ellie glares. “You’re not helping.”
“I am helping,” Levi insists. “I’m here to provide emotional support and to confiscate contraband.”
Ellie blinks. “Confiscate what?”
Levi points at the shop. “Chocolate. Protection fee.”
Ellie’s eyes narrow. “Absolutely not.”
Levi puts a hand to his chest like she wounded him. “Wow. I risk my life for this town and this is how you treat me?”
Sadie leans in toward Ellie, deadpan. “He’ll cry about it for a week. Don’t let it move you.”
Levi gasps. “I do not cry.”
Sadie’s eyes flick to him. “You cried when you dropped your burrito last month.”
“That was grief,” Levi argues.
I don’t have time for this circus, but the truth is, Ellie’s shoulders loosen a fraction when they bicker. The tension in her throat eases. The fear dims—just slightly.
It pisses me off that it takes my friends making jokes to do what I can’t.
I shift my stance, blocking the alley with my body while I punch in the code Saxon got from the sheriff’s office. The lock clicks. I open the door and gesture Ellie inside.
Levi leans toward the opening like a vulture. “Chocolate. Now.”
Ellie shoots him a look. “Touch anything in my shop and I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Levi teases. “Stab me with a truffle?”
Sadie’s voice cuts in, calm as a blade. “I’ll stab you with a stir stick.”
Levi pauses. Slowly looks at her. “Babe.”
Sadie smiles sweetly. “Try me.”
Levi immediately steps back. “Okay. No theft. I respect boundaries.”
I step inside first, scanning the dim back room. Nothing looks disturbed—no shattered glass, no obvious forced entry—but the air feels wrong. Like a space that’s been controlled by someone else.
Ellie moves past me, shoulders tight, eyes darting everywhere at once. Her shop is her heart. Seeing it locked up has to feel like someone put their hands around her throat.
I keep close—half a step behind, half a step to the side—making sure she stays in my line of sight.
“You can grab what you need,” I say quietly. “Fast.”
Ellie snaps on a light. The room brightens, revealing shelves of cocoa, sugar, molds, packaging. Her apron hangs on a hook like it’s waiting for her to come back.
Her jaw tightens.
She moves toward the storage closet, but the door is padlocked.
“Son of a—” She catches herself, then hisses, “He locked the storage too.”
My hands curl into fists.
Levi strolls in behind us like he wasn’t just threatened with death by stir stick. “Wow. Banker ex is thorough.”
Ellie whips around. “Get out.”
Levi holds up his hands. “Fine. I’m out. But first—” He points toward a box of truffles on the counter. “One.”
Ellie’s eyes blaze. “No.”
Levi looks to me like I’m the judge. “Wyatt.”
I stare at him.
Levi grins. “That’s a yes.”
Sadie appears in the doorway, eyes on Levi. “Levi.”
Levi sighs dramatically. “Okay, okay. I’m leaving. This town is so hostile to heroes.”
He backs out.
Ellie turns back to the padlock like she wants to rip it off with her hands. “My inventory. My—” Her voice catches. “My ledger is in there.”
I step close enough that my chest almost brushes her back. “Tell me what you need.”
“I need my clothes,” she snaps, because it’s easier than admitting she needs anything else.
“Clothes,” I repeat.
“And my paperwork,” she adds, quieter. “My supplier contracts. My—” She swallows hard. “Everything.”
I lean in. “We’ll get it.”
Ellie’s shoulders lift, tense. “You keep saying that like you can just—”
“I can,” I cut in.
She turns, face inches from mine, anger and fear sharp in her eyes. “You can’t fix this with your firefighter voice.”
My gaze drops to her mouth. “I can fix a lot with my voice.”
Ellie’s breath catches. Her cheeks flush.
She hates that she reacts.
I like that she reacts.
I don’t let myself show it. I step back and pull my phone out. “Saxon’s getting the sheriff to serve the bank with a request for access. In the meantime, you grab whatever you can from the open shelves. Anything you can’t replace.”
Ellie swallows. “Wyatt—”
“Move,” I say, firm.
She glares, but she moves—grabbing boxes, tossing them into a tote like she’s in triage mode. The flannel sleeve slides up her arm and I get a glimpse of skin. My attention snags. My control strains.
Sadie steps in, calm and efficient, helping Ellie stack items. “Take the high-value inventory first. Truffles. Gift boxes. Anything sealed.”
Ellie nods, jaw tight. “Thank you.”
Sadie’s gaze flicks to Ellie’s face. “You don’t owe anyone thanks for helping you stay alive.”
Ellie’s throat works.
Then the front bell—still installed because apparently Graham didn’t think to remove joy—jingles softly.
I freeze.
My head turns toward the front of the shop.
Levi’s voice echoes faintly from the sales floor. “Oh. Ohhh. We’ve got a visitor.”
Ellie’s hand tightens on a tote strap. “Who—”
I’m already moving.
I step into the main shop, and the sight hits like a match struck in gasoline.
Graham stands by the display case like he belongs there.
Polished suit. Perfect hair. Hands in his pockets like he’s browsing chocolates and not destroying Ellie’s life. He looks calm, charming—exactly the kind of man people believe. The kind of man who ruins you with paperwork and a smile.
Mrs. Hargrove will love this.
Graham’s gaze lands on Ellie in the flannel behind me, and his mouth curves.
“Sweetheart,” he says, warm as poison.
Ellie stiffens.
My body steps in before my brain finishes forming words. I close the space so fast Ellie’s breath audibly catches behind me. I plant myself between her and Graham like a wall.
“Wrong name,” I say.
Graham’s eyes flick over me—slow, assessing—then he smiles wider. “Wyatt. Right?”
Levi leans against a shelf, grinning like he’s watching live theater. Sadie stands to the side, quiet and dangerous.
Ellie tries to step around me. I shift, blocking her without looking back.
“Don’t,” I murmur, low enough only she can hear.
Ellie’s breath hits my shoulder. “Wyatt—”
“I’ve got this,” I say.
Graham’s gaze darts to Ellie again. “I’m just here to talk.”
Ellie’s voice cuts through, sharp. “You’re here to intimidate.”
Graham lifts his hands in a placating gesture that makes me want to break them. “Ellie, come on. You know me.”
I laugh once, no humor in it. “I know men like you.”
Graham’s eyes narrow, just slightly. The mask wobbles, then resets. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“It does,” I say, calm.
Graham’s smile returns, brittle. “Why? Because you’re playing hero?”
Ellie’s hand grips my forearm behind me like she’s anchoring herself. The contact lights up my skin.
I keep my voice even. “Because she’s my wife.”
The shop goes quiet.
Even Levi stops breathing for a second.
Ellie’s fingers tighten on my arm like she’s going to argue—and then she doesn’t. She stays behind me, silent, which is the loudest thing she could do right now.
Graham’s gaze flicks to Ellie’s hand on my arm, then to the flannel, then back to my face. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes anymore.
“Temporary husbands don’t scare me,” he says lightly.
I step closer, just enough to make his posture shift. “They should.”
Graham’s eyes harden. “You don’t know what you’re stepping into.”
I tilt my head. “Try me.”
Graham’s smile returns, too smooth. He steps forward and extends his hand like we’re at a business meeting.
The gesture is calculated. Public. Performative. Meant to make me look like the aggressive one if I refuse.
I take it anyway.
His grip is firm. His palm is dry.
He leans in, voice dropping so only I can hear, pleasant as a threat.
“Temporary husbands don’t stop me.”