Chapter Sixteen #3
Panic grabs me by the throat. I take a sharp step back and duck behind the bush at the edge of the store. The branches bite into my arms as I drop low. My pulse thunders in my ears, my breath quick and shallow.
They haven’t seen me. Not yet. But they’re watching. Waiting. And if they’re here, out in the open like this, then it means one thing.
They know. About Emery. About the cabin. About everything.
Did I lead them to her? Did I just hand her over without even realizing it?
Fuck.
I watch them carefully. They exchange a few quiet words, eyes still scanning, still searching.
One of them checks his watch. Nods to the other. Then they both turn and move down the street, slow, casual, with the kind of swagger that says they’ve got all the time in the world. That says they already know exactly how this ends.
My blood goes cold. And the second they’re out of sight, I’m moving.
Fast.
I shoot out from behind the bush and sprint to the truck. Every nerve in my body on fire and screaming.
My hands shake as I wrench the door open, nearly dropping the bag.
I slide in behind the wheel, heart pounding so loud it drowns out the rest of the world. The engine growls to life, too loud, too slow. I slam my foot on the gas, tires shrieking as I tear out of the parking lot.
"Fuck," I choke, my throat closing tight around the word. Panic claws its way up my spine. "Emery." Her name leaves my mouth like a prayer I’m already too late to say.
I'm racing against the clock. Foot slammed down, the engine screaming under me. I blow past every red light, every speed limit, every warning. None of it fucking matters. The only thing that matters is getting back to her before they do.
Because if they touch her… If they even breathe near her…I’ll salt the earth with their blood.
The roads blur around me as I tear through town. Every second slices across my skin—it’s already too fucking late. My hands strangle the wheel, knuckles bone white.
I can’t stop seeing her face. The way she looked at me this morning when I told her I’d be back soon. Trusting me. Believing in me. Counting on me.
The truck fishtails, gravel spitting and skidding behind me. I shove the gas harder, and harder, the tires screaming as I fly around the last curve, the woods closing in fast around me.
The cabin’s close now. Minutes away. Maybe less if I keep pushing. And I fucking do.
Because I don't care if I wrap this truck around a tree. I'll crawl the rest of the goddamn way if I have to. Nothing is stopping me from getting to her.
Branches blur past the windows and then I see it.
Through the trees.
The cabin.
It’s still.
Quiet. Too fucking quiet.
I check my phone—no breach alerts—but I’ve seen them hit other places without a single warning. Just slipped through like ghosts while everyone was asleep.
I kill the engine before I even hit the driveway, letting the truck coast, breath caught in my throat, eyes slicing through every inch of the clearing. Scanning for movement. For shadows. For them.
There’s no vehicles. No sign of a break-in. But still it doesn’t settle me. It makes the silence worse. Heavier. Like the calm before a bullet shatters glass.
Please. Fuck. Please be okay.
I get out, slam the door and run. My boots hammering the dirt, heart in my throat, gun already in my hand.
Every step crunches beneath me, loud as gunfire in my ears, as I tear up the porch, muscles strung so tight I might fucking snap.
The front door’s still closed. No blood. No shattered glass. No signs of a struggle. And that’s what makes it worse.
Because if they got in without a fight, it means they were careful. It means they were quiet and they planned this.
I press up to the door, back tight to the frame, and lower my breathing. My ear meets the wood.
Nothing. No footsteps. No voices. No fucking sound at all.
Just silence.
I press my thumb to the scanner and hold it there.
One beat. Two. Then a soft click as the lock disengages. I twist the handle slowly, dread curling in my gut over whatever the fuck’s waiting on the other side.
I slip inside, gun drawn, heart hammering like it’s trying to punch through my ribs. The door creaks closed behind me with a soft click.
I sweep the living room first. The fire’s burned low in the hearth, barely glowing. The couch is empty. Nothing is out of place… and yet everything feels wrong.
I move fast, silent. Check the kitchen, There’s no sign of movement. The hallway is clear. Each footstep hits like a countdown. I nudge open the bathroom door with my boot.
“Emery,” I whisper.
No answer. I grip the gun tighter. My chest tightens, every muscle locked down as I cross the space toward the bedroom. My finger brushes the trigger, my mind already prepared for what I might see.
Then… movement.
I swing toward it, gun raised.
And then I see her. Emery. Standing in the doorway. Eyes wide. Barefoot. And fuck she’s alive.
“Matteo?”
I freeze.
Breath locks in my lungs, blood roaring in my ears.
She’s okay.
She’s fucking okay.
Relief slams into me so hard my knees nearly give out. I lower the gun immediately. Shove it into the waistband of my pants. The metal bites into my spine. Then I close the distance in two fast steps.
I grab her face in my hands. I need to feel her, to know she’s real. Then I pull her into my chest, bury my face in her neck, and hold her so tight it feels like my body might snap in half.
“What’s wrong?” she breathes, arms wrapping around me.
I don’t answer right away. I can’t. My hands are still shaking. My pulse is a fucking drumbeat of panic.
I finally pull back and cup her face in both hands. Her skin is warm. She’s alive. And fuck, I nearly fall apart just from that.
“I thought—” My voice breaks, chest twisting hard. I swallow it down. Try again. “They know,” I whisper. “My father’s men. I saw them in town.”
Her body goes still. The blood drains from her face as her fingers tighten around my wrists.
“They sent a message,” I say quietly. “They’re coming for us.”
I don’t look away. My hands stay on her. Steady. Like if I let go, we’ll both fall apart.
“We don’t have much time,” I tell her.
And even though I see it. The flicker of fear in her eyes, the way her breath catches. She still nods.