Maddie
Cold air fills my lungs the second I step outside the next morning, sharp and clean in a way that should feel refreshing but doesn’t.
The quiet hits me just as hard, not peaceful like it usually is in Devil’s Peak, but heavy, like the mountain is holding its breath and watching.
I pull my jacket tighter around me and scan the tree line out of instinct now, my gaze moving slowly, deliberately, searching for anything out of place.
Every shadow feels thicker than it should.
Every shift of wind feels like it means something.
Ethan steps out behind me, his boots crunching against the frost-dusted ground, the sound louder than it should be in the stillness. “You always look at the trees like they’re about to bite?” he asks.
“Only when someone might be hiding in them.”
There’s a beat of silence before he answers, and when he does, his voice is calm in a way that doesn’t help. “Good.”
I glance over my shoulder at him, narrowing my eyes. “That wasn’t comforting.”
“It’s not supposed to be.”
Of course it isn’t.
He moves past me, already focused, already scanning the ground like he’s reading a language I don’t understand, his attention sharp and unwavering. “Stay close,” he says.
“I thought I wasn’t supposed to act like prey.”
His mouth curves just slightly, but he doesn’t look up. “There’s a difference between being smart and being reckless.”
“I’m still figuring out which one you think I am.”
“I know exactly what you are.”
That stops me. I turn toward him, my brows pulling together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He finally looks up, his eyes locking on mine in a way that feels too direct, too knowing. “Trouble.”
Heat flares in my chest, irritation mixing with something else I don’t want to name. “Funny,” I mutter. “I was thinking the same about you.”
“Then we’re on the same page.”
He turns away again and crouches near the edge of the clearing. “Come here.”
I hesitate for just a second before moving toward him, my boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. He doesn’t look back, but I can feel it, that awareness of me closing the distance, like he registers every step even without seeing it.
When I reach him, I stop just behind his shoulder. “What am I looking at?” I ask.
He gestures toward the ground. “Footprints.”
At first, I don’t see anything. I squint, adjusting my focus, and then they appear, faint impressions pressed into the dirt, too distinct to be anything natural.
Not mine. Not his.
My stomach tightens. “I didn’t see those yesterday.”
“You weren’t looking for them.”
“I was,” I push back.
He glances up at me, one brow lifting slightly. “You were looking to confirm you were safe.”
My jaw tightens.
“And you’re not,” he adds.
I crouch beside him, closer than I probably should be, close enough that I can feel the heat of him even in the cold air. “Those could be old,” I say.
“They’re not.”
“How do you know?”
He shifts slightly and points. “The edges are still clean. No weathering. Nothing settled in them yet.”
I lean closer, studying the prints. He’s right.
“When?” I ask.
“Last night.”
A chill moves down my spine. I was inside. Sleeping, or trying to, while someone was out here.
Watching.
“Keep looking,” Ethan says.
I drag my gaze away from the footprints and force myself to scan the surrounding area the way he does, slow and intentional. At first, it’s just trees and shadows and branches, but then something catches my eye, a break in the pattern that shouldn’t be there.
A snapped limb.
Too clean. Too deliberate.
“That?” I point.
He nods once. “Good.”
I push to my feet and step toward it, reaching out to brush my fingers along the break. The wood feels fresh, recently snapped.
“The wind didn’t do that,” I say.
“No.”
“This way,” he says, already moving.
I follow him deeper into the trees, the cabin disappearing behind us faster than I like. “You sure this is smart?” I ask.
“No.”
“Reassuring.”
“But it’s necessary.”
I huff out a breath but keep moving, because I need to see this, need to understand what’s happening instead of guessing.
He moves through the forest like he belongs to it, every step quiet, controlled, placed with purpose. I try to match him, but it’s harder than it looks. Branches snap under my boots. Leaves crunch. Every sound feels too loud.
“You’re loud,” he says without turning.
“Sorry I wasn’t trained in woodland stalking.”
“You were trained to observe.”
“That’s different.”
“Not really.”
He stops suddenly, and I nearly run into him. My hand shoots out on instinct, catching his arm to steady myself, and the contact is immediate and solid, his warmth cutting through the cold in a way that feels like too much.
I pull back quickly.
“Watch it,” he says.
“You stopped.”
“Because you’re about to walk right into his path.”
That lands harder than anything else so far.
“Show me,” I say.
He steps aside slightly, giving me a clear view, and at first I don’t see it. Then the pattern comes together, subtle but unmistakable. Broken twigs. Disturbed leaves. A line through the forest that doesn’t belong.
“He’s circling,” Ethan says.
My pulse spikes. “Circling what?”
“You.”
The word hits like a blow.
I shake my head immediately. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if you’re the target.”
“I am the target,” I snap. “I know that.”
“Then stop pretending this is random.”
I step closer, frustration rising. “I’m not pretending anything.”
“You are,” he says, turning to face me. “You’re acting like this is bad luck, like you just ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“And it’s not?”
His gaze locks on mine. “No.”
The silence stretches between us, tight and charged.
“What are you saying?” I ask, quieter now.
He studies me for a second, long enough that my skin feels too tight. “This isn’t someone who stumbled across you,” he says. “This is someone who knows you.”
My stomach drops.
“No,” I shake my head. “That’s not—no.”
“You said the photos weren’t random.”
“They’re not.”
“Then neither is this.”
I step back, shaking my head harder. “I don’t know anyone here.”
“Doesn’t have to be here.”
The words settle heavy in my chest, pulling something up I don’t want to look at.
“No,” I say again. “This is just some creep who—”
“Who what?” Ethan cuts in. “Picked you at random? Followed you into the mountains for no reason?”
I don’t answer, because I don’t have one, because something cold and sharp is starting to take shape inside me.
“You left something behind,” he says.
I look up at him. “What?”
“Back wherever you came from,” he continues. “Someone. Something.”
My throat tightens. “I didn’t—”
“You did.”
His voice isn’t harsh. It’s certain, and that’s worse.
I shake my head, backing up another step. “You don’t know that.”
“I know patterns,” he says. “I do this for a living, Maddie. I’ve been a mountain ranger since I left the desert. Everything about this feels personal, is there anything you may have left out?”
The word echoes in my head.
His gaze softens slightly, but it doesn’t change anything. “You need to tell me.”
“I don’t have anything to tell you.”
“That’s not true.”
“Stop,” I snap, heat flaring. “You don’t get to dig into my life like this.”
“I do if it keeps you alive.”
“I was fine before I got here.”
“No, you weren’t.”
The silence that follows is heavy and unavoidable. I hate how easily he cuts through everything I try to hold together.
“I handled it,” I say, quieter now.
“Yeah?” he asks. “How?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out, because I didn’t. Not really. I ran. And he knows it.
“Exactly,” he says.
I glare at him. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
“You don’t know what I’ve been through.”
His gaze darkens. “Then tell me.”
The words hang between us, equal parts invitation and demand.
I shake my head. “No.”
He steps closer again, close enough that I feel it, that pressure, that pull I don’t want to acknowledge. “Then understand this,” he says, his voice dropping. “Whoever’s out here might know you better than I do.”
My breath catches.
“And if you don’t start talking, he stays one step ahead.”
I swallow hard, hating how true that feels.
“What do we do?” I ask.
His gaze holds mine, steady and certain. “We hunt him.”
A chill moves through me, not fear exactly, but something sharper.
“And if he finds me first?”
Something shifts in his expression, something dangerous and controlled.
“He won’t,” he says.
“You don’t know that.”
His hand lifts slowly, stopping just short of my face, close enough that I feel the heat of it without contact.
“I do,” he says quietly.
My pulse pounds. “Why?”
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth, then lifts again.
“Because now,” he murmurs, “you’re not alone.”
And for the first time since this started, that thought doesn’t terrify me.
It burns.