Page 139 of The Darkest Chase

Because being damaged makes me exciting, but not enough to be good for her.

So I reach up to brush her tangled hair back. It runs over my fingers like copper silk, reminding me of blood.

Silent, searching for words, I tuck her hair behind her ear.

I have to say something. Anything.

I part my lips, and—

Rolf’s head jerks up.

While we were going at it, he’d dozed off on the other side of the fire, the most tactful wingman ever.

Now his ears are up. His gaze snaps toward the site I scouted earlier.

He’s got that old tension that strips the years away from him until he looks like a police dog again.

I go stiff. Talia does, too, blinking at me harshly.

“What?” she asks, a note of hurt in her voice before she follows my line of sight toward Rolf. Then that hurt turns into understanding. “Oh,” she gasps. “Do you think…?”

“Only one way to find out, and it requires clothes.”

We glance at each other for a few more seconds—and despite the heaviness when I didn’t say the right words to shelter her heart, we can’t help how our lips twitch.

There’s a small snicker before we kiss and then scramble apart to grab our clothes from the near-wreckage of our campsite.

Her flannel shirt landed half an inch away from becoming kindling. She rescues it and wiggles into her jeans while I get dressed.

By the time we’re done, I hear what Rolf must’ve noticed first—the faint rumble of engines.

Multiple engines.

With a long look, we slip into the trees with Rolf trotting after us.

To her credit, she’s gotten better at stealth, crouching behind me as we speed toward a small break in the trees to look down over the new cook site.

It’s déjà vu as we hunker down, watching the old, grungy military trucks and pickups come rolling in.

No headlights tonight.

Their license plates are covered in black cloth or removed completely.

There are six of them this time, and they file into the clearing and circle around, forming a perimeter. Swarming like locusts, the Jacobin clan pours out and starts unloading, rolling out sheets of aluminum and tall wooden stakes and crates of equipment.

It’s almost impressive how fluid they are.

In minutes, their little stand of sheds start popping up like weeds.

But they don’t have my attention right now.

Because there’s one more car tonight.

A long black town car, glossy and clearly expensive.

I’d bet my bottom dollar that car belongs to the Arrendells.

No one else in town keeps luxury cars like that, though now and then when the part-time retirees hit town they come in their high-end SUVs.

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