Page 12 of Nate Hayes

The blood drained from my face.

“Oh my God,” I breathed.

Nate was already on the move—pulling a gear bag out of the hall closet, loading a pistol into his holster, checking the lock on the door like life depended on it.

Because now, it kind of did.

He turned to me, calm but deadly serious. “I need you to listen carefully. We’re going to make a move tonight. We’re not waiting for him to make the first one.”

“Tonight?” I asked, my heart racing.

Nate nodded. “He made this personal when he brought it to my door. I’m going to finish it before he gets the chance to hurt you—or anyone else.”

Axel handed Nate a tablet. “We’re tracking his phone. He left the motel about twenty minutes ago, headed toward the lake road. Could be nothing. Could be him circling your property.”

Joe let out a soft growl again, ears pricked, tail stiff. At the same time, Bravo stood in front of the door, blocking the entrance to anyone trying to get inside.

I pressed a hand to my chest. “What do you want me to do?”

Nate crossed the room in two strides, cupped my face, and looked me dead in the eye.

“I want you to be brave. Just like you’ve already been. And I want you to trust me.”

“I do,” I said, without thinking.

And I did.

With everything in me.

Because if there were anyone I’d trust to stand between me and the storm, it was Nate Hayes.

5

Nate

Axel and I moved through the trees like shadows, quiet and deliberate. The lake road was empty—just a narrow path that twisted through the woods, skirting the waterline. No lights. No cabins. Just pine needles, dirt, and the kind of silence that only meant one thing:

He was close.

“He’s down by the inlet,” Axel murmured, watching the thermal feed on his tablet. “Still moving. Slow. Cautious.”

He was stalking.

Not just observing—hunting.

And he was headed straight for Willa’s land.

I clenched my jaw and kept moving, eyes scanning the trees ahead. Every instinct I had screameddanger. The air felt tight and charged, like the forest itself was holding its breath.

“Movement,” Axel said, raising a hand. “Ten yards. By that old birch.”

I saw him.

Derek Holloway.

Dressed in black. Hood pulled low. Moving with purpose, like he’d done this before. In one hand, a crowbar. In the other—a bag. Heavy. Weighted.

God only knew what was inside.

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