Page 40 of Sawyer
She exhales, her shoulders dropping. “Then yes.”
I stroke her paint-dusty cheek. “Pack essentials—no digital devices. We roll in ninety.”
“Tell me you’ll come back for my paints,” she jokes weakly.
“I’ll buy every tube in Wolfsridge Canyon.”
She smiles, brave. I want to kiss her, to steal one slice of calm before the storm, but footsteps clack.
Vanessa.
“Morning drama or afternoon?” Vanessa asks, sipping iced coffee.
“More like relocation,” Cam answers, slipping into logistics.
Vanessa’s brows lift but she nods. “Where?”
“Undisclosed,” I say.
She salutes with her straw. “He’s getting hotter the bossier he gets,” she whispers to Cam, earning an eye roll.
11:05 — Motor court
Three black SUVs idle. Rae drives lead, Andersson tail. I stand beside Cam at the car door, scanning press vans staking out beyond the gate. A Helicopter thumps overhead as a few drones whine.
Riggs jogs over. “PD staging decoy convoy south. Should draw paparazzi.”
“Good.” I draw Cam’s hand to my heart. “Ready?”
“I think so.” She slips into the SUV.
Before I round to the driver’s seat, Riggs grasps my forearm. “You know what you’re doing?”
“Keeping her breathing.”
His gaze digs. He nods once, then turns to marshal decoys.
I slide in. Cam links her fingers with mine on the console. Her pulse thrums—but there’s no fear. There’s only trust.
As we roll through the gates, flashes explode against tinted glass. Media screams questions. My phone buzzes. A text pops on screen:
YOU CAN RUN, BLUE PRINCESS. THE CANVAS IS EVERYWHERE. LET’S ADD MORE RED.
Attached there’s a photo of Cam and me dancing last night, crosshairs drawn over our joined hands.
Rage sears. I lock the screen, my thumb forking my shoulder strap. Cam sees, her jaw tightening but she stays composed.
“We’ll find them,” she whispers.
Glass reflects determination in her hazel eyes, matching my own. The game isn’t over; it’s escalating. But we’re not playing defense anymore. We’re bait—and we know it. The difference? This time the hunter faces a shield forged of vigilance, fury, and a love I no longer bother denying.
Let them come.
16
Camille
The mountains rise out of nowhere—jagged silhouettes against a bruised-lavender sky—and I realize I’ve never truly seen night until now. No city glow, no highway glare. Just a velvet hush pricked with stars and the low purr of our convoy weaving up a switchback ridge that feels halfway to the moon. It’s both beautiful and unsettling: beauty because the air smells like woodsmoke and pine sap, unsettling because the blackness presses so thick it could hide anything.
