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I watch her body respond to my possessive claim before her mind catches up. Dilated pupils, parted lips, quickenedbreathing. She tries to hide it, but I notice the way she presses her thighs together.
“The Borsellini trial is three weeks away. Until then, you’re their primary target.”
“And if I refuse?”
“You won’t,” I say with absolute certainty. “Because you’re smart enough to recognize your situation. The Borsellini’s have killed three other witnesses in the past month. They have resources within federal agencies. Your options are simple: disappear with me, or die within twenty-four hours.”
She stares out at the night beyond the windshield, processing. Then, almost imperceptibly, she nods.
“What happens now?” she asks eventually.
I check the mirrors again, confirming we’re not being followed yet. “We disappear. Completely.”
She’s quiet for a moment, processing. “For how long?”
“Until the threat’s eliminated.” I don’t sugarcoat it. “The Borsellini’s don’t give up easily.”
She nods once, fingers tightening around her briefcase. Professional to the core, even now. “Then I guess we have work to do.”
Miles of empty highway swallow our headlights as we disappear into the darkness. Beside me, Molly sits in silence, but I feel the tension radiating from her body. She knows her old life just died in that alley. She doesn’t know yet what I plan to build in its place.
With each mile, she becomes more completely mine.
3
MOLLY
Three hours of winding mountain roads later, Cole’s headlights cut through pine trees. What emerges isn’t a cabin at all, but a modern fortress of dark wood and sharp edges. The safe house is a sleek contradiction of steel beams and weathered oak. Not unlike Cole himself, sharp edges, solid core, and a past I can’t quite read but feel every time his eyes lingers too long.
The property screams of expensive paranoia rather than rustic retreat. The windows reflect the headlights of Cole’s SUV before he kills the engine and plunges us into darkness.
“Home sweet home,” Cole mutters, his voice tight. “At least until I figure out our next move.”
I stare at the outline of the structure, barely visible in the moonlight filtering through the pine trees. My mind flashes back to the alley downtown. Cole’s body pressed against mine, shielding me from view. A move so instinctive it made me wonder how many times he’d done it before, and for whom.
The warmth bleeding through his shirt was grounding, even if I’d never admit that to him. The unexpected heat that had flooded through me when his lips accidentally brushed my ear as he whispered instructions. The way my breath had caught whenhis hand gripped my hip, steadying me as headlights swept past our hiding place.
I push the memory away, unsettled by my body’s reaction in the midst of mortal danger.
“Where exactly are we?” I ask, focusing on the present.
“The less you know, the better.” Cole opens his door, cold mountain air rushing in. “Stay put until I sweep the place.”
He disappears into the darkness with fluid movements that speak of training far beyond standard FBI requirements. I wrap my arms around myself, shivering despite the warmth of the SUV. Four hours ago, I was preparing evidence for the Borsellini trial. Now I’m sitting in the middle of nowhere with a man who seems more comfortable operating in shadows than daylight.
When Cole finally returns, his expression is unreadable. “It’s secure. Let’s get inside before the temperature drops further.”
The cabin smells of pine and citrus and something else, gun oil, maybe. Cole moves through the lodge with familiarity, activating a sophisticated lighting system that bathes the open-concept interior in warm, ambient light. The floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall would offer stunning mountain views in daylight but now reflect only our silhouettes against the darkness beyond.
A dramatic stone fireplace with a floating hearth anchors the great room, flanked by built-in bookshelves. The furniture is minimalist but luxurious, a deep sectional in buttery leather, a sleek dining table of polished wood, and sliding doors of frosted glass leading to what I assume are bedrooms. The kitchen gleams with black oak and walnut, completing the impression of a high-end retreat.
The lighting accentuates the hard planes of Cole’s face. In the alleyway, I noticed his height, easily 6’6 as he towered over my 5’4 frame and broad shoulders, but here, even in the vast space of the cabin, his physical presence is overwhelming. Darkhair and forest green eyes, watchful, assessing, missing nothing. A small scar on his left eyebrow, another visible at the edge of his collar. There’s nothing soft about Cole Bennett. Every inch of him speaks of discipline, control, and barely leashed power. The sort of man built for violence but choosing restraint. Until he doesn’t.
“You’ve been here before,” I remark. It’s not a question.
Cole nods, dropping a duffel bag onto the table. “It’s off-grid. No cell service, no internet, no utility records. Officially, it doesn’t exist, which means neither do we. Killian acquired it from a paranoid tech millionaire who wanted an untraceable retreat. The man built it with everything we need: security systems, escape routes, complete isolation. When he died, the property transferred through shell corporations to our network.” He begins unpacking the bag, protein bars, bottled water, ammunition.
“So we’re completely alone.” The reality of our situation hits me as I take in the cabin’s isolation. “Just us against the world.”
