Page 79 of The SEAL's Duchess
“Go,” she told him gently. “We’ve got her.”
He’d walked into burning seas and breaking ships, but leaving Ellie behind like this was harder than all of it combined. He hesitated one fraction of a second longer, then turned for the door.
Outside, the cold bit hard, but the emptiness bit harder.
Find her, he told himself, jaw locked as he crossed to his truck. Bring Ivy back safe—and then come back for your girl.
The drive to the hotel took six minutes.
Felt like fucking sixty.
Ryder kept his hands on the wheel, because that’s what training demanded, but inside he was unraveling—one thought, over and over, pounding like a drumbeat.
She’s out there. Alone. And I let her go.
Every worst-case scenario he’d been trained to imagine lined up behind his eyes. Twisted metal. Cold water. Blood blooming dark against snow. Ivy dying while he’d been sitting in his truck talking to Sarah about his fucking feelings. He shoved them all away, focusing on the road, on the single black line winding through the snow.
When he hit the hotel lot, he barely killed the engine before he was out, boots smashing hard onto the ice. A blast of warm air tinged with industrial detergent hit him like a wall as he stormed inside, dizzying after the cold.
The young woman behind the desk looked up, ready with a polite smile that faltered the second she saw his face. “Can I help?—”
He reached the desk in three strides. “Ivy Lambourne. What room?”
“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t give out?—”
“Call her room.” The edge in his tone made her flinch. “Now.”
She fumbled for the phone, dialed. Waited. Her expression shifted from confusion to worry. “There’s no answer.”
Ryder leaned forward, bracing both hands on the counter. He dropped his voice, so she had to lean in to hear. “Someone tried to kill her last night. Cut the brake lines on her car. I need to know if she’s in that room or out there with a target on her back. You can either tell me, or I can have the sheriff explain it to your manager. Your call.”
The clerk paled, eyes darting between him and the screen. She scribbled fast on a notepad and slid it toward him with shaking fingers. “Third floor. Room 312.”
“Thank you.” He was already moving.
He ignored the elevator, hit the emergency stairs, taking them two at a time. The concrete walls echoed each breath, each thud of his boots. By the time he reached the third floor, his pulse was thunder in his ears.
Room 312. Halfway down the hall.
He rapped once—hard. “Ivy, it’s Ryder. Open up.”
Nothing.
He knocked again, harder this time. “Ivy!”
A door opened down the corridor. An elderly man stuck his head out, scowling. “Keep it down?—”
“Sheriff’s business,” Ryder barked. The man vanished.
The clerk appeared again, panting, master key trembling in her grip. “My manager said I could?—”
He took it, muttered, “You did the right thing.”
He exhaled, then slid it through the lock.
Training kicked in, and the moment the door opened, he knew.
The silence was too heavy, the air too still.
