Page 1 of Last Man Standing

1

SCARLETT

DON’T BE SUSPICIOUS

Rocks crackle beneath the tires of my rented two-thousand-twenty-three Hyundai SUV, each popping stone like a musical symphony that not-so-ironically matches the rhythm of my racing pulse.

I slow on the shoulder of a deserted road, a mere mile from the main street of a small town in the middle of absolutely freakin’ nowhere, but I look through the trees and study a pretty house set in the foreground of the mountains this town was named after.

Mount Gaines is a quaint town homing just a few thousand multi-generational residents, and the postcards I saw littering a turning shelf at the local gas station prove the place is pretty enough to boast to outsiders… assuming those outsiders were intent on seeing pretty things.

But not me.

Mostly, I’m intent on seeing my brother.

Drawing a deep breath, I check my blind spots to ensure the road remains clear, then I tap the gas pedal and roll into the driveway.

My pulse thrums wildly in my chest, and though I wrap my hands securely around the steering wheel, they still tremble.

Stupid friggin’ trembling.

Bringing the car to a stop, I cut the engine and snag the keys. Slipping my phone into my back pocket and breathing warm air into my palms—stop procrastinating!—I push my door open in silence and slide out until my feet touch gravel and crunching snow.

My breath feathers ahead of me in white puffs, announcing to anyone who cared to look how my heart sputters and my lungs quake.

Why so nervous, Scarlett? Why the anxiety?

You’ve never been scared to race home to your brother in the past.

Because you’re full of shit, that’s why.

But I’m not quite ready to think about that. Instead, I carefully close my door and look up at the house I know belongs to Nova Nichols.

Soon-to-be Nova Castro, if my brother gets his way.

I study the pretty porch. The picturesque windows and a single pair of worn boots sitting at the front door. I peek up at the chimney, with the soft clouds of smoke coming from the top, and try to find comfort in what a crackling fire implies.

“He’s not a very nice person.” A woman’s voice carries on the breeze, the sweet laughter in her words drawing my focus away from the front door and, instead, along the long driveway to where I assume leads to the back. “I know he saved our lives that time, and he took a bullet for me and whatnot…”

My brows shoot high in surprise, especially as she finishes her sentence with, “he’s just not very pleasant.”

He, who?

My brother? My whole freakin’ world?

“I can hear you assholes.”

A second voice joins the fray, a man’s deep, dark, not-very-friendly grumble.

Definitely not my brother.

Curiosity sparks in my blood, especially when a third voice, one I’d know anywhere on the planet, in any room, no matter who else we shared it with, joins in, so I swallow my nerves and start around the side of the house. Nibbling on my poor, abused thumbnail, I edge toward the rear and peek around to find my brother’s broad frame wrapped around a woman I’ve seen only in pictures so far.

For just a moment, I hold my breath and knuckle fresh emotion from the corners of my eyes. Because he’s here. So close. Still so large and strong. So confident, even as he faces a man so much taller than his already impressive six-three frame.

Linc nuzzles Nova’s hair, chuckling and taunting the third member of whatever the hell this is.

“This is a private moment,” he rumbles playfully. “So if you could fuck off⁠—”