Page 65 of Malice

The reply is instant: Call me when you’re inside. Doors locked.

I press the phone to my chest, the words a digital tether, a hand on the back of my neck.

I can feel him through the phone, that rigid, barely contained energy, the way he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will while I drive farther and farther away.

The cabin appears through the trees, materializing from the woods—a two-story structure of dark wood and stone, nestled into the hillside with windows that catch the first pale light of dawn. I’ve never seen it before, but I recognize it immediately from Carter’s descriptions: the wraparound porch, the river stone chimney, the way it sits half hidden in the forest like it was grown rather than built.

Ryan pulls the SUV to a stop in the small clearing behind the cabin, positioning it so it’s visible from the road but not obvious. Kane is already out, moving toward the tree line with that quiet, efficient stride, scanning the perimeter with eyes that miss nothing.

“Clear,” he says after a long moment, his voice carrying through the still early morning air. “Let’s get inside.”

The cabin smells like cedar and woodsmoke and something harder to name—gun oil or the particular mustiness of paperback spines left too long in damp air.

The furniture is simple but solid: a leather couch, a scarred oak table, a wood-burning stove in the corner that’s already been cleaned and laid with fresh kindling.

The windows are covered with heavy curtains, and I notice the locks: heavy-duty dead bolts, reinforced steel, the kind of security that speaks to a man who’s thought about worst-case scenarios.

My mother helps me to the couch, her arm steady around my waist. My knees protest as I sink into the leather, the scraped skin burning beneath the bandages, and I let my head fall back against the cushions, closing my eyes against the exhaustion that’s been building since the alley.

“We’re here,” Sydney says into her phone, and I hear the relief in her voice, the particular tone of a woman who’s been holding her breath for two hours and finally lets it go. “Trixie’s safe. The cabin is secure. Kane’s running the perimeter check.”

My phone buzzes. Carter.

Inside?

Inside, I confirm. Safe. Door’s locked. Your father’s checking the perimeter.

The three dots appear immediately. Stay for a long time.

Then: I can breathe.

Three words. That’s all. But they hit me like a physical thing, a hand pressed against my chest, a weight lifted, the sound of a man finally allowing himself to exhale after hours of holding everything back.

I can picture him standing in the clubhouse, surrounded by maps and plans and the particular tension of men preparing for war, reading my text, and feeling his lungs expand for the first time since the van pulled away from the curb.

Me too, I send back. Call me tonight. I want to hear your voice.

Every night. I promised.

I press the phone against my cheek, feeling the warmth of the screen, the ghost of his words. The cabin settles around me as my mother moves through the kitchen, the murmur of Ryan and Sydney discussing supplies, the distant call of a bird somewhere in the trees.

Safe. We’re safe.

For now.

Carter

The text comes through at eight forty-seven a.m., and the sound of that particular chime I’ve assigned only to her cuts through the noise of the war room like a blade through smoke.

Inside. Safe. Doors locked. Your father’s checking the perimeter.

The words on the screen loosen a knot in my chest. For the first time since she left, my lungs fill completely.

I can finally breathe, I type back, the words a fraction of the relief that hits me. She’s safe. Tucked away behind miles of road and under my father’s watch. Now, we can hunt.

Me too, she replies. Call me tonight. I want to hear your voice.

Every night. I promised.