Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 21496 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 107(@200wpm)___ 86(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21496 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 107(@200wpm)___ 86(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
“Dead serious.” Her smile turns playful. “Guess that makes us a couple of late bloomers, huh?”
I laugh, the sound rough but real. “Guess so.”
The tension between us snaps, and before I can second-guess myself, I lean in, capturing her lips with mine. It’s soft at first, tentative, but when she kisses me back, it’s like a dam breaking.
Her hands slide into my hair, pulling me closer, and I lose myself in her—her warmth, her softness, her everything. When we finally pull apart, we’re both breathless, and for the first time in years, I feel something I thought I’d lost: hope.
The storm rages on outside, but inside, it’s quiet, the air between us charged with unspoken promises. She rests her head on my shoulder, her hand tracing idle patterns on my arm.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the rain.
“For what?” I ask, my voice rough.
“For letting me in. For letting me stay. For opening up to me.”
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I just tighten my hold on her, silently vowing to protect this—whatever this is—with everything I have.
Chapter Five
Callie
The night feels heavy, an unnatural stillness hanging in the air.
Liam paces around the living room of his cabin, hastily scribbled notes clutched in his hand, a hunting knife in the other.
“It’s not random.”
I swallow the lump of fear in my throat. Liam came in from his workshop just a few minutes ago to find the threatening notes on the front door of his cabin–the tip of a sharp blade holding it in place.
Scribbled in a harsh, jagged script, the accusations are ludicrous, but their intent is clear: to unnerve, to isolate. They blame me for everything, from the fire at my studio to Liam’s limp, as if I have the power to rewrite his past. And they’re all written in a blood red crayon. And what’s worse–when Liam tried to take my car into town earlier to fill my gas tank–he found the brake lines had been tampered with.
I sit cross-legged on the couch, the faint glow of the fireplace flickering across the room, shivering with the realization that I was here the entire time. Whoever left these notes did it while I was right on the other side of the door. Was it while I was in the shower earlier? Or making lunch? Or on the phone with the fire commissioner about the fire report for my studio?
Liam’s pacing by the window, his broad shoulders tense as he peers out into the darkness. His jaw is set, and the look in his eyes is one I recognize—focused, determined, and more than a little dangerous.
“Liam,” I say softly, but he doesn’t stop pacing.
“Someone’s messing with us–with you. Who the hell even knows you’re staying here? It’s been three days and I haven’t talked to anyone about it. Hell, I haven’t even been into town.”
“The Devil’s Peak gossip mill is hard at work, I’m sure,” I whisper. I close my book—pretending to read it was pointless anyway—and stand. “Anyway, maybe it’s just coincidence, or–”
He spins to face me, his gaze locking on mine. “Your car was tampered with, Callie. That’s not a coincidence.”
I flinch, if Liam hadn’t noticed it earlier, I might not be standing here. I might be in a ditch somewhere, or worse, wrapped around a tree. He’s right. It’s not random, but admitting that out loud feels too much like giving in to the fear that’s been creeping in around the edges.
“Maybe it’s just bad luck,” I try, though my voice lacks conviction.
His expression softens, just slightly. “You don’t believe that any more than I do.”
I cross my arms, hating how small I feel under the weight of everything that’s happened. “So what do we do? Stay locked up here forever?”
His lips twitch in what might be the ghost of a smile. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
The heat in his gaze pulls at something deep in me, something I’ve been trying to ignore since the day I moved into his cabin. It’s not fair, how easily he can disarm me with just a look. And he knows it, the bastard.
“I need air,” I mutter, brushing past him toward the door.
“Not alone,” he says, his hand closing gently around my wrist.
I stop, my heart thudding a little too hard in my chest. His touch is firm but not demanding, his thumb brushing against my skin in a way that sends heat spiraling up my arm. I turn to face him, and for a moment, neither of us speaks. Warmth heats his eyes, something soft and protective that sends shivers through my system. I’m instantly reminded of the boy I knew–the one that was sweet and playful and not hardened by life. I resolve then to do my best to put this look on his face as much as I can–to be the light in the darkness that seems to hang over him now.