Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Means all clear and he’s moving to watch the perimeter,” Sawyer's voice is smooth and controlled.
“All that from two flashes of light?”
Sawyer eyes me with a quick smile. “Yeah.”
Then he kills his engine. Their shadows flit across the porch, rifles slung, night-vision goggles lowering. I briefly wonder what sort of neighborly welcome the local wildlife will receive from them.
Our own vehicle climbs another hundred yards to the main residence. It's a modern glass-and-stone structure perched on a rocky ledge, as if an architect decided to sculpt safety from granite. Floor-to-ceiling windows face the valley, but privacy screens already tint the glass. At the top of the driveway, Sawyer taps a code into an inconspicuous panel and the garage yawns open. We glide inside, the sound of the engine echoing off concrete.
For several heartbeats, silence reigns—then doors thunk, and I follow him into an airlock-style foyer. Biometric reader glows blue before accepting his thumbprint and voice. The heavy bolt slides. We’re inside.
The security brief he rattles off as we tour is equal parts impressive and alarming:
Thermal perimeter grid—invisible beams that trip silent alarms before anything organic gets within 200 feet.
Steel shutters hidden in the walls, able to deploy over every pane of glass in under seven seconds.
Panic room tunneled into the mountain, stocked for a week.
Faraday cage office for secure comms and evidence storage.
Backup generator capable of powering a small village.
The house itself is sleek—charcoal slate floors, raw cedar beams, minimalist furniture in dove-gray suede. A stone fireplace anchors the living room, currently dark but stacked with logs. Every line, every texture feels curated to soothe. Yet it also whispers safe in a way my childhood mansion never managed.
Sawyer’s arm circles my waist as he points out motion detector panels and the coded lock on the wine cellar. He smells like the cedar beams—a scent I’m fast associating with home.
“You built this?” I ask.
“Dean did. Company asset.” He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, his hand warm against my skin. “Few people know it exists.”
“Can it really stop whoever’s hunting me?”
“Yes,” he says. “But I’m the redundancy plan.”
He turns me gently, so I face him. The glow from recessed spotlights paints half his face gold, the other half night. “It ends here, Cam. We’ll identify them, and then you’ll be free to paint your whole damn city.”
His certainty wraps around me like the thickest wool blanket. But I still ask the question I haven’t dared voice: “And afterward? When you’re not charged with babysitting me?”
He steps closer, his heat radiating everywhere. “Afterward starts tonight.”
The words pulse through me, lighting every nerve. I slide my hands up his chest—silk shirt over granite muscle—and feel his breath hitch. My own breathing stutters, but I push ahead. “Show me the rest?”
His smile is slow, dangerous. “Master suite,” he says, pressing a wall plate that reveals a hidden corridor. Cool air strokes my ankles as we descend three steps into a wing suspended over darkness. Across the glass wall, the valley yawns, scattered with pinpricks of distant cabin lights. It feels as though we’re drifting above the world.
The bedroom itself is wider than my entire Manhattan studio rental from college. A platform bed faces the window, the fireplace opposite, and a thick ivory rug begging for bare feet. The bedspread is charcoal linen, rumpled like storm clouds.
Sawyer sets my overnight duffel on a bench, then palms a tablet on the nightstand. “Shutters, set privacy.” A hush of motorized steel slides over the window, leaving us in a warm lamplight. My pulse thrums louder than the motors.
He moves to the sideboard, producing two tumblers and a bottle of single-malt. “One finger or two?”
I lean against a cedar post, fighting a quiver that has nothing to do with the chill. “Two.”
He pours, passes a glass, and clinks his with mine. The liquor burns honey-peach then settles with an oak finish—liquid courage for a woman who nearly lost everything. I set the glass down half-empty.
“I’m still wearing your T-shirt,” I murmur. A smile tugs my mouth. “It feels… protective.”
“The shirt can stay,” he says, stepping in until his knees brush mine. “But everything underneath…” His hands slide up the hem, warm palms cupping my waist. Sparks fly.
“Approved,” I breathe against his lips.
We meet midway—a kiss that begins gentle but segues instantly to hungry. The taste of scotch and adrenaline linger. His hands skim my ribcage, his fingertips mapping. He teases the shirt higher, knuckles brushing against my satin panties. I whimper. He groans, deep and raw.
My fingers find the first button of his shirt—flick, flick—exposing heated skin and the scattering of scars he never speaks about. I kiss one pale slash, and feel him tremble.
“Cam,” he rasps, tugging my shirt off in a single glide. The satin panties remain, but the rest of me shivers naked under his heated gaze. He stares as if cataloging every brushstroke—appreciation that is almost worship, never ownership. It thrills me in a way I've never felt before.