Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“You need to assume she’s a target,” Brady warns.
The word settles heavy and undeniable. “Yeah… I know. I really appreciate it, brother.”
“Absolutely. If I hear anything more, I’ll let you know.”
“Stay safe,” I reply, and then he’s gone.
For a moment I stand there staring at nothing, the noise of the dinner sounding different now—almost fragile. I push off the wall and step back into the communal area. Tessa glances up as I reenter, her expression open, curious. She smiles at me—an easy smile that tells me she trusts this room.
I know she trusts me.
Whatever we are—or aren’t anymore—doesn’t matter right now. I may not have access to her heart, but I will not let anyone erase her.
Not from a video. Not from a story. Not from this world.
As she turns back to Bebe, already deep into another question, I make a decision that settles in my bones with a clarity I haven’t felt in years.
I’m committed to bringing RainVest down, removing all threats to Tessa’s safety.
And anyone who thinks they can touch her will taste my violence.
CHAPTER 8
Tessa
Istep out of my bathroom barefoot and warm, steam trailing after me. The heat from the bath has softened the tightness in my shoulders, but it hasn’t quieted my mind. Now I’m wrapped in one of my robes—thick and absurdly soft—and my hair hangs wet, but combed, down my back.
I find Cole in the living room, one hand braced on the window frame as he looks out over the front yard. He’s been on high alert even though my house feels as protected as Fort Knox.
When we arrived about an hour ago, he walked me room to room, pointing out security additions I would never have noticed on my own. The new porch light? Camera embedded in the housing. The garage floodlight? Another one, low-light capable, wide angle, infrared. No bulky black domes that scream “You’re being recorded.” No obvious hardware. Just watchful eyes tucked into ordinary fixtures.
“The system doesn’t advertise,” he’d told me. “It observes and reports quietly.”
Every door and window now have contact sensors buried inside the frames. Not the cheap plastic strips you see at big box stores, but internal magnetic sensors and vibration detectors calibrated to differentiate between wind and forced pressure. If someone tries to jimmy a lock or score the glass, Cole will know by an app alert before I do.
Motion detection isn’t motion so much as heat mapping. The system reads temperature shifts, not just movement. A raccoon on the porch won’t trigger it. A man lingering against my siding at two in the morning will.
He showed me the kitchen island next, crouching to press a spot beneath the overhang. “Silent alarm,” he said. “Press and hold for two seconds.”
He demonstrated on test mode and exterior lights flared to full brightness. His phone buzzed immediately with a live feed from the exterior cameras.
“Jameson gets the alert at the same time as 911,” he added.
There’s another trigger under my desk. One in the nightstand drawer. All routed through encrypted channels Josie installed, which apparently means my Wi-Fi now does more than stream documentaries. It will even shut itself down if someone tries to mirror my data or hack my feed.
Even the smoke detectors have been upgraded. They don’t just sense heat, they monitor particulate patterns consistent with accelerants. If someone tries to burn my house down, the system flags it before the flames get started.
As he explained it all, I stood there trying to reconcile the ordinary familiarity of my home with the fact that it now functions like a fortified safe house. No wonder it took so long to get the work done.
From the street, nothing looks different. Inside, every inch is layered with protection and it should make me feel secure. Instead, it makes the danger feel real in a way it didn’t before. You don’t install this kind of system unless someone is coming.
Cole finished the demonstration by arming it, the house emitting a subtle electronic chime that sounded almost polite. “Welcome home,” he’d said quietly.
He doesn’t turn when I come out of the bathroom, but I know he hears me by the slight set to his shoulders.
“You’re brooding,” I say lightly as I step into the living room.
He shifts, glancing over his shoulder, and the look in his eyes hits me before I can brace for it.
It isn’t irritation.
It isn’t even frustration.
It’s hunger.
His eyes travel—slow and deliberate—taking in the damp ends of my hair, the robe knotted loosely at my waist, the bare skin of my legs. A flash of heat runs through me in response, automatic and undeniable, and for a split second the air between us crackles with a dangerous energy.
Then his expression hardens. “We need to talk.”
I don’t like that tone. It’s far too serious and volatility rolls off him in waves, causing me to pull the lapels of my robe closer together. “Okay.”