So am I.
I watch her disappear inside, then grab the groceries and follow, already planning the meal—and wondering when exactly this stopped feeling like an assignment and started feeling like something I don’t want to end.
NINE
FIONA
I decide two things very quickly.
One: Chase Callahan can cook.
Two: If this is how he feeds people he’s trying to protect, Haven 7 might be the most dangerous place for my waistline in the continental United States.
The cabin smells like butter, garlic, and something smoky and rich that makes my stomach growl loud enough to be rude. I hover at the counter, freshly showered and wearing the softest T-shirt I own, trying not to look like a rat who just discovered fine dining.
He plates the steaks with quiet confidence, adds roasted potatoes and asparagus, then sets everything down like he’s presenting on a cooking show I would absolutely binge-watch.
“Okay,” I say, eyeing my plate. “If this is poison, I just want you to know I’ll haunt you very aggressively.”
He smirks. “You’ll be too busy asking for seconds.”
I take one bite. And nearly close my eyes in a religious experience. “Oh,” I whisper. “Oh wow. This is… illegal. This should be regulated.”
“Told you,” he says, sitting across from me.
I chew, swallow, then immediately take another bite. “If you ever get tired of saving people, you could just open a steakhouse and rule the world.”
“Pass,” he says. “Too many people.”
We eat in a comfortable silence for a minute. The fire crackles. The wind brushes the windows. It feels… normal. Which is still weird to me. Normal is something I haven’t had in a while.
He watches me over his glass of water. Not in a creepy way. In a quiet, attentive way that makes me suddenly aware of how I’m sitting, how I’m holding my fork, how I keep tucking my hair behind my ear and then forgetting I already did it.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
My stomach tightens. “Depends. Is it about my tragic relationship choices?”
“Maybe later,” he says. “What did you actually hear? From your ex.”
I set my fork down slowly. The room doesn’t change. The fire doesn’t go out. But something inside me braces like I’m about to step into cold water. “I didn’t mean to hear it,” I say. “He was in the other room on the phone. He thought I was asleep.”
Chase doesn’t interrupt. Just listens.
“He was talking about moving girls through Timber Creek,” I continue quietly. “About how it was ‘quiet’ here. Easy. Aboutbuyers coming in from out of state. About a ring. A trafficking ring.”
His jaw tightens, but he stays silent.
“I didn’t hear names. Or dates. Just… enough to know it wasn’t a joke. Or a business thing. Or anything that could be explained away.” I swallow. “When I went into the room, he stopped talking. And the look he gave me…” I shake my head. “That’s when I knew I wasn’t safe anymore.”
Chase’s eyes are dark now. Focused. Controlled. “Did he know you heard?” he asks.
“I think he suspected,” I say. “He started watching me. Checking my phone. Asking where I was going. Then I saw that car. The same one. Three times.”
He exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s filing this away into a mental map of threats. “That’s enough to be worried,” he says. “You did the right thing coming here.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “My brother doesn’t think I’m overreacting?”
“Gavin thinks in worst-case scenarios,” he says. “Which means he’ll take this seriously.”