TWO
CHASE
The first thing I learn about Fiona is that she lies.
Not the cold, calculated kind—the kind that leaves bodies or empty bank accounts. No, hers is softer, more desperate. The “I’m fine, everything’s fine, I absolutely meant to climb a mountain carrying a goddamn NutriBullet” variety. It’s the lie people tell when the truth would crack their last good armor.
She’s curled into the passenger seat of my truck like she’s trying to take up less space than her body actually requires. Chin tilted up, defiant, daring the universe to remark on the long smear of dirt across her left cheekbone. It’s dried now, a faint reddish-brown stripe that matches the clay-heavy soil higher up the trail. Her boots—once expensive leather, now salt-crusted and scuffed to hell—are propped against the floor mat, laces frayed at the ends. Her ponytail has given up; the elastic’s slipped halfway down, and dark strands cling to the damp skin at the nape of her neck. Every few minutes she tucks one behind her ear, only for it to fall forward again like it’s exhausted too.
She keeps cracking jokes, each one landing with the bright ping of a shield being slammed into place. Humor as Kevlar. I’ve heard that cadence before—too many times.
I’ve known a lot of women who arrive at Haven 7 sounding exactly like her.
Not because I’m the brooding savior type who collects broken-winged birds in his spare time. I’m not. Haven pulls in storms the way a ridge pulls lightning. Women show up when the world has sharpened its edges too close—when fathers, husbands, brothers, bosses turn into the thing you need to be protectedfrom. When every door has slammed shut except the one that leads here, and pride is the only currency they still have left to spend.
I steal another glance at her.
She catches it instantly, one brow arching like a drawn bow. “If you stare any harder, I’m going to start charging a cover fee. Two-drink minimum.”
I snort, the sound rougher than I mean it to be. “I’m assessing.”
“Assessingwhat?” She sweeps a hand down her body—grubby jeans, thermal shirt stretched thin across her collarbones, puffy vest that’s lost half its loft. “My obvious physical perfection?”
My gaze drops to the dashboard. Safer. The road is safer. Because the truth is… yeah. She’s pretty. Not the glossy, Instagram-filtered pretty she probably used to weaponize back in whatever life she left behind. This is rougher, realer. Grit ground into denim. Cheeks flushed from cold wind and sheer stubbornness. Lips chapped, the lower one caught between her teeth for half a second before she releases it. There’s a faint constellation of freckles across her nose that the dirt hasn’t quitecovered, and when she smirks, a dimple flashes on the left side like a secret she’s too tired to keep.
She’s pretty in the way that makes my palm itch to reach over, brush that loose strand off her temple, feel if her skin is as warm as it looks.
Which is a problem.
Because I don’t do that.
She’s Gavin’s little sister. Full stop. I don’t cross that line. Ever.
I don’t do gentle. I don’t do soft. I do adrenaline, dark humor, and stepping between the monster and whoever’s behind me. I do calculated violence when the situation calls for it. I donotdo the slow, careful unwrapping of someone who’s spent years learning how to stay tightly closed.
And yet—I already care. The realization sits low in my gut, heavy as wet rope. I care, and that’s worse than attraction. Caring means I’ll notice when she flinches. Caring means I’ll lie awake later wondering what sound she makes when the mask finally slips.
“You said Gavin sent you,” I say, forcing my voice flat, professional. “How’d you get past the lower gate without calling?”
She turns her head toward the window. Outside, the pines are black spears against the bruised purple of late afternoon sky. Snow dusts their branches like powdered sugar left too long on the counter. “My phone’s dead.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She swings back to face me, expression bright again—too bright, like someone flipped a switch. “Is this the part where you interrogate me under a single bare lightbulb? Maybe shine it right in my eyes?”
I grind my molars together. The sound is audible in the quiet cab. “Fiona.”
Her smile flickers—just a stutter, barely there. She resets fast. Too fast. “I’m here. I’m in your truck. No one died on the way up. Let’s call it a win.”
There it is again. That shadow behind her eyes. Fear wearing sarcasm like a cheap Halloween costume. It’s not just “escaping her life.” She’srunning. And she’s been running solo so long she doesn’t remember what it feels like to let someone else carry part of the weight.
The truck tires crunch over fresh snow as the road curves higher. Pine resin and woodsmoke drift through the vents, mixing with the faint metallic bite of cold air. My hands flex on the wheel; the leather’s worn smooth under my thumbs.
We crest the final ridge, and Haven 7 unfolds below us like a held breath finally released.
Main lodge first—logs stained dark, windows glowing honey-gold against the dusk. Snow blankets the roof in thick, sculptural drifts, icicles hanging like jagged teeth along the eaves. Cabins dot the tree line farther back, their porch lights small amber pinpricks. The training yard is empty now, snow covering the gravel, but the outlines of the obstacle course are still visible—low walls, ropes, climbing holds—half-buried like relics. Generator shed humming steadily. Thorne’s ridiculouswatchtower rising above the ridgeline, silhouetted black against the last smear of sunset.
Fiona’s breath catches—sharp, involuntary. She leans forward until her seatbelt locks, eyes wide, pupils swallowing the hazel.