“Okay…wow.”
“Not what you expected?” I ask, keeping my tone dry.
“I expected…” She trails off, gaze sweeping the compound again. “Like… a rustic retreat. A little cabin with a woodstove. Maybe a crocheted sign over the door that saysLive Laugh Love.”
I bark out a laugh—real this time, startled out of me. “Yeah, no. We don’t do crocheted.”
She glances at me, then back at the perimeter lights—motion sensors winking red every few yards, razor wire glinting under the floodlights. “This place looks like it could survive an apocalypse.”
“It can.”
Her mouth parts. A question forms—why?—but she swallows it. Her throat moves visibly. Another flag. Another piece of armor I’m not supposed to notice.
I pull up near the lodge, tires crunching to a stop on packed snow. Before I even cut the engine, Boyd steps out onto the porch.
Big. Silent. Arms crossed over a chest that could stop a battering ram. His stare hits the truck like industrial solvent—stripping away pretenses, paint, excuses. He doesn’t move. Just watches.
Fiona goes still beside me.
I kill the ignition.
The sudden quiet is loud—wind rattling the pines, the low thrum of the generator, my own pulse in my ears.
“Welcome to Haven,” I mutter.
Fiona shifts in her seat. “Is he… judging me?”
“He judges everyone,” I say. “He’s the compound’s emotional support grizzly.”
Boyd’s brows lift slightly as if he heard me. He definitely heard me.
I get out, walk around, open Fiona’s door. She slides down from the cab, adjusting her tote bag like she’s preparing for battle.
Boyd rumbles, “New arrival?”
“Fiona,” I say. “Gavin’s sister.”
Boyd’s gaze drops to her bags, then back to her face. “She walk up the road?”
Fiona lifts her chin. “I was enjoying the scenery.”
Boyd’s mouth twitches once. That’s basically a standing ovation from Boyd. “Brave.”
Fiona glances at me, whispering, “Does he ever smile?”
“Once a year,” I whisper back. “When Gavin shuts up.”
“Seems unlikely,” she whispers.
“Correct.”
I grab her cooler and the suitcase with the missing wheel. “Come on. Gavin’s inside.”
As we step into the lodge, warmth wraps around us—fireplace heat, coffee, the faint smell of bacon and testosterone. The common room is busy: Eli at the kitchen counter restocking his med bag like he’s prepping for the end of the world, Silas on his phone near the window, Wyatt hunched over a laptop at the big table, Thorne standing guard by habit, and Rafe leaning against the mantle like a man who’s seen worse and survived it.
They all look up at once.
Fiona freezes in the doorway.