Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Dean checks in again via bluetooth. “Hey, proceed with caution, Asher.”
“Always do,” I respond, calm masking urgency. “Update me if intel shifts.”
“Copy that.”
As I approach the lake, dense forest crowds the winding road. It’s quiet here, isolated, a perfect place for sinister secrets. My truck crawls silently the final quarter mile. Stealth mode engaged. I pull off the main road, camouflaging the vehicle among pines, then slip into tactical gear. I tug my vest snugly, my Glock chambered with the safety off.
I proceed through thickening brush on foot, my senses hyper-alert. The lake house emerges through trees ahead. It’s secluded, luxurious, utterly silent. A panel van parked out front matches the surveillance footage.
Bingo.
Movement registers. Sinclair’s pacing behind large glass windows, illuminated by soft interior lights. No sign of Charlotte yet.
A quick perimeter check: side doors secured, rear exit guarded by a bulky figure—a hired muscle type, scanning the forest occasionally. Sinclair isn’t alone. Calculating threat level—medium to high.
Stealth remains my advantage. I slip closer, shadowing the property line. The house layout is visible: main living area downstairs, guest rooms upstairs. My gut says she’s upstairs. High vantage point, restricted escape options. Classic containment tactics.
I finger the Glock’s grip, steadying my breath. If Sinclair hurts her, I’ll bury him. Cold professionalism evaporates with that thought. It’s replaced with white-hot protective fury. I wrestle it down, channeling rage into focus. Distractions now cost lives.
Through binoculars, I catch sudden movement in an upper window. Charlotte. She’s alive. Relief hits me hard, and it nearly buckles my knees. But it strengthens my resolve. I’m getting her out.
Now.
I withdraw to tree cover, quickly calling Dean. “Visual confirmation. Charlotte’s alive. Sinclair plus minimum one guard. Law enforcement ETA?”
“Still fifteen out. Asher, wait for backup—”
“No chance.” I interrupt flatly. “I’m going in.”
Dean sighs, understanding. “Understood. I’ll redirect Sheriff to your exact coordinates. Keep comms open. Don’t get yourself killed.”
“Not today.” I click off the call.
Charlotte’s image lingers behind my eyelids, vulnerable yet strong. Beautiful. Brave. The woman who somehow dismantled every wall I built. I’ve fallen hard, and there’s no turning back.
I scan for entry points, assessing options. Front guarded heavily, rear risky but feasible. Breach quietly, incapacitate threats systematically. Extraction within five minutes. I visualize every move. This is what I do. This is why Charlotte’s father hired me.
I move toward the lake house, blending into shadows. Pulse steady. Mind focused. Love sharpens my resolve rather than dulling it. She needs me alive, effective. No errors.
A silent promise escapes my lips as I approach, words lost in the pine-scented breeze, “I’m coming, Charlotte. Hold on.”
26
Charlotte
I pace the room, walking back and forth, trying to figure out a way out of this mess. The silence is heavy, thick enough to choke on, as I pace the lake house’s upstairs room. Each creak of the old floorboards makes me flinch, certain it’ll draw Wade’s attention again. I’m hurting everywhere. There’s an ache in my ribs every time I take a breath. I clutch my makeshift weapon—the thin metal bar, pried from beneath the mattress—tightly in one hand, trying to summon courage I’m not entirely sure I have left.
The lake outside the window glistens under the moonlight, serene and indifferent. It seems impossible that the peaceful stillness could coexist with the nightmare unfolding inside these walls. My gaze shifts toward the balcony doors again, locked and useless, mocking me with false hope. No escape there.
A sound breaks the stillness downstairs. I strain to hear muffled voices that sound agitated. My pulse spikes, and my grip tightens on the metal bar. Wade or Mikhail, are probably coming back to finish whatever they’ve started. My heart drums frantically as fear claws at my throat.
I step toward the door, straining to listen, when a loud thud echoes through the house, followed by a loud crash. My stomach drops. Something’s happening downstairs.
Then footsteps thunder on the stairs—fast and deliberate. I brace, weapon raised, prepared to swing at whoever bursts through.
The door handle jiggles sharply, then goes still. I take a shaky breath, heart pounding. They’ve returned. I back away, bar lifted defensively, when the door crashes inward, splintering around the lock.
My breath catches as tears flood my vision in pure relief. "Asher!"
He steps through the doorway, dressed head-to-toe in tactical black gear. There’s a gun in his hand, his jaw set tight, eyes blazing with fierce determination. If adrenaline wasn’t coursing through my veins right now, I’d stop to take in the sight of him. Appreciate how sexy he looks. He sees me, and for one fleeting second, a powerful wave of emotion flickers across his face—relief, anger, protectiveness—all tangled into one.
“Charlotte,” he breathes, voice rough with urgency. “Are you hurt?”
“I…uh, I’m okay.” I lower my improvised weapon. "Better now."
He takes two strides forward, reaching for me, when heavy footsteps come pounding down the hallway. Asher spins around, raising his weapon just as Mikhail barrels through the doorway, charging him like an angry bull.