Page 55 of Mountain Hero

Logically, I know the pantry is safe. I watched Alec and Enzo set it up—replacing the old wooden door with a heavy-duty steel one, cutting a hole in the floor and installing a trapdoor, and tucking a box of weapons behind the boxes of old dishes.

Logically, I know Enzo and Ronan and Gage are far more skilled than Thomas. Thomas is big and mean and throws a nasty punch, but that doesn’t mean he’s a match for a group of former Special Forces.

Enzo’s out there with night vision goggles and several guns, and I’ve seen him shoot—there’s not a target he can’t hit. Not a small can set on a stump two hundred feet away, not a leaf blowing in the wind fifty feet ahead, and definitely not the moving targets he sets up in the woods for practice. If he’s threatened, he can protect himself.

I know this. But in the pantry, shadows creeping everywhere, the only sounds my shaky breathing and thundering pulse, it’s easy to let doubt slip in.

My imagination is on a terrible rampage. Worst-case scenarios keep hitting me, each one worse than the last.

Like Thomas showing up with a group of his dirtbag friends, all of them with guns, opening fire before Enzo has a chance to take cover.

Or Gage having a flashback—he admitted it to me the other day, not saying why, but just that he understood—and Thomas hurting him before he snaps out of it.

Enzo and his friends are honorable, but Thomas isn’t. Enzo would give Thomas a chance to surrender, but I fear Thomas wouldn’t hesitate to shoot right away.

God. What if Enzo is hurt? Killed?

It would be all my fault. He didn’t want this. It’s all because of me.

If not for me, Thomas would probably have moved on. Enzo’s store wouldn’t be a target anymore, not with all the security upgrades to it.

If I wasn’t staying here, blatantly exposing myself, Enzo wouldn’t be outside putting himself in danger to protect me.

I only realize I’m crying when I taste the tears on my lips.

The fear is overwhelming.

My stomach is lodged somewhere in my esophagus, and bile burns the back of my throat.

I can’t stop shaking.

Why did I want this?

If not for my stubborn insistence, I’d still be asleep in Enzo’s arms. We’d wake up as the sun streamed into the living room, cuddling and kissing and we’d have our coffee and talk about our plans for the day and maybe tonight would be the night I’d finally make my move.

I almost did last night. Why didn’t I? Did I really think I wasn’t ready?

How could I doubt Enzo? He’s not like anyone else I’ve met. Enzo is everything I want in a man—trustworthy, kind, quietly sensitive, confident without being cocky, smart, funny, and he’s so handsome he takes my breath away. And he’s so protective, which is something I never thought I needed, but now I absolutely love it.

Crap. Now I’m crying even harder.

I can feel myself spiraling into a dark and empty place, where all my courage and independence are nothing but a memory. All that remains is panic and a desperate and hopeless wish that I could turn back time and call this whole thing off.

But.

Stop panicking.

Do the breathing exercises Enzo showed me one of the first days I was here, after I nearly hyperventilated after a flashback.

Don’t fall apart.

As I concentrate on breathing—four seconds in, four seconds hold, four seconds out—I dig my nails into my palms until the pain steadies me.

Enzo will be back. I trust him. He promised.

I just wish I knew how long it’s been.

In the hurry to hide, there wasn’t time to grab my phone or watch.

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