Page 214 of Heart of Frost and Scars

But those aren’t the only reasons they’re gone tonight.

They’re following up on leads, re-interviewing witnesses from the night Sirena disappeared, and interrogating people on our suspect list.

They’re hunting.

When I told them I was going with them, they stared at me like I was speaking Russian. Then an argument ensued about who would stay with Frankie.

From everything I read in her journal, they had similar arguments in the hills each time they journeyed from the cabin.

But since they both have business to tend to in Sitka, it was an argument I couldn’t win.

So here I am.

Frankie curls beside me on the couch, her body a fragile ribbon of warmth against the constant chill of danger.

As she sleeps, my mind races, a torrent of crashing and colliding thoughts.

After everything she’s been through, who would do this? Who would go to such lengths to terrorize her?

Who knew about the flight logs in my father’s cellar? Someone from my past? Denver’s past?

Denver’s heart, Doyle’s hand, Sirena’s eyes—it’s a message. A gruesome, violent message. But from whom?

And who will be next?

The questions torment me, each one a blade carving into my sanity.

I haven’t heard from The Ghost since I contacted him. And I won’t. Not until the stalker is identified and exterminated.

The wait is another level of hell.

Only Frankie, Leo, and Kody know that I made that call. I told them in a hushed conversation in my office, away from guards and household staff, and reiterated the importance of discretion. I trust no one else with that information.

Even with The Ghost involved, I continue to work with Wilson, scour every piece of evidence, and pore over Pushkin’s poems with an analytical microscope, looking for hidden meanings.

I won’t give up.

Frankie stirs, her hand reaching for mine. She whimpers, caught in the throes of a dream, and I tighten my grip.

“Hey.” I bring her fingers to my mouth, kissing them. “You’re safe.”

Her lashes flutter as she wakes, and she looks up at me with a raw, unguarded expression of love. I want to haul her to my bed—our bed—and remind her why we used to make love morning, noon, and night.

At this point, I would settle for one of the three.

When I’m not thinking about the stalker, I think about my marriage.

The issue with us isn’t that she doesn’t love me. The issue is that she loves two other men.

My brothers.

They should never leave her alone with me. My hunger for her is dangerous.

I ache to taste her on my lips. I crave her hands on my body. I want to call out her name when I enter her with a fervor I haven’t felt in over a year. I long to look her in the eyes, pausing to savor the unwavering love and desire we share.

“I love you.” I hold her palm against my cheek.

“I know.” Her eyes dart between mine, and her breathing goes shallow. “I…”

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