Page 228 of Heart of Frost and Scars

“Are you ready to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Do you want to spend the rest of your miserable life without her?”

“That’s out of the question.”

“Then we’re going to fucking talk about it.” I straddle the bike. “Meet me at the distillery.”

51

Monty

—

The chill of drizzling rain soaks through my tailored suit as I step out of the Bugatti, gripping the wrapped picture frame in my hand.

After the conversation with Kody two days ago and the first session with my psychiatrist this morning, my thoughts are swirling up a storm, leaving no corner of my mind untouched.

But I push it all aside and focus on the task ahead.

The seaplane base sits before me, the dock, hangar, and facilities barely visible in the gloomy mist.

Leo’s new venture.

Taking my advice, he decided to start his operation with a float plane service and was able to lease a few old planes to get him going.

It won’t be long before he’s operating tours out of Sitka and making a killing doing it.

Success runs in his blood.

My shoes crunch against the gravel as I weave around the buildings, peering into the windows. My bodyguards arrived in a separate car. I barely notice them as they spread out around me.

I find him in the hangar, busy with a task I can’t quite make out.

“Give us a minute,” I say to his guards and mine.

Everyone steps out, leaving me alone with him.

Standing on a ladder, he drills screws into the eaves. Buckets of water scatter the ground around him. He must be repairing leaks in the metal roof.

He moves with purpose and intensity, his muscles rippling beneath his oil-stained shirt as he works. The sight of him, so absorbed in his task, sends a pang of something—regret, maybe?—through me.

I step out of the rain and approach the ladder. He doesn’t acknowledge me, but I know he senses me.

The tension between us lives and breathes, refusing to be ignored. It’s been two weeks since our confrontation with Frankie, but the anger and hurt still simmer. We haven’t seen each other, and our texts are limited to conversations about Frankie’s security.

I’m here to change that.

“Leo,” I call out.

He doesn’t glance at me, his focus unwavering.

I step closer, the picture frame heavy in my hand.

He continues working, not even a twitch in my direction. That stubborn set of his jaw…it’s fucking maddening. But I understand it. Hell, I feel it, too.

When he finally speaks, his voice is gruff and strained. “Do you have news on the investigation? Any word from Wilson or…the other thing?”

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