Page 66 of Heart of Frost and Scars

The Turbo Beaver’s Hobbs meter indicates it was within a four-hour flight from Whittier, which matches Leo’s recollection.

I sigh, feeling the prick of every stake. The flight data recorder was destroyed in the crash, and without GPS or navigation systems, there’s no way to track the flight path.

If we can’t find it, neither can the media. The last thing we need is an ambitious journalist discovering Denver’s body or any of the others left behind.

But if we can’t find it, we may never find my son.

The gravity of it all presses down on me. Sleep is a distant memory, replaced by caffeine and adrenaline. My body moves on autopilot, driven by the singular goal of getting my wife back.

Her eyes, shadowed with fear and determination, haunt my thoughts. I can’t let her down. I won’t let her fall. We’ve repeated our lines, refined our alibis, covered every angle, and tied every loose end.

So far, none of us has slipped up.

Turning the corner, I find Frankie in the kitchen.

Alone.

She stands at the sink with her back to me, the sound of running water masking my approach.

My heart hammers, and my breath quickens.

She’s never without Leo and Kody. They must be stuck in their interviews.

The opportunity is too perfect, my longing to be close to her too overwhelming.

I pause, hanging back for a minute, just watching her.

Her naturally red hair glows in the sunset light from the window, cascading to her waist like a fiery waterfall. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, swaying those slender hips. I know every curve and dip by memory. I could draw her shape with my eyes closed. She’s so soft. So feminine and dainty. But her petite frame belies the strength she possesses.

She’s always been meticulous about her health, eating right, running, and taking care of herself. The nurse in her demands a healthy lifestyle, and it shows in the way she moves, every gesture filled with unconscious sensuality and allure.

She leaves me breathless.

I miss her so much it hurts. I miss holding her in my arms, feeling the warmth of her body, spreading her out beneath me, and fucking her for hours every night.

Her pure, compassionate heart is almost as addictive as her filthy, sexual mind.

The sight of her standing in my kitchen transports me back to when she lived here happily, before the abduction, when everything was right in our world. It feels natural to stroll up to her, wrap my arms around her, and rest my chin on her shoulder.

I do it without thinking, drawn in by the rightness of it, drugged by the scent of her cherry perfume.

The instant my hands slide around her waist, I’m a slave to the familiar feel of her. My skin heats. My mouth dries, and my cock stiffens against my zipper.

She freezes. Chokes on a cry.

My stomach clenches, and I drop my hands. Too late.

She whirls, slashing out a knife from the butcher block. The blade catches my throat, the blinding pain making me gasp.

Fuck! How did she grab a weapon so fast?

“Frankie.” I press my hand to the wound, unable to stop the flow of warm blood through my fingers. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

Her eyes widen in horror. Her face pales. Her hand trembles, and the knife clatters to the floor.

She stumbles away, her breath coming in ragged bursts. Her pupils dilate, and her eyes dart around the room as if trapped somewhere else.

Caged in a nightmare.

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