Page 33 of Claimed By 3 Mountain Men

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath, and then another. "You can do this, Mac," I tell myself softly. "You're a professional. Just focus on the lynx. They're probably just messing with you."

But how can I focus on anything when there’s a terrible ache gnawing at me for release? For them.

All three of them.

I force myself to take a deep breath, willing away the image of Ben’s hands on my hips, Hank’s lips on mine. Stop imagining what it must feel like to have one or all of them deep inside of me.

As the hours tick by, fatigue starts to set in, and my eyes grow heavy. I rub at them, trying to shake off the exhaustion that clings to me. I’m about to give in and call it a night when something catches my attention; a flash of movement, something out of place.

I rewind the footage, leaning closer to the screen, my pulse quickening. It’s a night shot, the camera’s infrared casting everything in eerie shades of green and black. At first, it’s hard to make out what I’m seeing—just shadows and the subtle sway of trees in the wind.

But then, I see it again. A figure moving through the trees, careful, deliberate. My breath catches in my throat as I adjust the playback speed, slowing it down to get a better look. The figure is carrying something—no,draggingsomething. I strain to see more, my heart pounding in my chest as the realization hits me like a cold wave.

It’s a man, dragging what looks like the carcass of an animal. The camera angle shifts slightly as the figure moves closer to the lens, and I freeze the frame, my eyes widening in shock.

It’s Luke Truitt.

My hands tremble as I replay the footage, the same scene unfolding over and over again, confirming what I’m seeing. Luke Truitt, dragging a dead animal through the forest in the dead of night. I zoom in, trying to make out more details, but the image is grainy, and the distance too great to make out the exact species.

By the size of it, it could easily be a lynx. It could also be something else.

I grind my teeth together.

This is evidence of illegal poaching.

I glance around the tent, the shadows are closing in on me, the enormity of what I’ve uncovered threatening to overwhelm me.

I need to act, but I also need to be careful.

One grainy shot of Luke Truitt with what could be a lynx isn’t enough solid evidence of anything. It’s a start though, and proof enough that my hunch is very real.

I need more proof.

More footage. More photos. Anything I can use to bring these bastards down once and for all.

My mind whirls,formulating a plan. I quickly jot down the date, time, and coordinates where I spotted him on a piece of paper before shutting down my computer.

I sit there for a moment, staring at the closed computer, then finally stand up and stretch, my muscles stiff from sitting hunched over the laptop for so long. The air inside the tent is cool, the night breeze slipping through the mesh windows, carrying the earthy scent of the forest.

I peel off my clothes, the fabric sticking slightly to my skin from the lingering heat of the day. My body feels tense, every nerve on edge.

I turn off the lantern, plunging the space into near darkness, save for the faint glow of the moonlight filtering through the trees.

Crawling into my sleeping bag, I clutch my pillow tightly to my chest, trying to find some semblance of comfort.

I know I should be elated, that I've finally caught a break in this case after months of dead ends. Yet, as I lay there, somehow, I’m not as excited as I thought I’d be.

There’s still so much work.

I can feel the tension in my shoulders, in the tightness in my chest, and the rapid beat of my heart. It’s as if the discovery has set something in motion. Something I can’t control, and now that I’m caught in its current, I can’t stop it either.

I take another deep breath, trying to focus on the sounds of the forest, and the gentle rhythm of the night. Slowly, I feel my body begin to unwind, the tension easing bit by bit. But even as I start to drift off, the weight of what I’ve found and what it could mean lingers in the back of my mind.

Hard rope clingsaround my ankles as the side of my face pulls against the wet earth. My hands and ankles are bound by thick rope as I’m being pulled over the earth like hunted prey.

I blink rapidly in the bright, white moonlight, trying to make out the mysterious figure pulling me along.

Luke Truitt?

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