Page 72 of My Secret Santa Clayton

But that’s when I realized Clay hadn’t come alone.

Another crunch of tires sounded…then another. I saw Rob's head turn toward the boarded up window, his eyes narrowing as he tried to peer through the remnants of frosty glass. The goon paused, Clay still untied.

Clay seized the moment.

He spun around, his large hand snapping out to grasp the goon's throat. With a single, powerful shove, he sent the man crashing back against the wall with a sickening crack. The goon's body slid down the wall, crumpling to the floor in a heap.

“Clay!” I cried. “Get out!”

But Rob was in play as well, and in a split second, he made his choice—to shoot his gun at Clay or point it at me. Clay was a mountain of a man, moving fast, pure muscle.

But I was a perfect target.

Rob pointed the gun at my head, his eyes darting between me and Clay. “Don't move,” he barked at Clay. “Or she's dead.”

I kept still, my muscles tense, but I couldn't let fear take over. I locked eyes with Rob, firm, unflinching. “It's over, Rob,” I said. “Accept it.”

Clay nodded slowly, raising his hands. “Those are the cops outside. I took care of your friend down the mountain. Nobody’s coming to help you.”

We all knew it was over—the only question was if we would all get out alive. I caught my breath and waited. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in as the standoff stretched on.

Outside, the crunch of boots on snow grew louder…

“Silver Ridge Police! Hands up!”

“Drop it, Rob!” I shouted, my voice echoing off the barren walls of the cabin. The command from outside had been clear, and for a moment, it felt like everything stood still.

Rob's gaze locked onto mine, his features twisted in fury and defiance. He snarled—a guttural sound that was nothing like the editor I’d known—and for a split second, I thought he might pull the trigger.

“We are armed and prepared to use lethal force if necessary,” the voice said again. “Weapons down, hands up.”

It wasn't a request.

Rob hesitated, his eyes burning holes into me.

But then, as if the reality of his situation finally sank in, the fight drained from him. His hand opened, and the gun clattered to the floor. Slowly, with a look of bitter defeat, he raised his hands above his head.

“Smart choice,” Clay said, his voice low and even. He moved carefully, watching Rob's every step, ready to act at the slightest provocation. Clay bent to pick up the gun, holding it on Rob now and shouting, “He’s unarmed! You can come on in!”

The door opened…I saw Sheriff Callahan’s face, though my eyes burned in the sudden sunlight.

It was over.

It was actuallyover.

And we were both alive.

THIRTY-FOUR

Clay

The gun hit the floor with a thud.

Time lurched forward.

Police were everywhere, streaming in, cuffing Rob and his henchman. “Grace,” I breathed, rushing to her side. Her body was marked by bruises, marks of…fuck, of torture. I’d seen this before, in Afghanistan, and I’d hoped to never see it again—especially not on the woman I loved. The ropes bit into her skin, and I cursed under my breath. She was alive—alive and waiting for me to act.

“Clay,” she managed, and I saw the fight in her eyes.

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