Page 4 of His Lost Mate

Jonah raised an eyebrow. "Really? From where I was standing, it looked like your aircraft suffered some kind of catastrophic failure. Mechanical might have been part of it, but I don’t believe for a second that was all of it."

She glared at him, her jaw tightening. "It’s classified."

"Classified," he echoed with a scoff. "Right. Because that explains everything." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low growl. "You’re hiding something, and whatever it is, it almost got you killed."

Before she could respond, a distant sound cut through the stillness of the forest—voices. The sound of men moving through the snow. Jonah’s head snapped up, his senses instantly on high alert.

Jonah’s expression darkened. He stood quickly, his eyes scanning the tree line. "We’ve got company," he said, his voice low. “And they don’t sound friendly.”

“What makes you say that?”

“If they were looking for you to help, they’d be calling your name. They aren’t.”

Phoebe’s body tensed as she struggled to her feet. "You need to go," she said urgently. "Now."

Jonah turned back to her, his expression dark. "Not happening."

"I’m serious," she hissed, her voice urgent. "They’re after me. Go."

He straightened, the corners of his mouth curving up humorlessly. "Lady, you can forget that idea. I’m not leaving you out here for them to find."

"They’re looking for me," she insisted, her voice strained. "If they find you, I don’t think they’ll hesitate to kill you."

He scoffed, his smile cold. "I don’t scare that easy. And I’m not about to leave you here to face them alone."

Her protest died on her lips as she tried to stand up straight and her knees buckled. Jonah lunged forward, catching her before she hit the ground. Her body was limp in his arms, her breathing shallow but steady.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath.

He glanced back at the trail. The voices were closer now, their owners moving with purpose. Whoever they were, they weren’t amateurs.

He didn’t have time to figure any of it out. Bending over, Jonah hoisted her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, careful not to jostle her injured arm too much. She was lighter than he expected, but the weight of her unconscious form felt heavier than anything he’d carried before. The warmth of her body seeped through his jacket, a stark contrast to the frigid air around him.

With practiced ease, Jonah moved off the trail, his experience guiding him toward higher ground. The search party’s noise grew fainter as he climbed, his steps silent, deliberate, avoiding the loose snow and dead branches that would betray their position.

When he reached a rocky outcrop, he paused, lowering Phoebe carefully onto a patch of moss and covering her with additional moss and fallen evergreen branches—that would help to keep her warm and hidden from casual sight. He scanned the forest below, his eyes narrowing as the search party moved in the direction of the wreckage.

His jaw tightened. Whoever they were, they weren’t just hikers stumbling through the woods. They moved with precision… purpose. And they were armed.

Jonah’s gaze flicked back to Phoebe, her face was pale, but he sensed strength even in her unconscious state. Whatever trouble she’d brought into his territory, it wasn’t just hers anymore.

He pulled his coat tighter against the cold and turned back to crouch beside her, his hand brushing her cheek briefly as he murmured, "You’ve got answers I need, sweetheart. But first, we’re getting out of this alive."

3

PHOEBE

The world came back to Phoebe in pieces: the muted crackle of a fire, the faint sunlight filtering the trees, the scent of pine and smoke, and the uncomfortable tug of something tight on her arm. The pain hit next—sharp, unrelenting, and radiating from her ribs and left arm. She tried to sit up, but a firm hand pressed against her good shoulder, stopping her.

“Stay still,” the man said, his voice low and commanding. “You’ll just make it worse.”

Phoebe’s gaze darted to him. He was beside her, his broad shoulders blocking most of the light. The rugged planes of his face were set in concentration as he finished wrapping a bandage around her forearm, his hands deft and sure.

“Who are you?”

“Jonah Locke.”

“You know your way around a first-aid kit,” she murmured, her voice rasping.

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