Page 100 of Knotting With A Stranger

It only deepened it.

As we approach Travis’s hunting ranch, I cut the engine, gliding the last hundred yards to a dense stand of blue spruce. The sudden silence after the machine’s constant roar makes my ears ring. In the distance, smoke rises from the cabin’s chimney—a thin gray line against the brightening sky.

“They’re here,” I whisper, swinging my leg over the machine and nodding toward the cabin. “Probably nursing their wounds, thinking they got away clean.”

James pulls his ski mask down further, only his storm-gray eyes visible. Blood has frozen in small dark crystals along the fabric where it covers his reopened cut.

We push through knee-deep snow toward the tree line’s edge, staying low beneath the branches. The ranch emerges into full view—not the rustic hunting shack most would expect, but a substantial structure of logs and stone stretching out to a decent size. Two snowmobiles sit parked haphazardly out front, confirming our targets are inside.

I tap James’s shoulder and point toward the rear of the structure. “Back entrance,” I mouth.

He nods, then pats his own chest twice before pointing ahead—offering to take the lead. We circle the clearing, staying within the shadows of the pines. Morning light lights up the cabin’s windows, making them flash gold, then orange as the sun crests the eastern ridge. We reach the back door unseen, pressing ourselves against the rough-hewn logs on either side.

Through the small window, I make out movement inside—three figures moving around the main room. Travis is easy to recognize, even from behind, his lanky frame and slouched shoulders unmistakable. Deacon towers beside him, a bull of a man with hands like sledgehammers and a mean streak to match. The third man is unfamiliar—shorter, wiry, moving with the restless energy.

James raises three fingers in question. I nod, then point to myself and hold up two fingers, then to him and hold up one.

He shakes his head and reverses the count.

I almost smile despite everything. He wants blood.

Silently testing the handle on the back door, I feel it turn with resistance. Holding up three fingers, I count down.

Three. Two. One.

I drive my shoulder into the door with all my weight behind it. Wood splinters around the frame as it flies inward, crashing against the inner wall. We surge through the opening together before the occupants can react.

The interior is dim despite the morning light, with heavy curtains drawn across most of the windows. A fire roars in the stone hearth, casting restless shadows across the rustic space. The place reeks of wood smoke, whiskey, and sweat—with the metallic undertone of blood.

Travis stands by the fireplace, one arm in a makeshift sling, his face a mottled canvas of purple and black from his earlier encounter with James. Deacon looms beside him, a mountain of a man in a flannel shirt stretched tight across a massive chest.The third man stands slightly apart—lean, hard-faced, with flat eyes.

“What the fuck—” Travis begins, his voice cracking in surprise as he’s pushing toward me.

I’m fuming at seeing my cousin. To think, he entered my home, hurt my friend, and was about to strike Thor. What if he found Lily? Lava burns through my chest with fury.

“You think you can break into my home and steal from me?” I launch myself at Travis without hesitation, driving my shoulder into his gut. Despite his injured arm, he grunts from the strike but shoves away quickly, leaving me to stumble sideways. Behind me, I hear the scuffle of feet and glance back quickly to find James confronting both Deacon and the lean stranger simultaneously.

Travis recovers and swings his good arm in a wild arc toward my head. I duck under it, coming up with an uppercut that catches him square in the jaw. His head snaps back, but he doesn’t go down.

“Your map belongs to me,” he snarls, blood speckling his lips.

A crash from across the room draws my attention for a split second. I glimpse James rolling across a table, the lean man slashing a knife through the air where his head had been a moment before. Deacon charges in from the side, trying to pin James against the wall.

Suddenly, Travis’s boot connects with my knee, sending a shock of pain up my leg. I stagger but stay upright, blocking his follow-up punch and countering with a jab to his injured arm. He howls in pain, lurching backward toward the fireplace.

“I should have ended you a long time ago,” he spits, reaching for something propped against the hearth—a shotgun with a weathered wooden stock. My grandfather’s Remington.

Heart in my throat, I lunge forward, grabbing the barrel just as his fingers close around the stock. We grapple for control,the weapon between us. From the corner of my eye, I spot James dropping to the floor and sweeping the lean man’s legs from under him. The stranger crashes down as Deacon throws a punch that misses James and hits the wall instead, plaster cracking under the impact.

Travis twists the shotgun, trying to wrench it from my grip. My hands slip on the metal barrel, and I realize with cold clarity that I’m losing the struggle. In desperation, I drive my forehead into the bridge of his nose. There’s a sickening crunch, and Travis reels backward, blood streaming down his face, but he doesn’t release the weapon.

“Hunter, get down!” James shouts.

I drop instinctively as something heavy sails over my head—a wooden chair that crashes into Travis. His grip on the shotgun falters, and I tear it from his hands, spinning it around and backing away.

The lean man has recovered and now has James in a headlock, knife edging toward his throat. Deacon circles them, looking for an opening.

Fuck!

---