Page 24 of Song Bird Hearts

I groan and cover my face. “Please stop talking.”

“Can’t help it,mon rossignol. I live for moments like this. Watching you two eye-fuck each other across a Scrabble board is one of the most erotic things I’ve seen since I found those bread cuttin’ videos.”

Knox exhales sharply through his nose. Almost a laugh. Almost.

I throw at tile at Gilden’s chest. He catches it one-handed like he’s been waiting for it. I’m about to call him ridiculous again, open my mouth to do just that, but I’m interrupted.

Knock. Knock.

The three of us freeze.

My blood runs cold.

That’s not possible.

This cabin is nearly two hours up from anything with a paved road, and we didn’t pass a soul on the way in. There’s no delivery service, no hikers, no neighbors. Nobody should be out here.

Nobody.

Knox is on his feet in a second, chair scraped back, hand going to the small of his back where he keeps his gun.

Gilden straightens, that easy grin gone in a blink.

He meets my eyes. “Alright,cher,” he says softly. “Why don’t you go stand in the kitchen where the light don’t reach, yeah?”

Another knock.

Heavier this time. Slower.

Knox doesn’t speak, doesn’t move from the door. He just stands there, stone still, listening. The door creaks once under the weight of another knock, and Knox moves first. He draws his gun, silent and deliberate, eyes flicking to Gilden in some unspoken language as I move into the kitchen.

Gilden nods once, stepping sideways to cover the front window. He’s all coiled muscle now, no more jokes, all that golden boy charm gone tight and razor-sharp.

“Valerie,” Knox says without looking at me, “back. Now.”

And I go. Because we’re deep in the mountains. There’re no roads, no emergency service up this high. No one can be here quick enough to be of use so no help is coming. If the experts tell me to get back, I better get fucking back.

My mouth’s gone dry, my heart thundering against my ribs like it’s already halfway to bolting.

Gilden shoots me a glance, quick and serious. “Anyone know you’re up here?”

I shake my head. “Just the two of you and probably Hank.”

Knox’s jaw flexes. He steps toward the door—silent, methodical—and positions himself to the side. The knock doesn’t come again.

But the handle turns.

It’s not fast like a threat. It’s worse.

Slow and sure.

Like whoever’s out there knows they’re welcome.

The door opens and standing there, framed with pine and the cold air from the mountain, is a man I do recognize, after all.

Wolf.

There’s no mask now, no crowd or party lights or half-sipped drink between us. It’s just him, real and present and utterly calm.

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