Page 25 of Betrayed
It coils tightly around my ribs like a vice that won't loosen. Not until I see her. Not until I bring her back to safety and lock out the damn world.
And even then, I might not let go, never let her back out of my arms.
The customs agent tries to slow me down with a clipboard and questions, but I flash my black card with the gold Bachman symbol—the kind that opens more than bank accounts—and keep walking.
I’ve barely slept and barely breathed.
Erin is somewhere out there, alone.
And she’s hunting a monster.
She walked away from everything—me, Ryan, the safety I gave her. She took my protection and discarded it like it didn’t mean a fucking thing.
Except she wore the coat.
She packed the scarf.
She took the goddamn boots.
I know because, on the plane, I received a photo of her from CCTV footage of High Street in a town.
She didn’t bring my gun or my name or my men, but she took the parts of me that warmed her.
I’ll burn this entire country down to get her back.
The car I hired waits at the curb outside Heathrow. I climb in, jaw set.
“Where to, sir?” the driver asks.
I give the coordinates. Rural. Desolate.
“The moors,” he says. “A ripe place for serial killers.”
His words make my hackles rise.
Erin had mentioned that Cass has an addiction to true crime, and now it’s clear to me why, coming from a place like this.
It’s dark when I reach the location. The road is a snarl of gravel and moorland, the wind howling like a chorus of ghosts.
The driver wasn’t wrong. This place looks like a graveyard.
The headlights slice through the fog, revealing a shape in the distance. A small primitive cabin, its windows dark. No vehicles in sight.
She’s been here.
I can fucking feel it.
The second the car stops, I’m out.
I don’t knock, I kick the goddamn door in.
The wood splinters under my boot, slamming against the wall with a deafening crash.
She’s not inside.
The cabin is empty.
But a fire crackles brightly in the fireplace. She’s gone, but not far.
