Page 197 of Where Broken Wings Fly

“In the kitchen,” she orders.

We all gather around the dining table—Killian and Zach remaining within touching distance, like they don’t trust me not to disappear on them. Lola’s pacing the floor, a phone clasped in her hands.

The back door rattles before it flings open, revealing Micah, red-faced and short of breath. He rushes at me, his limbs trembling with anxiety. I’m pulled into his arms.

“I checked our cabin and the studio. No sign of her.”

“Shit. Where the hell is she?”

“We’ll find her,” he soothes.

“She could be anywhere. How did I let this happen?”

Lola drops a hand on my shoulder. “This isn’t your fault, poppet. We’ve got our best people out there searching for Arianna. She can’t have gone far.”

The sound of a sharp knock causes us all to freeze in place. Nobody moves a muscle, our breaths held. It comes again; harder, more insistent.

“What the hell is that?” Zach snarls.

I swallow hard. “It’s the front door.”

Lola glances between us. “Nobody knocks on my door in this town. They just walk in.”

Suffocation threatens to steal my consciousness. I feel myself gawp as Killian reaches into the waistband of his jeans, pulling out a revolver. I’ve seen plenty of hunting rifles around town, but this is the real deal.

“Where on earth did you get that?” Lola exclaims.

He double-checks the chamber is loaded. “Not important. I need to be able to protect my family.”

Another knock punctuates the air of shock. It comes again. Three times. Repeated and demanding. Staring into Killian’s eyes, all I can see is Pedro looking back at me as he took his last breath.

“Everyone stay here,” I say weakly.

Killian cocks the gun. “Like hell.”

“This is my mess. I’ll deal with it.”

“Get your ass back here, Willow!”

Dodging past them, I inch through the cabin towards the insistent knocking. Their footsteps follow me. Through the frosted glass of the front door, three shadows are outlined, becoming clearer as I approach.

“No,” Killian roars.

Before he can get himself killed, I grab the handle and throw the door open. The world ends in an instant. Safety is an illusion, one that I’ve spent months force-feeding to myself.

I was wrong.

We were never safe.

Mason is leaning against the door frame while smoking a cigarette. His interested gaze scrapes over me, lips pulled taut in a fake smile. I’m sickened to realise that I’m actually glad to see him and not a pair of frozen blue eyes.

“Mrs Sanchez. So good to see you again.”

“What are you doing here?” I demand.

His two associates flank him on both sides. Both are packing weapons, staring us down in warning behind their dark sunglasses and blank facial expressions.

“Call it helping out an old friend.” Mason flicks his cigarette aside. “How’s the holiday? I have a feeling it’s about to be cut short.”

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