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Fuck.Panic grips me by the jugular.
Ford lifts his brows. “What’re you thinking, D?”
“Bullshit Box,” I growl. “You, Charlie and Wyatt. Fifteen minutes.”
Then I haul ass across the ranch, desperate to get back to Dakota.
Classic rock and roll hits me the minute I step through the front door of the lodge. The Rolling Stones sing about brown sugar, and I smile when I see my clean kitchen messy as hell. The soft movement of Dakota and her belly is slowly becoming my favorite sight.
I’m ready for it. All of it.
Too damn beautiful for words. Barefoot, she’s changed out of last night’s clothes and into a long slip dress. Her belly’s hugged by a blue apron. Dark hair rolled in a messy bun. Golden April sunshine falls through the window, bathing her in an ethereal glow.
I watch her size up a big bowl of batter before reaching a hand toward the lip and getting a hard grip. At the contact, she closes her eyes. A tear slips down her cheek, and her knuckles go white as she lifts the bowl, using her healing arm to boost its bottom. A sob slips from her mouth.
But there’s no tentativeness, no recoil.
I want to go to her, but I stand my ground. She needs to do this. There’s something in her face, in her rigid shoulders, that I haven’t seen since I picked her up at that side of the road motel.
A shaky little breath puffs out of her and then she comes alive. She carefully pours the batter into cupcake tins and returns to the flour. She cuts butter into chunks. One-handed, she sprinkles flour on the counter, adds milk and yeast. Armed with a spine of steel, she measures every ingredient with a sniper’s precision.
She’s slow, but she’s sure.
Steady.
Strong.
I’ve never been more goddamned proud.
Meeting my gaze, she nods her head at me.
I drop the wires on the counter and stride toward her until she’s in my arms. She smells of warm dough and cream. I cup the back of her head and bring her sweet mouth to mine.
“You knocked me loose, Hotshot,” she murmurs against my lips. “I couldn’t wait.”
I run my hands down her body, her soft curves fitting perfectly against my palms.
When we pull back, I stare at what she’s created. She hasn’t just baked. She rose from the ashes. Left her past behind in a mess of dough and flour.
Dakota exhales a shaky shudder. “I’m free,” she says, gesturing at the mess. Her hand cradles her belly, leaving behind a white flour handprint.
Fear twists my heart.
My gaze moves from her to the cut brake lines lying on the table.
Dakota’s ready to fight. And it scares the ever-loving fuck out of me.
Because he’s here.
Eventually, he’s coming.
And she knows it.
Isit at Richter’s desk, trying not to let rage consume me. Across from me, Richter carefully sifts through the flight records of Aiden King.
“Looks like he’s been using his plane every other Friday night for the last three months,” Richter says.
I lean in, ignoring the crackle of the police scanner. “New York City?”
