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He said not to worry.

He told me he would be back in three nights at the most.

Every morning, I woke with a scream after barely catching a couple of hours of sleep, only to run out and find the kitchen empty. There were animals outside to watch. A cozy fire in the evenings to enjoy. A few random biographies that didn’t hold much of my attention.

After eight days alone, I was in a full-blown panic.

“Where the hell is he?” I muttered to a squirrel who was bold enough to race across the railing on the back porch.

The coffee in my mug was tepid.

While there was plenty of frozen meat, I gave up eating yesterday, not having the heart to burn more and pick at the remains. This cabin was a half hour from the bar, which every time I thought of it, wonderful memories danced through my mind, taunting me.

Just a girl and her boy.

Beers and games.

Long, lingering stares.

And now…nothing.

The ache in my chest throbbed. “He can’t be dead.”

The squirrel chattered at me. Its high-pitched voice grated on my nerves.

“He can’t be,” I insisted. With a rush of anger, I chucked the mug at the wee beast. It scampered away, never in any real danger of being hit. The mug flew wide, spilling its contents over the worn boards. It landed somewhere in the grass. I didn’t move to see if it broke.

“Jaxon said he was coming back.” I balled my fists stubbornly in my lap.

How much do you even know about this man?

He was a ghost.

A phantom who stalked me, who had easy access to me, and now left me alone in the middle of nowhere.

I shot to my feet and began pacing. My aches and pains were gone. The headache had long vanished from the IV hydration, but the soreness in my shoulder lasted a few days longer. Now I hardly noticed.

The course of action became clear. I couldn’t help anyone stuck out in these woods. And if something happened to Jaxon—it didn’t have to be death; I wouldn’t give it that horrible title—he couldn’t reach me.

I had to rescue myself.

I stopped short, staring down the tracks in the trees. Out there was the road. If I began walking, I would eventually find civilization.

“You’re a mafia princess,” I encouraged myself. “Your place is with your people.”

I was their boss.

This was the absolute last time I would allow my men to sequester me away for my own protection.

Inside, the air was thick with the stale scent of extinguished fire and damp laundry hanging after being washed in the sink, but my mind cut through the fog like a blade. The adrenaline rush of resolve carried me from room to room—no sense in lingering when each second felt like I was being watched by some invisible audience. I snapped open the tiny fridge and grabbed the container of burnt meat. It wasn’t appetizing, but it was calories, and calories were paramount. Tossing it in a canvas sack, I grabbed the rest of my loot. Every item I added—a dented flashlight, a single roll of toilet tissue, a pink lighter—hammered home that I was alone in this, and it would be my own damn fault if I didn’t come back.

Water.

I wouldn’t get far without that.

I filled up a plastic travel mug from the tap. The metallic tang of well water wasn’t ideal, but it also wasn’t fatal. Next came clothing—layers were everything in unpredictable weather. I changed from cut-offs into regular jeans and tied a flannel around my waist for later. My hands worked automatically. My mind raced.

The bathroom mirror caught my eye in passing. My jaw set hard as stone. Determination blazed in my dark brown eyes. For one hypnotic moment, I stood there, watching her—the version of me who played at being tough—and wondered if she’d survive the long walk out of here.