The words hit me square in the chest. Eighty years of isolation, and I’m the first person he’s ever wanted to stay in touch with. The first person who’s made him want contact with the outside world.
“Email then,” I say, pulling out my phone before I can think better of it. “Give me your business email.”
He recites it slowly while I type it into my contacts, and when I look up, something in his expression has softened slightly.
“As long as your truck is on this mountain,” he says, reaching out to run one armored finger along my jaw, “I’ll know. The vibrations—I feel them through the earth. I’ll know when you’re coming.”
“That’s either romantic or stalkerish,” I tell him, but I’m leaning into his touch. “I haven’t decided which.”
“Both,” he says. “Definitely both.”
I laugh despite the ache in my chest, and he pulls me against him in an embrace that feels desperately possessive.
“You’ll come back,” he says, but it’s not quite a statement so much as a question.
“I’ll come back,” I promise, and mean it with every fiber of my being.
Twenty minutes later,I’m in my truck with a thermos of coffee Riven insisted on making and the burgundy scarf wrapped gently around my neck.
The drive down the mountain is treacherous. The road crews have cleared the worst of the mudslide, but debris still litters the asphalt, and new streams cut across sections where water has redirected itself. I navigate carefully, my mind already shifting back into logistics mode: planning routes, calculating delivery times, prioritizing packages based on need and location.
Dad calls as I’m partway down.
“How’s it looking up there?” he asks.
“Passable,” I report. “They did a good job clearing the main road. Some of the side routes might still be blocked though.”
“I’ve got the manifest ready for you,” he says, and I can hear papers shuffling. “Thirty-six packages total. I’ve marked the priorities.”
We spend the next ten minutes discussing the delivery plan for the coming days. Dad’s voice pulls me back into the familiarrhythm of Hartwell Delivery Service after days in Riven’s otherworldly domain.
“You okay, Junebug?” he asks suddenly, breaking the flow of our logistics discussion. “You sound… different.”
“I’m fine,” I assure him quickly. “Just tired. It’s been an intense few days.”
“Mmm,” he hums, unconvinced. “Did the client treat you all right?”
Heat rises to my face as memories flash through my mind of Riven’s voice rumbling praise as he claimed me in ways I never imagined possible.
“He was a perfect gentleman,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady.
Dad’s silence speaks volumes.
“Well, uh, I should stay focused on the road.”
“That you should,” Dad says dryly. “All right, Junebug. Drive safe.”
We hang up, then as I round a bend near the base of the mountain, flashing lights catch my attention. A police cruiser is parked across one lane, creating an impromptu checkpoint.
I pull to a stop beside the cruiser. Deputy Dale Brennan stands beside his vehicle, looking official in his uniform. When he recognizes my truck, he straightens, his expression hardening into something that makes my stomach knot with unease.
Dale approaches with his official face on, the one that means he’s in full deputy mode rather than the awkward guy who flirts with me at Merry’s Diner.
“Ma’am,” he says formally. “Please step out of the vehicle.”
Not “Hey June,” or “Good to see you made it down safely.” Just formal, clipped, and very serious.
My hand freezes on the door handle as I process the implication of that tone. Behind him, I can see another officer I don’t recognize waiting by the cruiser.
