The only guaranteed pen source is Talon’s office. I head down the hall, my dress swishing just above my knees, the house still and strangely hollow. His office is different from the rest of the cabin—more cluttered, the air sharp with printer ink, the surfaces covered in stacks of manuscripts and torn-open mail. The computer’s screen is dark, but the blinking cursor on the login prompt stares at me like an accusation.
I rummage through the top drawer of the desk, careful not to disturb the Post-It notes or the immaculate row of fountain pens. Instead, I find folders: tax returns, a pile of old contracts, random receipts in a folder. I roll my eyes. Men.
Then my fingers brush a plastic sleeve that’s different—stiffer, heavier, labeled in block letters: “TALON MCKNIGHT.” It’s thick, packed so full the edges are scalloped from overuse. I shouldn’t, but I can’t not. I slide it out and set it on the desk, hands a little clammy.
The first page is a contract, top to bottom legalese, but the header is clear as day: “J.E. Literary Management.” My brain trips on it, recognizing the agency. Underneath, the words: “GENRE: Commercial Thriller—NO EXCEPTIONS.” There’s nothing about romance. Nothing about our project. The contract is signed and dated from two months ago, with a clause about “exclusive first rights” and a fat five-figure bonus for early delivery.
My heart hammers. I flip through the pages, but it’s all the same: edits, deadlines, a schedule of publicity events in Manhattan. Nothing about the romance novel Talon says he’s writing. For a second, I wonder if I’m dreaming. Or if I’m the punchline in a really intricate joke.
The steady thwack of the axe stops.
I freeze, the folder in my lap, every nerve ending burning.
I can hear Talon’s boots on the porch, the squeak of the mudroom door. He always wipes his feet, then sets the logs in a crate by the stove, humming low and tuneless. If I move, he’ll hear. If I stay, he’ll find me.
I close the folder, put it back exactly where I found it, then smooth the drawer with my palm. I take a breath, stand, and check my reflection in the window to make sure I look normal. Not like someone who’s just found evidence of a potential deception.
I walk out of the office, quietly, heading for the hallway as if I never left.
Talon’s in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, sweat beading on his forehead. He sees me, gives a lopsided grin. “Hey, Kitten. You find what you needed?”
I nod, too bright. “Yeah. Just needed a pen.”
He looks at me a little too long, like he’s waiting for something. Then he shrugs, goes back to stacking wood, and the moment passes.
But the twisting in my gut doesn’t.
I walk to the window, stare out at the blue dusk and the green-black line of trees. For the first time since I got here, I don’t feel like I’m the one with the secret.
And I can’t shake the feeling that something’s way off … and I’m to blame.
Night again,and the cabin is impossibly quiet, as if the storm used up all the noise in the world and left nothing but silence. The old quilt is wrapped around me, soft as a memory, but I can’t sleep. Talon’s beside me, half-buried in the pillows, his muscular chest rising and falling with the measured regularity of a grandfather clock. Even asleep, he looks powerful: arms folded behind his head, jaw squared, a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth, like he’s dreaming about winning a fight or maybe just claiming me again.
I should be dreaming, too. Instead, I lie awake, wide-eyed, watching the patterns the moonlight paints across the ceiling. My brain is a centrifuge, spinning the day’s discoveries over and over, refusing to let any particle settle. The contract for thrillers, no exceptions. The ache in my gut that started as a tremor and now feels like a warning.
I roll onto my back, stare at the shadowed rafters, and count the seconds between each breath. After a while, I start to drift, finally sinking into that delicious cotton-candy limbo just before sleep.
That’s when the satellite phone rings.
It’s not loud—a plastic cricket sound, cut to vibrate—but in the dead hush of this place, it’s like a gunshot. Talon moves instantly, rolling out of bed with predatory grace, scooping the phone from the nightstand. He doesn’t look at me, just answers and pads out of the bedroom, barefoot and naked except for a pair of old sweats. He heads downstairs, and the office door closes with a muted click.
I wait. Thirty seconds, maybe a minute. The phone call should be nothing. A spam text. A weather warning. But my hands have a mind of their own: they slide out from under the quilt, pull on my sleep shirt, and guide me toward the stairway.
I creep downstairs, and then down the hall, pausing at the corner. The office door is closed, but not all the way; there’s a narrow wedge of light slicing across the floorboards, the faint scent of printer toner and woodsmoke leaking into the hallway.
I lean closer, bare feet silent on the old pine. I can’t hear much—Talon’s voice is low, a growl pitched for secrecy—but the words that do reach me are sharp and clear:
“—no, she’s perfect. No complaints. The arrangement’s working better than expected.”
A pause, then: “Yes, J.E. I understand. I’ll keep her until the end of the term. No longer. The payment’s already been made.”
The floor drops out of my stomach.
A slow, deep laugh. “You know me. I’m not sentimental.” Another silence. “Yes, I’ll send you the sample pages tomorrow. No, there’s nothing in writing. She thinks it’s just a new manuscript. She’s—” A sigh, tired and annoyed. “Yeah. Exactly as promised.”
He hangs up. The office chair creaks. Papers shuffle, then the click of the screen saver as he wakes up the computer.
I barely breathe. I press myself flat against the wall, every muscle tense, waiting for the next sound. Were they talking about me? My mind screams as my breaths come fast, pulse racing. Surely he must be able to hear. But Talon stays in the office. No footsteps. No hint he knows I’m hiding just outside.
