“You need to trust me, Birdie.” His tone is soft but steely, like a velvet-wrapped dagger. “You said you trusted me, didn’t you?”
I did, but now I wonder if it’s the worst mistake I’ve ever made. “Tristan? Where are you taking me?”
CHAPTER 11
Tristan
There is fear in her eyes. Birdie is afraid of me, the man who has done nothing but save her over and over again. It’s almost amusing, and in a way, exciting. They should write about that in psychology books, fear as an aphrodisiac. How the tremble in her lip, the way her pupils dilate like she’s prey caught in a snare, can ignite something primal in a man like me.
It’s mesmerizing, really, watching her mind race, trying to calculate her next move while knowing there isn’t one. Not for her. Every exit, every escape route, has already been sealed. I made sure of it when I chose this place.
She doesn’t realize yet that her fear is misplaced. That I’m not the monster she thinks I am—but I could be. Oh, I could be. Isn’t that the delicious part? The possibility. The potential.
What would it take to shatter that stubborn will of hers? To make her stop trying to wrest control of the story and accept her role in mine? Would it be pain? Betrayal? Or something simpler, more intimate, like a whisper in her ear, a hand at her throat?
I stop the car at the end of a winding dirt road wide enough for a single vehicle. Darkness engulfs us, save for the faint glow of the dashboard.
Birdie’s chest heaves. “Tristan, why did you stop the car? Where are we?”
“Get out and you’ll see.”
Blood drains from her face as she hesitates to grip the door handle. “What’s going on? Why are you—”
“Birdie.” My voice cuts through the tension, quiet but commanding. “Out. Now.”
Her hand trembles when it pushes the door open. I step out, circling the car to meet her. The cold air slices through me. I watch her wrap her arms around herself and take in the cabin hidden behind a natural curtain of towering pines and oaks.
“What are you doing, Tristan?” She forces herself to look me in the eye. “What is this place?”
A thrill courses through me. I step closer, too close, and she takes a half-step back, her breath catching as if she’s realized too late that retreat only makes the predator hungrier.
“Birdie,” I murmur, letting her name hang between us like a trap waiting to spring. “You think I’ve done all of this for you to fear me?”
Her silence is deafening, her defiance crumbling under the weight of her terror. She won’t answer, not because she doesn’t know, but because she does.
She takes another look behind the trees. The property is surrounded by dense thickets, creating a fortress of greenery that muffles sound and obscures the house from view. The cabin itself is rustic but sturdy, built of dark cedar shingles that blend seamlessly into the forested backdrop. Its sloped roof is partially covered in moss, and the windows are shielded by heavy blackout curtains, ensuring no light escapes at night.
Around the cabin is a modest clearing, encircled by wild berry bushes and ferns. A narrow footpath leads to a hidden beach cove just a short hike away, where jagged rocks shield theshoreline from prying eyes and the ocean waves crash loudly enough to mask any conversation or—some might think—acts of violence.
The perfect place to vanish from the world—or to hide from someone hunting you.
“It’s a safehouse.” I rented it when I took the job. Common procedure. “After what happened last night, there is no way you’re going back to your house, not until I catch the bastard.”
Her shoulders relax, and a long sigh seeps out of her lips. “I hate you right now. Why did you not say something? What’s with the scare, asshole?”
“Do you really scare that easily?” I smirk. “Or do you really not trust me?”
She arches a brow and drags her gaze toward the cabin. “I’m freezing.”
I put my hand on the small of her back to usher her in. “After you, my lady.”
Inside, the safehouse is spartan but functional. The main living area is dominated by a large stone fireplace, its hearth stocked with chopped wood. There are a leather couch, a sturdy oak table, and a pair of wooden chairs. A small kitchen with all the necessary appliances is stocked with non-perishable supplies.
A trapdoor in the pantry leads to a small, concealed basement—a small space that serves as an emergency hideout—equipped with a cot, bottled water, canned food and a radio.
There are two bedrooms, each with a reinforced door and a closet hiding a gun safe and emergency supplies.
“The air smells of salt and pine. The only sounds are the distant waves and the occasional rustle of leaves.” Birdie looks at me. “Here, isolation is absolute. Is it where my haven lies or my demise?”
