Noah leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You’ve been off-kilter since you met her. What’s really going on?”
Liam’s pulse kicked up a notch.
“She’s a friend.” The words tasted like sawdust. “She’s been through a lot. I just need to check on her.”
Noah’s expression softened slightly, but his tone stayed firm. “You sure you’re thinking straight? You’re jumping at shadows. If she’s in real trouble, tell me. We handle things together.”
Liam shot to his feet, grabbing his ranger cap. “I’ll fill you in when I know more. Promise. But I have to see her now.”
Noah sighed, stepping out of his way. “Go. But be careful. Trust your gut, but don’t let it blind you to everything else.”
Liam nodded, already moving. Noah’s words followed him out, but his focus had narrowed to a single point—Nimue.
His Bronco roared to life, tires kicking up gravel as he peeled out. Forest blurred past his windows, but his mind stayed locked on her—that guarded smile, the way she’d leaned into him by the fire, her quiet strength.
He had zero experience protecting someone from Russian mobsters. Didn’t know if she’d even let him try. But he couldn’t let her face them alone. If Dan Carter’s kid and his friends had messed with Nimue’s bus, then itwasn’tthe Bratva and maybe—maybe he could convince her to stay. To trust him.
But if she was right, if the mobhadfound her trail, he’d do whatever it took. Run, hide, fight—anything to keep her safe. Abandoning her wasn’t an option.
His knuckles went white against the steering wheel. When had she stopped being just an intriguing woman with secrets and become essential? When had her safety become more important than his own job, his own peace of mind?
The answer hit him as he took the final turn toward her campsite. Somewhere between that first run and that almost-kiss, she’d stopped being a mystery to solve and started being the person he…well, that he didn’t want to run from.
Now he just had to convince her to give him a chance.
Silence pressed against the bus walls like a living thing. Nimue stared at her laptop screen, every blind drawn tight, the glow of the screen casting harsh shadows across the cramped interior. Her palm throbbed where six fresh stitches held the gash together. She dry-swallowed two more Advil. Too bad they didn’t make painkillers for the kind of ache crawling up her spine.
They’d x-rayed the package that morning, and the results had been a relief—a giant neon arrow pointing at teenage vandals. But that was the problem. Everything pointed too neatly toward the kids. The package with Liam’s name filled with trash and beer cans. The lipstick message scrawled across her bathroom mirror: “Stay out of it.” The ransacked bus. Breadcrumbs leading to an obvious conclusion.
The biggest tell? They’d destroyed everything—even slashed one of her tires. But her laptop and satellite equipment? Untouched. Pristine. Only one group would care about her digital lifeline, and it wasn’t a bunch of entitled teenagers.
Her fingers attacked the keyboard, pulling up logs from her network sniffer, searching for any trace of intrusion, hunting fordigital fingerprints. She cross-referenced IP addresses, checked for unusual pings, anything that might confirm her growing dread.
Coco’s warning echoed in her skull. Could they have tracked her this fast?
The Bratva didn’t leave warnings. They left corpses.
And despite her momentary lapse of clear brain function when Liam told her they were in this together, she would have been long gone by now if not for that slashed tire. Because if she went far enough, fast enough, surely she’d draw them away. Because they may suspect she cared about him, but they didn’t really know for sure. Maybe they’d assume Em had taught her well and she was just using him.
His promise to stick around only made her more sure of her resolve.
Leave. Keep him safe.
A soft ding interrupted her spiraling thoughts. A new window bloomed on her screen—video feed incoming. She clicked the keyboard, trying to stop it. Her security measures shouldn’t even have allowed it. But one thing she’d learned in this field. No matter how good you were, there was always someone better.
Her blood turned to ice as a familiar face materialized. Angular cheekbones. Cold eyes. Sleek black hair pulled back.
Cruella de Vil, a.k.a. Teresa. The woman who’d tried to kill her.
“Good to see you again, Nimue.” Teresa’s voice was smooth, almost amused.
Nimue’s fingers froze over the keyboard. Her throat tightened, a cold knot settling in her chest. She forced her voice to stay level. “You here to finish the job?”
Teresa’s mouth curved into a predatory smile, eyes glinting. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be breathing. But don’t testmy patience.” She leaned closer to the camera, voice dropping to a purr. “You took something from me. I need it back.”
“I didn’t?—”
“Don’t play stupid. Four million dollars. Plus those files you thought you could hide.”
