“She’s alive,” Ghost agreed quietly. Buck finally released him and stepped back.
Neither man spoke for a long moment before Ghost asked the question hanging between them both. “What if they hurt her?” Buck’s expression changed instantly, and Ghost regretted the words immediately—not because they weren’t valid, but because the look on Buck’s face was pure murder.
“They won’t fucking touch her,” Buck said softly.
“You don’t know that,” Ghost challenged.
Buck stepped closer again, slowly. “Yes. I do.” Ghost frowned as Buck’s eyes drifted toward the forest. “Wren’s smart. Hell, she’s too smart for her own damn good.” His voice roughened. “Whatever they’re building out here? Whatever trafficking routes they’re hiding?” He looked back at Ghost. “She’s useful to them in some way, and that will keep her safe.”
Ghost hated that Buck was right. “She’s got to be terrified.” Buck closed his eyes briefly, and for the first time since the radio call, Ghost saw it crack through the rage. Buck was just as afraid as he was. It was real fear, but not for himself. He was afraid for Wren, and Ghost felt the exact same way.
Buck laughed once bitterly. “I should’ve stayed with her.”
Ghost’s chest tightened. “No,” he breathed. “You were right; we had to leave to protect her.”
“I just left her,” Buck whispered.
“You trusted the guys in the compound to protect her,” Ghost insisted. Buck looked unconvinced. Ghost grabbed the back of Buck’s neck roughly before he could spiral further. “Listen to me, brother.” Buck’s eyes snapped to his. “This ain’t on you.” The words came out harder than Ghost intended because, deep down, Ghost blamed himself, too. They both should’ve known something was wrong. They both should’ve stayed. They should’ve put her between them and never let her out of reach.
Ghost exhaled slowly. “We’ll get her back,” he promised. Buck stared at him for half a heartbeat and then nodded. Ghost smirked faintly despite everything. “There’s my emotionally constipated boyfriend.”
Buck looked horrified. “Do not call me that.”
“Too late,” Ghost whispered.
“We are literally in the middle of someone kidnapping our woman, and you’re making jokes,” Buck grumbled.
“And you’re still hot when you threaten to murder someone.” Ghost shrugged. “See, we're both good at multitasking.” A rough sound escaped Buck somewhere between a laugh and a curse. That worked for Ghost because he needed him breathing instead of drowning in rage.
The radio crackled again, and Reaper’s voice exploded through static. “We found something in her room.”
Buck grabbed the radio instantly. “What did you find?” he shouted.
“A note, and you guys need to get back here, fast,” Reaper said.
Ghost hated silence—especially this kind. It was the kind thick with fear and rage and the realization that somebody had slipped through King's territory like a damn ghost and stolen something precious right out from under them. The SUV fishtailed through the snow as Buck tore down the ridge road toward the compound at speeds that would've killed a less experienced driver. Ghost gripped the dashboard with one hand and the overhead handle with the other.
“You crash this thing before we get to her, and I’m haunting you forever,” Ghost threatened. Buck ignored him completely. His jaw was tight, and his eyes were focused dead ahead. Murder was radiating off him in waves.
Ghost had spent years watching Buck carry the weight of entire chapters without breaking. The man survived winters that buried lesser men alive. He’d taken bullets, knives, betrayal, and loss without ever really falling apart. But this thing with Wren wrecked him in less than a week. Ghost understood the feeling now, and that was the problem.
The compound gates appeared through the storm twenty minutes later, floodlights cutting through the snow while armed Kings patrolled the perimeter with rifles. Buck barely waited for the SUV to stop before climbing out, and Ghost followed him immediately. The clubhouse felt wrong. Everyone was tense and way too quiet. There was no laughter, no one was smoking, and men stood watch near windows and doors like soldiers preparing for a siege.
Reaper met them at the entrance, his face grim. “We found the note in her room. I left it up there for you.” Buck stormed upstairs without another word, and Ghost followed close behind. Wren’s bedroom door stood open, and the second Ghost stepped inside; fury hit him hard enough to blur his vision. The room had been trashed, the mattress overturned, drawers ripped open, and glass shattered across the floor beneath the frozen window.
Buck stopped dead in the center of the destruction, and Ghost watched him take it in slowly. The bed where Wren sat between them earlier, the blanket she’d wrapped around herself, and the shirt that she left folded over the chair were all gone. Just like her.
Reaper handed Buck a folded piece of paper from the dresser. Buck opened it with steady hands, and Ghost hated that more than Buck’s yelling. Ghost could handle his anger, but this wasn’t like Buck.
“What’s it say?” Ghost asked. Buck stared at the note for three full seconds before handing it over. Ghost read it once, and then again.
Your pretty little doctor wanted to save people. Now she gets to join them. Bring the route maps to Blackwater Ridge tomorrow night. Come alone, or we start shipping pieces of her back to you in boxes.
Ghost went cold. “She never had the maps,” he muttered.
Buck’s expression remained unreadable. “Doesn’t matter.” The handwriting underneath the message caught Ghost’s attention next. It was familiar. “What?” Buck asked immediately.
Ghost lifted the note closer to the light. “I’ve seen this handwriting before,” he admitted.
