Page 365 of Romeo

One eyebrow lifted.

“Inside.”

The other one joined it.

“Please.”

“That sounded painful.”

“It was fuckin’ excruciatin’.”

She squeezed my fingers. “I’ll stay inside.”

“Door locked.”

“Jasper—”

“Humor me.”

Her expression softened again. “Fine. Door locked.”

I finished eating, changed into jeans and boots, then checked the pistol at the back of my waistband before heading outside. Fiona barely glanced at the gun. She’d spent too much time around the Sons of Hell to give a shit about a biker carrying.

The morning had warmed while we ate, humidity settling over everything like a wet blanket. The bayou stretched dark and still beyond the dock, cypress knees pushing through the water while Spanish moss hung in long gray strands from the branches overhead.

I stepped off the porch and stopped.

The bayou was silent.

Not peaceful. Silent.

For nearly two weeks, the place had been loud every fucking minute of the day. Frogs called from the water. Birds bitched at each other from the trees. Lizards scattered through the leaves. Fish broke the surface beneath the dock. The first few days, half of it disappeared whenever Fiona or I stepped outside.

Not anymore.

The animals had gotten used to us. Frogs barely moved when Fiona sat at the edge of the dock. Lizards had started sunning themselves on the porch while we drank coffee. The birds didn’t give enough of a shit about either of us to stop whatever they were doing.

Now there was nothing.

No frogs.

No birds.

No rustling through the undergrowth.

Nothing broke the surface of the water.

I’d grown up in this shit. The bayou didn’t shut up for no reason. Something had entered its habitat that didn’t belong there, and everything living in it had taken cover.

My hand settled near the pistol at my back as I started around the cabin.

Gator had chosen the place well. There was no road leading directly to it, no neighboring cabin close enough to stumble across us, and no reason for anybody to come this far unless they knew exactly where they were going. Most people would have needed a boat and somebody familiar with the channels just to find the right stretch of land.

That had been the point.

I checked the ground near the porch first, then followed the narrow path we used down toward the small dock. Fiona and I had walked it enough that our own prints were everywhere—hers smaller and shallow where the ground stayed firm, mine deeper near the places that held mud.

Nothing unusual.