Chapter 4 - The Winter Hideout
Months passed like slow-moving glaciers in Oakhaven.
By the seventh month, my body had expanded with the fierce, undeniable weight of carrying twins. My waistline was gone, replaced by a heavy, beautiful curve that strained against oversized wool sweaters and thrift-store coats. The coastal winter had set in with a vengeance; snow piled high against the cottage doors, and the sea turned the color of lead, freezing solid along the edges of the rocky harbor.
Living in a small town had its advantages. People minded their own business, especially newcomers seeking solitude. I went by Elena Vance—my mother's maiden name—and paid for groceries with cash I had withdrawn from a separate account before leaving Boston.
I was safe. Or so I told myself every night as I listened to the wind howl against the chimney, feeling two sets of tiny feet kick in unison against my ribs.
They were active—little fighters, just like their father, though I refused to let that thought linger.
One afternoon in late January, a heavy blizzard descended upon the coast, blinding the town in a whiteout. The power flickered and died around dusk, leaving me by the feeble, flickering orange glow of a wood-burning stove. I sat wrapped in a patchwork quilt, nursing a mug of chamomile tea, watching the fire dance against the dark walls.
Then, I heard it.
Not the wind. Not the groaning of the old oak trees.
An engine.
Heavy, low-pitched, and relentless—the unmistakable purr of a custom-tuned Mercedes G-Wagon navigating unplowed, icy coastal roads.
My heart hammered violently against my ribs. I froze, holding my breath, my mug halfway to my mouth. No one drove down this dead-end dirt road in a blizzard unless they were looking for someone. Unless they were looking for me.
The engine cut out.
Heavy footfalls crunched through the deep, drifted snow outside the porch.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Panic surged through my veins, hot and sharp. I stood up clumsily, my swollen belly making movement difficult, backing away from the front window. I reached for my coat, my mind racing for the back door—the woods behind the cottage led down to the rocky cliffs, a place to hide, a place to run—
Bang.
The front door didn't just knock; it rattled under a heavy, commanding blow.
“Elena,” a voice called out through the howling wind.
It wasn't a shout. It was low, controlled, and saturated with an authority that could freeze the blood in your veins.
Damen.
He had found me. After seven months of hunting, across snowstorms and state lines, the apex predator had tracked his prey to the edge of the world.
“Elena, I know you’re in there,” Damen’s voice came again, closer this time, right against the rotting wood of the front door. “You can lock the door, but you cannot lock me out. Open it, or I will take the hinges off.”
I backed up until my spine hit the cold stone of the fireplace. My hands shook so violently I dropped my mug, watching ceramic and tea shatter against the hearth.
May you like
The lock clicked.
Damen hadn't waited for an answer. With a sharp, metallic snap, a master key—or sheer, brute force—turned the rusted lock. The door swung inward, bringing with it a rush of freezing polar wind and the towering, dark silhouette of a man dusted in white snow.
