CHAPTER 1
The steering wheel vibrates against my palms, a steady, electric hum that matches the thrumming behind my ribs. I haven’t slept in forty hours. Maybe forty-two. The numbers blur together, skittering away like insects on the dashboard whenever I try to pin them down. My eyes feel gritty, scraped raw by the wind, but I can’t blink. Blinking feels like surrender. The rental car smells of stale air conditioning and the sharp, artificial lemon of the upholstery cleaner, a scent that clashes violently with the damp, salt-heavy air seeping in through the vent.
Rain hammers the roof, a deafening, rhythmic barrage that drowns out the world. The windshield wipers swing frantically, rubber screeching against glass, but they can’t clear the deluge fast enough. Ahead, the two-lane blacktop dissolves into a grey abyss. The radio cuts in and out, the meteorologist’s voice warping into a metallic drone before snapping into clarity for a second. “Hurricane Lydia intensifying. Mandatory evacuation for coastal zones. Do not attempt to travel.” I reach out, fingers trembling slightly, and turn the volume dial until the speaker hisses silence. I know about the storm. I saw the red blotch on the radar map before I left the city, a swirling eye of violence that should have sent me in the opposite direction. Instead, it pulled me here.
The car lurches as a gust of wind catches the chassis, pushing it toward the shoulder. I correct the wheel, my grip tightening until the leather creaks. Trees bow sideways on the periphery of the headlights, their branches thrashing in a wild dance. My heart races. I press the accelerator, the engine whining as the tires cut through a deepening puddle, sending a sheet of muddy water washing over the windows.
The GPS screen flickers, the blue arrow wavering, then goes black. I don’t need it anymore. I’ve seen the pictures of the rental property a hundred times on the rental site. Secluded. Perched on the coast. Isolated.
The road narrows, asphalt giving way to crushed gravel that crunches loudly under the tires. The suspension groans, protesting the rough terrain. To the left, the darkness is absolute; to the right, the faint, ghostly shimmer of the ocean far below, churning with the coming storm.
Then, through a break in the wall of rain, it appears. The rental property looms against the bruised purple sky, a massive structure of dark timber and stone that looks less like a rental and more like a fortress. It sits on the very edge of the coast. A single light burns in one of the lower windows, a warm amber beacon that cuts through the grey. I slam on the brakes, the car skidding slightly on the wet gravel before coming to a halt. The engine continues to tick, a cooling sound that seems deafening in the sudden lull of motion.
I grab my bag from the passenger seat, my movements jerky and hurried. The door opens, and the wind immediately tries to tear it from my grip. It howls, a physical force that slams against my chest, whipping my hair across my face. I stumble out, my boots sinking into the mud. The cold is shocking, biting through my jacket, but the heat in my blood refuses to fade. I struggle to close the car door against the gale, leaning my whole weight into it until it latches with a dull thud.
I turn toward the house, squinting against the stinging rain. Before I can take a step, the massive oak front door swings inward. It opens silently, defying the wind, and a silhouette fills the frame. He steps out onto the covered porch, and the air seems to thicken around him. He is tall, towering over the railing, with the breadth of his shoulders straining the fabric of a dark charcoal sweater. The light from the hall spills out behind him, casting his face in shadow, but I can see the sharp line of his jaw, dark with stubble, and the intensity of his eyes as they lock onto mine.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay. He just watches me, his gaze heavy and unreadable.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says. His voice is low, a rough baritone that vibrates in the damp air. It isn’t a question. It’s a statement of fact.
I open my mouth, but the words catch in my throat. I take a step forward. “I have a reservation,” I manage to say.
He descends the steps, moving with a predatory grace that belies his size. He reaches me in two long strides, ignoring the rain that soaks his sweater. He doesn’t offer a hand. Instead, he grips my upper arm—firm—and steers me toward the house. His touch is hot through my wet sleeve.
“The bridge is going to wash out in an hour,” he says. “You’re trapped now.”
He pulls me inside and kicks the heavy door shut. The roar of the storm is instantly severed, replaced by a profound, heavy silence. The lock clicks into place, a deadbolt sliding home with the finality of a coffin lid. I stand in the entryway, dripping water onto the stone floor. The air inside smells of cedar, old paper, and a faint undertone of whiskey.
He releases my arm but doesn’t step away. He stands close, his dark eyes scanning my face, taking in the wet hair, the trembling hands.
He reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair from my forehead. “I’m Cole,” he says.
Cole looks at the front door, then back at me.
“We’ll deal with everything after the storm.”
