Chapter 11

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

Killian

The car abandoned at the side of the road not far from the dirt track that led to the cabin had to be Simon's. He might have arrived ten minutes ago, or two hours.

Noah could already be dead.

If Simon had killed him, I'd burn the entire fucking Back Bay operation to the ground. They didn't get to take another piece of my heart. Ever.

I roared the Mercedes off the main road and down the snow-dusted path, slid to a sideways stop outside the cabin, and hesitated at the sight of the open door. I'd hoped Simon wouldn't have made it this far—had hoped that Noah would be inside, barely dressed because he didn't seem to know how to wear clothes. He'd be on the couch, all smiles and hungry eyes.

If I found him dead inside, I'd lose my fucking mind.

I snatched up my gun and left the car.

Footprints in the snow led from the trees, up the porch steps, through the front door. Melted puddles inside showed where Simon had been. I palmed the gun and scanned the interior. Whatever had happened here, it had taken place long enough ago for all the heat to have left the cabin and for the fire to die down. Papers fluttered on the kitchen table, drawing me closer. Sketches. Of me.

A horrible, gut-wrenching sob tried to boil up my throat. I buried it under a snarl. Focus. Don't think. Don't feel . Hunt and kill Simon.

There didn't appear to be any signs of a struggle…

Blood.

Splatters made for a haphazard trail toward the bathroom, where the door hung off its hinges.

Fuck.

Blood inside the bathroom too. Bloody handprints on the basin, the window. Noah was hurt. And he'd run. That was good, it meant he'd been alive… Could still be alive. I dashed back out of the cabin, darted around the side, and found two sets of messy tracks in the snow, blood sprinkled among them.

I cocked the gun's hammer. "Hold on, Noah."