His Wet Claim

Chapter 1 Rain hammered the roof of my beat-up hatchback like it wanted to break in. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror every few seconds. Nothing behind me but black highway and wet trees. Still, my heart wouldn’t stop racing. I hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours. The last time I closed my eyes, someone had tried to run me off the road outside my apartment. They missed. Barely. Now my laptop bag sat on the passenger seat like a ticking bomb, stuffed with everything I’d gathered on Victor Kane and his people—names, dates, bank transfers, the kind of proof that gets you killed. I had nowhere left to go. My best friend was out of the country. My editor told me to lie low and “let the professionals handle it.” The police? They’d already told me there wasn’t enough evidence for protection. Funny how that works when the man you’re accusing has half the city in his pocket. So here I was, driving up a winding mountain road in the middle of nowhere Washington, toward the one person I swore I’d never ask for anything. Marcus Reyes. My brother’s best friend. The man who once called me a walking disaster in front of half our family. The man I’d spent the last six years pretending didn’t exist—even though every time our eyes met at a barbecue or a holiday dinner, the air between us crackled like a live wire. I hated him.
Or at least I told myself I did. The GPS finally gave up on signal. I didn’t need it anymore. I knew this turnoff. Daniel had brought me here once, years ago, when he wanted to show off his “cool Army buddy’s secret cabin.” Back then it had felt like an adventure. Tonight it felt like surrender. Gravel crunched under my tires as I pulled up the long dirt drive. The cabin sat dark except for one warm square of light in the front window. Smoke curled from the chimney. Someone was home. I killed the engine and sat there a minute, breathing too loud in the sudden quiet. My left hand hurt where the seatbelt had cut into it during the last near-miss. Blood had dried on my sleeve. I got out anyway. The porch steps creaked. Before I could knock, the door swung open. Marcus filled the doorway. Taller than I remembered. Broader. Dark hair damp from the rain or maybe a shower, wearing nothing but low-slung gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt that clung to every ridge of muscle. A fresh scar curved along his right forearm—newer than the others I knew about. He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at me. Those dark eyes moved over my face, my soaked jacket, the blood on my sleeve, the way my shoulders wouldn’t stop trembling. “Elena,” he said finally. Voice low. Rough. Like he’d been sleeping and I’d dragged him out of a dream he didn’t want to leave. I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. He stepped aside. “Inside.” I walked past him, dripping on his floorboards. The cabin smelled like pine, woodsmoke, and something faintly like gun oil. Warm. Safe. I hated that it felt safe. He shut the door. Locked it. Two deadbolts. Chain. Then he turned to me. “You’re bleeding.” “It’s nothing.” “Bullshit.” He moved closer. I flinched on instinct. He stopped, hands loose at his sides. “Let me see.” I didn’t want to. But I was too tired to fight. I rolled up my sleeve. The graze wasn’t deep—just ugly. Red and angry. Marcus studied it like he was reading a map. Then he walked to the kitchen, came back with a first-aid kit, and pointed at the couch. “Sit.” I sat. He knelt in front of me. Close enough that I could smell soap and cedar on his skin. His fingers were careful—surprisingly gentle—as he cleaned the wound with antiseptic. I hissed. “Hold still.” “You’re enjoying this,” I muttered. His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “You always did talk too much when you’re scared.” “I’m not scared.” He looked up. Our eyes locked. Lie, those eyes said. I looked away first. He finished bandaging me, taped the gauze down, then stayed there on one knee, forearms resting on his thighs. Watching me. “Why here?” he asked quietly. I swallowed. “They’re coming for me. For real this time. Daniel’s out of the country. I don’t have anyone else.” He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “You have me.” The words landed heavy. I didn’t know what to do with them. “I don’t want to need you,” I whispered. “I know.” His voice dropped lower. “But you’re here anyway.” Silence stretched between us. Rain tapped the windows. The fire popped in the hearth. Finally he stood. Towered over me again. “Rules,” he said. “You stay inside unless I say otherwise. You don’t touch the windows after dark. You don’t make calls unless I’m in the room. And you don’t argue when I tell you to do something.” I lifted my chin. “I’m not one of your soldiers.” “No,” he agreed. “You’re worse.” A beat. “You’re family.” The word hung there. Not quite right. Not quite wrong. He turned toward the hallway. “Bedroom’s down there. Second door. Clean sheets. Shower if you want it. I’ll take the couch.” “Marcus—” He stopped. Didn’t turn around. “Thank you,” I said. The words tasted strange. Honest. He gave a small nod. “Get some sleep, Elena. Tomorrow we figure out how to keep you alive.” Then he walked away, leaving me on the couch with a fresh bandage, wet clothes, and the uncomfortable truth that the only person I trusted to protect me was the same man I’d spent years convincing myself I hated. I stared at the fire until my eyes burned. Tomorrow, I thought. Tomorrow everything would change. I just didn’t know how much.