I thought I was d3ad to them the moment my signature cleared the insurance paperwork. But as I stared at my own name printed on an expensive funeral program, one thought settled calmly in my mind.

They forgot something simple.

Fire does not freeze.

The smell of pine oil and gun solvent always followed me home, clinging to my skin like a second uniform. It was nothing like the sweet vanilla scent Gavin kept filling our house with. I had just returned from training Army recruits in brutal winter survival drills when I heard voices from the kitchen.

Gavin was whispering.

“We just need final verification from her commander. Once she’s off-grid in Montana, the paperwork will be easy.”

Another voice answered.

Clint, my stepbrother. The same man who had spent years mocking my military career while living off everyone else.

I stepped into the kitchen. Gavin jumped and shoved his phone into his pocket.

“Morgan, darling,” he said, forcing a smile. “You’re home early. Clint and I were just discussing taxes.”

His words were smooth, but his body betrayed him. Sweat at his temple. Tight shoulders. Eyes searching for an escape.