Page 13 of Untamed Sinner

My house is thirty minutes northwest of Blackthorn Ranch, tucked into a valley with a single access road and a clear view in every direction. I had it remodeled to be impenetrable—motion sensors, cameras, reinforced doors, encrypted locks. No one gets in without me knowing.

Except as I drive up, I see a light on in the kitchen.

The perimeter alarm hasn't triggered. I kill the engine a hundred yards away and sit in the dark, watching. My hand moves to the Glock at my hip, but I don't draw it. Not yet.

Someone's inside.

Someone who knew how to bypass my security without leaving a trace.

12

MANDY

He’s here.

He’s going to be so pissed I got past his security.

Smiling, I lift the coffee to my mouth and take a sip.

13

HENDRICKS

Iget out of the truck slowly, moving toward the house with the kind of quiet that comes from years of hunting people who don't want to be found.

The front door's locked. No signs of forced entry. I key in the code, push it open, and step inside.

The house is silent except for the hum of the refrigerator. But I feel it—someone’s in here.

I move through the entryway, clearing corners by instinct, and stop at the threshold of the kitchen.

Mandy Reed is sitting at my table.

She has a cup of coffee in front of her—my coffee, from my machine—and next to it there’s a half-eaten crumb donut on one of my plates.

I don’t have donuts in my house. I don’t eat sweets.

She's leaning back in the chair with her feet propped on the kitchen table like she owns the place. Her dark hair is pulled into a loose ponytail, but a loose thick strand brushes her cheek. Tactical pants and a fitted black shirt show every line of muscle. There’s no softness in her—not on her body and not in her eyes as she stares at me.

"Took you long enough to get here," she says, uninvited and unafraid, picking up the donut and taking a bite.

14

MANDY

If only I could take a picture of his face right now and make it his contact photo on my phone.

15

HENDRICKS

Idon't move. I don't speak. I just stare at her, cataloging every detail. The slight tension in her shoulders tells me she's ready to move if she has to. Her hand rests casually on her leg, no weapon in sight.

Do I believe she’s not armed? Not at all.

Her sleeves are pushed up, and the tattoo on her wrist is visible. The black widow looks like a warning—one I already know I’m going to ignore.

"How'd you get in?" My voice is neutral. I’m torn between being impressed and annoyed, though I’m leaning toward the latter.