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The stalker notices it instantly.

He turns and realization spikes through me.

Deputy Sheriff Foster. Fuck. I knew I hated that prick.

I hit him before he has a chance to think and the impact drives him sideways into the snow hard enough to crack his head against the ranger station wall. He grunts once before I’m on him again, fist slamming into his face with enough force to split skin across my knuckles instantly.

“You touched her,” I say, voice low and shaking with rage.

He spits blood into the snow and swings back fast.

I dodge easily.

Too easy.

Military training never really leaves your body. Violence becomes muscle memory after enough years surviving it.

He comes at me again.

I grab his arm.

Twist.

The crack echoes through the trees.

He screams.

Good.

Nora gasps somewhere behind me, but I barely hear it over the roaring in my head.

All I can see is her tied up.

Terrified.

Bruises already forming on her skin.

I hit him again.

And again.

The guy collapses into the snow trying to crawl backward while blood pours from his mouth.

“You should’ve stayed away from her,” I growl.

“You don’t own her,” he spits.

That’s the wrong thing to say.

I grab him by the throat and slam him hard into the ground, snow exploding around us while something black and vicious tears loose inside my chest completely.

“No,” I say quietly. “But she’s under my protection.”

His hand scrambles toward his jacket pocket.

Weapon.

I react before thought catches up.