All Chapters of Storm-Worn Hearts: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Trent’s voice came through the tiny speaker like a finger sliding down the inside of my spine. “Hi, Mia.” The words were casual, almost cheerful, like he was greeting a neighbor. Like he hadn’t been carving fear into our days one message at a time. Like he hadn’t turned Liberty’s bakery into a stage and my hospital into a hunting ground. On the phone screen, he stood on Dawson’s porch under the harsh wash of the motion light, hands in his pockets, head tilted toward the camera with the lazy confidence of a man who had never been told no and made to respect it. And beside me, Dawson’s entire body turned to stone. The warmth that had been wrapped around my waist a moment ago vanished. His arm lifted away, his muscles going tight and corded as if his body had decided it was back in a place where mercy got you killed. His breathing changed, shorter, sharper. His gaze didn’t blink. A

The note sat on the back door like a held breath.A white rectangle taped too neatly to the glass, as if whoever placed it had taken their time, had wanted us to picture his fingers smoothing the edges, pressing adhesive down with patience.I stood several feet away, heart hammering, while Dawson stayed between me and the door like the space itself could be weaponized. Liberty hovered near the kitchen island with her phone in a death grip, eyes bright with fear she refused to let spill.“Police are on their way,” she said, voice thin.Dawson didn’t look at her. His gaze stayed fixed on the paper.“Don’t touch it,” I murmured, more to myself than anyone.Dawson nodded once, sharp, controlled. “I won’t.”But his hands flexed at his sides like his body disagreed.The camera notification still glowed on his phone screen, the back yard feed replaying that hooded figure moving like a shadow with purpose. The way he’d looked up at the camera, like he’d wanted us to see he wasn’t afraid of be

The backyard looked like a version of Dawson’s life the war hadn’t touched yet. Blue pool water catching sunlight like it was made of glass. A small patio table with mismatched chairs. The grill already smoking, sweet, dark charcoal curling into the air like a promise. The motion lights and new cameras were still there, of course, perched like watchful birds along the eaves, but in the afternoon they seemed almost… embarrassed. Like even fear had to lower its voice under summer-blue sky.I sat at the small table near the grill with a drink sweating in my hand, something Liberty had mixed with the confidence of a woman who believed citrus could fix trauma. Condensation cooled my palm, but my pulse stayed warm and restless.Dawson stood at the BBQ.Apron on.Tongs in hand.Storm grey eyes narrowed in concentration as if he were defusing something delicate instead of turning burgers.And for a moment, just a moment, he looked like a

The house doesn’t feel like a house after midnight. It becomes a listening animal, every vent a throat, every window an eye, every shadow a place something could hide inside. The air tastes metallic, like fear has a mineral in it, like it leaves residue on your tongue. Kellan’s voice is steady in the hallway, the kind of steady that makes panic feel embarrassed. “Miles, pull the original file if you can. Screenshot isn’t enough if we want metadata. Jace, Rowan, perimeter, but you do not leave the property line. Dawson, stay inside.” Dawson doesn’t move. His eyes are on the phone in Miles’s hands, like the screen is a wound and he’s trying to decide whether to cauterize it with fire or stitch it shut with discipline. His jaw is clenched so hard I can almost hear enamel protesting. “Dawson.” My voice comes out softer than I mean it to. Not because I’m gentle because I’m careful. There’s a diff

The sirens arrive the way truth does, late, loud, and unavoidable.Blue light bleeds through Dawson’s front windows, painting the walls in quick, restless pulses. For a second, I can’t tell if it’s the police outside or my own heartbeat strobing in my ears.Liberty stands in the centre of the living room like she’s been turned to stone mid breath, her phone clenched so tightly her knuckles look bleached. The bakery feed is still black on the TV, dead screen, dead air, like someone cut out the tongue of the only witness we had.Dawson is behind me. He hasn’t moved in two minutes. Not pacing, not fidgeting, just holding himself in place by force of will, a man gripping the leash of his own instincts until the leather bites skin.Kellan opens the door before the knock comes, as if he can’t stand the sound of waiting. Two officers step in. The older one scans faces, posture, exits. The younger one keeps his hand near his belt and his gaze on the corners. They take in the squad without com