“It’s not noble,” I mutter, already dragging a blanket and pillow toward the hearth. “It’s practical.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Greta.”
“Nate.”
She’s grinning now, but there’s a hint of pink in her cheeks. Sheknowswhat she does to me. She knows I’ve been watching her for months—trying not to look too long, trying not to think too hard about that mouth, those hips, the way she smiles like she could ruin a man just by saying his name.
And now she’sin my space.
Her scent’s already in the air—warm sugar, vanilla, and some kind of lotion that makes me want to press my face to her neck and forget what sleep is.
I clear my throat. “Tell me about him.”
The smile vanishes. She looks down.
“My ex,” she says. “His name’s Travis Carrick. He was charming at first. You know the type. Flashy smile. Big promises. Too many gifts.”
“What did he do?”
“Everything but hit me at first,” she says. “Because he wanted me grateful. Controlled. Dependent. He knew how to play the long game. Knew how to isolate me without raising alarms. And when I tried to leave—he lost it.”
I clench my fists. “Did he hurt you?”
“Yes. It became physical. A complete beating. I still wake up some nights waiting for the key in the lock.”
I take a long breath, forcing my hands to relax. “He’s not getting near you. Not now. Not ever.”
She nods, but I can see the fear still behind her eyes. And beneath it—something else.
Trust.
She’s trustingme. Inmyspace. With her past. With her life.
And if that trust doesn’t put me on my knees, nothing will.
“You hungry?” I ask, voice rougher than I mean.
She smiles again, this time softer. “Always.”
I move toward the kitchen, keeping my distance, but I can feel her behind me. Her warmth. Her eyes. Her energy, like a flicker of light I’ve gone too long without.
It’s going to be hell, having her this close.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
5
Greta
If I never say Travis Carrick’s name again, it’ll still be too soon.
The thing about trauma—about men likehim—is how they make you relive it over and over, even when they’re not in the room. I’ve said his name more today than I have in the last year. And each time, it tastes like rust and regret.
But here I am. In a mountain cabin with Nate Bishop, who cooks like a seasoned Food Network pro and watches me like I’m a puzzle he’s halfway through solving.
He’s been quiet since I told him everything. Not cold, just… focused. Like the more he knows about Travis, the more ways he’s plotting to destroy him.
