“Stay put,” I mutter, voice rough.
Outside, the cold air cuts me like knives. I dig through her bag, searching for her phone. My fingers fumble, heart hammering. Then I hear a click. The front door swings open, carrying the faint creak of the frame across the trees.
“Fuck.”
I bolt inside. The door’s open. The sheet’s on the floor. The Coke has spilled, staining the wood dark. My pulse spikes.
“Chloe!”
I see her through the window—bare legs flashing in gray shorts, hair flying as she darts across the clearing. My chest tightens and I run before I even process the thought. She’s fast, panic fueling her every step. But she doesn’t know the terrain. She trips over a root. My hands clamp around her waist, hauling her upright before she can hit the ground.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” My voice is rougher than I mean. “Can you stay put for once?”
She twists in my grip, wild-eyed. “Get the fuck off me!”
I hold her there, breathing hard, our faces inches apart. The scent of her—fear, defiance, something softer beneath it all—assaults me. Her pulse is frantic against my chest, and for a long second, I wonder if it’s mine or hers pounding that I feel.
“So stubborn,” I mutter, almost to myself.
Her breath catches. The world narrows to the space between us—the sound of wind through the trees, the hammering of our hearts, the faint snap of branches beneath our feet. Dirt smears across her cheek, a mark that shouldn’t matter, and yet it does. I catch the corner of her mouth trembling with tension and desire, and I hate myself for noticing. I hate that I want her like this—angry, frightened, alive.
I’m the one who breaks first. I lean in, voice low. “Stop running, Chloe.”
She stares at me, defiance burning in her eyes. For a moment, I can’t tell if I’m begging her or commanding her. My fingers tighten on her waist, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her that I’m here, that she’s mine to find, mine to stop.
The world blurs. My thoughts collide—guilt, lust, fear, the raw edge of something I can’t cross. She’s too sharp to be mine, too free. And yet, right here, right now, she is.
When I finally let go, she stumbles back, shaking. I turn my face away, jaw tight, the metallic taste of regret bitter on my tongue.
“Don’t do that again,” I say quietly.
We stand like that for a long moment, the cold closing in around us, and I realize how fragile everything is. How quickly control can slip, how easily I can become the villain of this story. I want to protect her. I want to punish her. And somewhere deep down,I know I want her to hate me, to need me, to fear me—and still, still look at me the way she does now.
The way her eyes track me makes me aware of everything—her chest rising and falling, the little twitch in her shoulder as she balances, the way her hair sticks to her damp skin. I want to reach for her again. My hands itch to hold, to steady, to dominate. I want to apologize for every harsh word and every bruise I gave her, and I want to leave marks she’ll remember when I’m gone.
Instead, I carry her back into the cabin.
“Sit down,” I finally mutter, voice low, almost pleading. She hesitates, then lowers herself back against the wall, knees drawn up. This time, I ruffle the drawers for a chain. It’s a lot better than the torn sheet.
The chain clinks softly, a reminder of the boundary I can’t—or won’t—cross. I sit a foot away, close enough that our shoulders almost brush, and my thumb traces idle patterns on my jeans.
Her gaze doesn’t leave mine. “You’re…” she starts and then stops. “What is this, Jamie? I thought you were just a hockey player with a scary dad that owns a bar. You guys are acting like…” Her words falter. She doesn’t finish the thought.
I smirk, but it’s sharp, brittle. “I’m a lot of things.” Truth is, she has no idea. She’ll never know half of it. Not until she’s in too deep. And maybe not even then.
She shifts slightly, hair falling over her face. “I don’t know why I… I can’t…” Her voice cracks, and I catch it. Desire, fear, something raw bleeding through. My chest tightens, the ache of want twisting into guilt. I shouldn’t feel this. I shouldn’t allow it. And yet, I do.
“You’re not supposed to understand,” I say.
I stand, pacing a few steps. “One day,” I mutter, almost to myself, “you’ll realize some things can’t be explained.” Her eyes track me, sharp and accusing. I want to look away, to hide the truth in my gaze, but I can’t. I want her to see it all—the danger, the obsession, the way my thoughts twist around her like chains.
“Jamie…” Her voice is soft now, tentative, the first crack in her armor.
I stop, pulse hammering, and look at her. I want to kneel before her, beg her not to hate me, not to leave, not to make me do what I will regret. I want to pull her into my arms and never let go. But I can’t.
Instead, I reach down, picking up the Coke can she’d dropped earlier. The red liquid dribbles across my hand, sticky and cold.
“You’re lucky,” I mutter, “that’s the only thing you’ve spilled.”
