“I won’t,” she interrupts. But her voice falters on the last word.
I give her a slow nod anyway.
“Wyatt?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re safe here,” I remind her, because truth needs repetition to stick. “As long as you want to be.”
I retreat to my room. Not because I want distance but because if I stay in that room—close enough to see the way the firelight dances in her hair, close enough to listen to the rhythm of her breath—I won’t sleep at all.
And she deserves more than a man who doesn’t know how to want gently.
I hear the couch creak, followed by Sadie’s exhale, like the sound of a person setting down a load she forgot she was carrying.
I don’t sleep right away. The storm moves around the cabin, testing its edges. The generator murmurs. Breath by breath, my body remembers how to rest while someone else is under my roof. It feels like getting a life back I didn’t know I could have.
Finally, I settle down to sleep with one ear open and my knife positioned hilt-first on the nightstand. As I sink into sleep, one thought keeps looping through my head: No one is taking her from here or from me. Ever.
Chapter 7
Wyatt
Old habits die hard. My body still comes online like it’s waiting for an op to drop. But this morning, it’s different. The cabin is quiet. Warm. Peaceful. There’s another heartbeat in the room. Someone else is breathing in this space. And it feels right.
Last night comes back in pieces: the auction. Sadie on my couch. A woman still half in survival mode and cautiously choosing to stay.
I shower, pull on jeans and a clean thermal, then head down the hall. Frost halos the windows; the silence feels like it’s holding its breath.
Sadie is still curled on the couch, one arm draped protectively over Maisie, who obviously joined her during the night. Her face is half-buried in the duvet, the curve of her neck exposed, her raven hair mussed from sleep. Vulnerable. Beautiful in a way that sneaks up on a man who’s seen too much ugly.
I tear my gaze away.
Coffee first.
I move slowly through the cabin. Start coffee. Brew tea. It’s routine, but today it feels like a way to anchor the world in place for someone else. Wild how fast the mission changes. Yesterday, it was protecting my solitude. Today, it’s don’t make a sound that might startle her.
Sadie emerges from the duvet, the flannel shirt slipping off one creamy shoulder, the sleeves covering her hands. She scans the room fast—door, windows, me. Her fight-or-flight instinct is etched into her bones.
“Morning,” I say softly.
“Didn’t know where I was for a minute,” she murmurs sleepily.
“You’re safe,” I say gently. “You’re here.”
She nods, clutching the duvet tighter.
“I made tea,” I offer. “Figured you’d need something warm.”
She takes the mug with both hands, breathing in the steam as if she needs it to ground her. “Thank you.”
“Food?” I ask.
“A little.”
I make oatmeal—simple and easy on the stomach—and set a bowl in front of her at the table. I sit at the far end of the table to give her space. She eats slowly, but when she looks up, her eyes are clearer.
