I watch her face, waiting for the recoil. The fear. But she just listens, eyes locked on mine.
"I was good at it," I continue. "Too good. Made a fortune breaking bones for crowds who paid to watch men destroy each other. I got addicted to the violence, the adrenaline, the clarity of knowing exactly what I was in that ring. A weapon. Nothing more, nothing less."
My hands tighten around the mug. Old shame coiling in my gut, familiar and bitter.
"Last fight damn near killed me. Took a beating I shouldn't have survived. Spent two weeks in a shithole clinic with a doctor who didn't ask questions as long as I paid cash. Woke up one morning and realized I was gonna die in a basement somewhere, bleeding out for an audience that'd forget my name before my body went cold."
I meet her eyes again. "So I walked away. Came here. Tried to learn how to be something other than violence."
The silence stretches. Snow hisses against the windows. The fire crackles.
Then she says, quiet and steady: "Are you still trying?"
The question catches me off guard. I expected judgment, maybe pity. Not... understanding.
"Every day," I admit. "It's still in me. That need. That rage. I keep it locked down, but it's there."
"I know." She shifts in the chair, leaning forward slightly. "I can see it. The control. The discipline. The way you move like you're constantly aware of your own strength."
Something in her tone makes my pulse kick. Not fear. Something else.
"Does that scare you?" I ask.
"It should." She holds my gaze. "But it doesn't. Because I also see the way you're gentle with me. The way you ask before you touch. The way you—" She stops, color rising in her cheeks. "You make me feel safe. And I don't know what to do with that."
The confession hangs between us, raw and honest. I want to close the distance, pull her into my arms, promise her things I'm not sure I have the right to promise.
But I stay still, giving her space to finish.
"Daniel used to say he'd protect me," she continues, voice dropping. "But it always felt like a cage. Like protection was just another word for control. With you, it feels different. Like you're standing between me and the world, not blocking me from it."
Christ. She's dismantling me without even trying.
Before I can respond, a sound cuts through the storm. Distant. Mechanical. A vehicle, maybe, struggling through snow on the access road a mile out.
Nicola's head snaps toward the window. Every muscle in her body locks. "What was that?"
"Probably nothing." I'm already on my feet, moving to the window, scanning the white expanse. "Storm plays tricks with sound. Could be a plow, or a ranger doing checks."
"Or it could be him." Her voice is tight with panic. "He could've tracked my phone, or asked around, or—"
"Hey." I cross to her in two strides, crouching in front of her chair. "Look at me."
She does, eyes wide and terrified.
"He's not getting near you," I say, low and absolute. "I don't care if he drove a tank up this mountain. He doesn't touch you. Understand?"
She nods, but she's shaking now, breath coming too fast. Panic setting in, adrenaline flooding her system.
I don't think. Just react. Pull her up out of the chair and into my arms, wrapping her completely against my chest. She's soft and warm and trembling, and every protective instinct I've got roars to life.
"I've got you," I murmur into her hair. "You're safe. I promise."
She presses her face against my shoulder, hands fisting in my flannel. Her breath is ragged against my neck. I tighten my hold,one hand spanning the small of her back, the other cupping the base of her skull. Caging her. Sheltering her.
We stand like that for a long moment, her shaking gradually easing, my heartbeat steady against hers. The storm rages outside. The fire crackles.
Her breathing changes. Slows. She's not pulling away, just... softening against me. Her hands uncurl from my shirt, flattening against my chest. I feel the exact moment awareness replaces fear, the way her body tenses for a different reason, the slight catch in her breath.
