Rage coils hot and vicious in my gut. Old instincts rising, the ones I spent years trying to bury. The need to find the man who made her afraid and break every bone in his body slowly until he understands what it feels like to be powerless.
My hands curl into fists under the table. I breathe through it, slow and controlled, until the red edge fades enough to think clearly.
"You're not going back."
The words come out flat, absolute. Not a suggestion. Not a question. A statement of fact delivered with the kind of certainty I learned in the ring, where hesitation gets you killed.
Her head snaps up. She stares at me, eyes wide, something flickering in them that might be relief or might be terror. "I—what?"
"You're not going back to him." I hold her gaze, letting her see the truth of it. "You stay here until the storm clears. Then we figure out next steps. But you don't go back."
"I can't—he'll look for me. He'll—"
"Let him look." My voice drops lower, edged with something I usually keep locked down. "He shows up here, he won't touch you."
It's a promise. A threat aimed at a man who isn't here but needs to understand anyway. She seems to hear both meanings, because her breath catches and she presses back in her chair, not quite afraid but definitely off-balance.
"Why?" Her voice is small. Confused. "Why would you—you don't even know me."
I don't have a good answer for that. Don't know how to explain that the second I opened the door and saw her standing there—shaking, terrified, too damn vulnerable for this world—something in me shifted.
"Don't need to know you to know he's wrong," I say instead. "And you need somewhere safe. This is safe."
She studies me for a long moment, and I let her look. Let her see the scars on my knuckles, the old break in my nose, the violence I carry in my body. Let her decide whether she believes me.
Finally, she nods. Just once. "Okay."
The tension in my chest eases slightly.
"Finish eating," I tell her, nodding at her bowl. "Then you're sleeping."
"I can take the couch—"
"You're taking the bed."
Her mouth opens to argue. I level her with a look that shuts it again.
"Not negotiable," I say. "You've been through hell today. You need rest. I'll take the couch."
She looks like she wants to protest anyway, but exhaustion is written in every line of her body. The adrenaline's finally crashing, leaving her hollow and shaky. She finishes her stew in silence, then lets me guide her down the hall to the bedroom.
I pull back the heavy quilt, and she climbs in fully dressed, still wearing my flannel and thermal like armor.
"You need anything, you call," I tell her from the doorway. "I'll hear you."
She nods against the pillow, eyes already drifting shut. "Thank you," she murmurs. "Jason."
I close the door most of the way, leaving it cracked so I can hear if she wakes, and return to the main room. The fire needs tending. I add wood, banking it for the night, then settle into the chair facing the door with a clear line of sight to the hallway.
The storm rages outside. Trees crack under the weight of ice. Wind screams through the eaves. Every sound makes my shoulders tense, instincts flaring—checking, assessing, calculating threat level.
No one's coming tonight. No one could make it up the mountain in this weather even if they tried. But I stay alert anyway, listening for her breathing down the hall, for any sign she's in distress.
Somewhere around two in the morning, I hear her whimper. A nightmare, maybe. Replaying whatever led her to this cabin, this storm, this desperate flight.
I'm halfway down the hall before I think better of it. Stop myself outside her door, hand raised to knock, every protective instinct screaming at me to go to her.
But I don't. She didn't ask for me. Didn't call out. And walking into her room uninvited, no matter how good my intentions, would break the fragile trust we started building tonight.
