"Nicola," he repeats, testing the shape of it. His voice makes it sound different somehow. Better.
"I wanted you to know," I say quietly. "The real one. Because you've been honest with me. And I wanted to give that back."
The corner of his mouth lifts. Almost a smile.
"Nicola suits you better than Emily."
Chapter 4 – Jason
The axe splits wood with a sound like a bone breaking.
I set another log on the stump, raise the axe, bring it down. The halves fall away, and I toss them onto the growing pile by the cabin wall. My breath steams in the air. Snow clings to my beard, melts against my neck where my shirt's soaked through with sweat despite the cold.
The storm came back an hour ago. Harder this time, meaner, wind howling down from the peaks like something alive and angry. Snow falls so thick I can barely see the treeline fifty yards out. The world's been reduced to white and gray and the dark shapes of pines bowing under the weight.
I should've brought more wood in yesterday, but I got distracted by her.
I split another log, feeling the burn in my shoulders, the familiar ache in my hands. Good pain. Honest work. Keeps my mind from circling back to the way she looked this morning in my clothes, all soft curves and sleep-mussed hair, or the sound she made when I steadied her at the sink—that sharp little intake of breath that went straight through me.
Movement catches my eye. I glance toward the cabin and see her at the window, watching. Just a silhouette behind frosted glass, but I know it's her, that she's been standing there for the last five minutes, maybe longer.
I clamp down on the thought and split another log with more force than necessary.
Not mine yet. Maybe not ever, if she decides to leave when the roads clear. But right now, in this moment, she's watching mework in the storm, and some primitive part of my brain is damn near preening under that attention.
I finish the pile, stack the split wood under the eaves where it'll stay dry, and head inside. Snow follows me in, melting on the floorboards as I kick off my boots. She's moved from the window to the fire, curled up in the chair with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, watching me with those wide eyes.
"You're soaked," she says.
"I'll dry." I strip off my wet henley, tossing it over the back of a chair near the fire. Her gaze follows the movement, then skitters away fast when she realizes I caught her looking.
The corner of my mouth twitches. "I'm gonna grab a dry shirt."
"Okay." Her voice is small. Flustered.
I head to the bedroom, taking my time pulling on a shirt, giving her a minute to settle. When I come back, she's staring into the fire, fingers worrying the edge of the blanket. The tension in her shoulders is visible even from across the room.
Something's wrong. Changed. I felt it shift the second I walked in.
I pour two mugs of coffee and bring one to her, settling into the chair across from hers. Close enough to talk, far enough not to crowd. "What's going on in your head?"
She glances up, startled. "What?"
"You look like you're waiting for bad news."
She's quiet for a long moment, then shakes her head. "I'm just thinking about how insane this is. A day ago, I was supposed to be getting married. Now I'm hiding in a cabin in the middle ofnowhere with a man I don't know, and the scariest part is that I feel safer here than I ever did with Daniel."
The honesty in that statement lands heavy between us. I hold her gaze, letting her see that I heard it, that it matters.
"You want to know about me," I say.
"I—" She hesitates. "You don't have to—"
"I do." I lean back, cradling the coffee mug. "You need to know who you're trusting. What I am."
She goes still, blanket clutched tight. Waiting.
"I fought for twelve years," I start. Keep my voice level, factual. "Underground circuits. Bare-knuckle. No rules, no mercy. Just blood and money and men stupid enough to think they could take me."
