Her laugh is short, bitter, almost a scoff. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious.”
She starts pacing. Her long, furious strides across the wide-plank floors, boots clicking with every step. The cabin is small but open, with cedar walls that smell faintly of pine, the stone fireplace cold and dark, a leather couch that’s seen better days, and a kitchen island that doubles as a dining table. One bedroom down the short hall. One bathroom. One bed.
I’ve already decided I’ll take the couch.
She stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell her vanilla shampoo and the faint trace of fear she’s trying to hide behind fury. Too close. The air thickens, charged, like the moment before a lightning strike. I can feel the heat radiating off her body, the way her chest rises and falls too fast under that thin jacket.
“You kidnapped me,” she says, voice trembling just enough to make my chest tighten. “You threw me over your shoulder like some caveman and carried me off. And now you’re holding me prisoner in your… your cabin fortress?”
“Protecting you,” I correct, keeping my voice level. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” She steps even closer, until the toes of her boots almost touch mine. The air between us feels thinner, hotter. I can see the pulse jumping at the base of her throat, the way her lower lip is still swollen from biting it during the fight. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks exactly the same. A big, strongman decides what’s best for the little reporter. Takes her phone, her freedom, her choice. Real heroic.”
I don’t move. Don’t back up. “You’re alive. That’s the only metric that matters right now.”
She searches my face, those green eyes stripping me bare, looking for cracks, for weakness. I keep mine steady. Blank. Professional.
But inside? Inside, my pulse is hammering like artillery. Every time she gets this close, the air feels thinner, hotter. I notice things I shouldn’t. The faint freckles across her nose, the way her curls cling to her neck where she’s sweating, the stubborn set of her jaw that makes me want to kiss it until she stops fighting. I notice how small she is next to me, how fragile she looks, and how badly I want to pull her against me and shield her from everything.
I shove the thought down. Hard.
She’s the asset.
She exhales sharply, turns away, and resumes pacing. Megan stops. Whirls back. “You expect me to just sit here? While my sources disappear? While Ramsey and Tate keep buying up the county like it’s a game of Monopoly? While families lose their land, their homes—”
“I expect you to stay alive,” I say, voice dropping lower than I intend. “So you can finish the story. Publish it. Burn them down. But you can’t do any of that if you’re dead.”
She stares at me. Something flickers in her eyes, a range of emotions from anger to fear to exhaustion.
My chest aches.
I turn away before I do something stupid. “You hungry?”
She blinks. “What?”
“Dinner. I can hear your stomach from here.”
She opens her mouth, probably to argue, then closes it. Her stomach growls again, loud in the quiet cabin.
I almost smile. Almost.
“Sit,” I say, nodding toward the island stools. “I’ll cook.”
She hesitates, then slides onto a stool, arms still crossed like armor, but her shoulders drop a fraction. She’s exhausted. Adrenaline crash coming. I’ve seen it a hundred times.
I move to the fridge, pull out two rib-eyes, russet potatoes, butter, garlic. Simple. Familiar. I’ve cooked this meal alone in this cabin more nights than I can count. Tonight feels different.
She watches me. Silent at first. Then she asks, “Why do you live like this?”
I don’t look up from the cast-iron skillet I’m heating on the gas range. “Like what?”
“Like a monk.” She gestures around the room with it’s sparse furniture, no photos on the walls, no clutter, no personal touches. “One bedroom. One couch. No TV. No plants. It’s like you’re waiting for someone to tell you to leave. Or like you’re punishing yourself.”
I set the steaks in the pan. They sizzle immediately. “I don’t need more than this.”
“That’s not an answer.”
