She laughs. It’s soft, low, dangerous. “We already have a problem. You kidnapped me. You carried me over your shoulder. You put your hands all over me. And now you’re sitting there pretending you don’t want to do it again.”
I lean forward too, closing the distance until our faces are inches apart. “I never said I didn’t want to.”
Her breath catches.
“But wanting and doing are two different things,” I finish, voice rough. “And right now, doing gets you killed.”
She swallows. “So what happens when the threat’s gone?”
I don’t answer.
I can’t.
I stand instead. “Excuse me.”
I walk out the front door, onto the porch. The night air is cold. Stars are sharp overhead. I brace my hands on the railing, head down, breathing hard.
Gray’s rule echoes in my skull.
No personal involvement.
She’s the asset.
She’s the asset.
She’s the asset.
But she’s also Megan and I already feel like I’m in deeper than I should be.
Chapter four
Megan
Morning light filters through the blinds in soft gold stripes, painting the cedar walls of Aaron’s bedroom. I wake slowly, body heavy with the kind of exhaustion that follows too much adrenaline and not enough sleep. The sheets are cool against my skin, the pillow smells faintly of cedar and Aaron, something warmer and darker that makes my stomach flip even before my eyes are fully open.
I’m in his bed.
The realization hits like a second cup of coffee. I sit up fast, heart kicking. The room is simple and sparse, like the rest of the cabin—a king bed with dark sheets, a nightstand with a lamp, and nothing else. No photos. No clutter.
I glance toward the open doorway. The living room is quiet. The couch, where he insisted he’d sleep, is empty, blanket folded with military precision. He’s gone.
I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress, bare feet hitting cool hardwood. I’m still in yesterday’s jeans and sweater, wrinkled and smelling faintly of cedar smoke and fear. My curlsare a disaster. I finger-comb them, splash water on my face in the small bathroom, then pad toward the front door.
I find him outside. He’s shirtless and sweaty. The sight stops me dead in the doorway.
Aaron is on the covered porch, back to me, gripping the pull-up bar he’s bolted between two posts. His body is a map of strength and scars. His broad shoulders rolling with every controlled lift, muscles shifting under sun-bronzed skin, the long line of his spine flexing as he pulls himself up, chin over the bar, then lowers slowly, deliberately. Sweat gleams on his back, tracing the ridges of old wounds: a jagged line across his left shoulder blade, a puckered circle low on his ribs, faint white slashes that look like they came from something sharp and angry. His biceps bunch, forearms corded, scarred hands gripping the bar tightly.
He’s gorgeous.
Not the polished, gym-bro kind of gorgeous. The real kind. The kind that comes from years of hard use, survival, and pain turned into power. Every scar tells a story I want to know. Every muscle says he’s fought for every inch of space he occupies.
I can’t look away.
My mouth goes dry. Heat pools low in my belly, sudden and sharp. I should go back inside. I should pretend I didn’t see this, but my feet won’t move.
He finishes a rep, drops to the porch boards with silent grace, and turns.
Our eyes meet.
