“I didn’t ask you to analyze me,” he says, voice dropping lower.
“And I didn’t ask to share a roof with a stranger who has a bunker system hidden behind a mop closet.”
His jaw ticks, a flare of something dark flickering in his eyes. Not anger. Not quite. More like fear dressed up as irritation.
“You don’t need to worry about the security system,” he says tightly. “It keeps people out.”
“People?” I repeat. “Or someone specific?”
His gaze snaps to mine—sharp, guarded, unreadable.
I take a step closer before I can stop myself. “Just be honest with me. Are you in some kind of trouble?”
He looks away too fast. “No.”
He’s lying. It’s obvious. It’s blunt. It hits me like a cold gust straight to the ribs.
“Then why all of this?” My voice softens despite the frustration threading through it. “Why the cameras? Why the tech? Why hide your name from the internet?”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His stillness is unnerving—like a man calcifying to avoid cracking.
“That’s enough,” he murmurs, tone cutting off the conversation like a locked door. “Drop it.”
“You can’t expect me not to ask questions.”
“And you can’t expect me to answer them.”
The space between us tightens—charged, strained, full of unsaid things. My heart beats too hard, too loud. Something deep inside me stings—not because he’s dangerous, but because he’s wounded and fighting tooth and nail to stay that way.
“Fine,” I say quietly. “If you don’t want to trust me, that’s your choice.”
He flinches almost imperceptibly, as if the word trust hit something raw. But he turns away. Walks past me. Doesn’t look back.
The air he leaves behind feels colder than the storm outside.
I stand there, hand still on the closet knob, pulse thudding, mind spinning a dozen different theories that refuse to settle.
There is something in this cabin he is hiding. Something real. Something heavy.
And no matter how tightly he clamps his jaw or how carefully he closes that closet door…
I can feel the truth pressing against the walls like a storm waiting to break.
Chapter Nineteen
Jax
The cabin settles into a quiet rhythm—soft footsteps, the scratch of colored pencils, the steady hum of the heater working overtime. Outside, the world is all bright snow and long shadows stretching off the pines. The kind of winter morning Silver Ridge is famous for. Peaceful on the surface. Watchful underneath.
Ava stands near the window, mug cupped in both hands, sunlight catching the tight line of her shoulders. Violet is curled on the couch behind her, blanket around her legs, drawing with fierce concentration.
A wolf wearing a flower crown.
Of course.
The cabin feels too small. Too full of things I don’t know how to carry.
“The springs are open,” I say, because it’s the only escape I can offer.
