The way he said it made something twist painfully in my chest. Because this had stopped being about the job days ago. This was about love, and sacrifice, and the growing certainty that I would do anything—absolutely anything—to keep Charles safe.
Even if it destroyed me in the process.
TWENTY-FIVE
CHARLES
Something was wrong with Eamon.
I noticed it the moment he came back inside from his supposed check on the firewood. Where before he’d been relaxed and affectionate, now he moved like a man expecting an attack. His shoulders were tense, his jaw set in a hard line, and his eyes kept darting to the windows as if he could see threats lurking in the pristine snow outside.
“Everything really okay out there?” I asked, studying his profile as he hung his jacket by the door after stepping outside again for a moment to get some fresh air.
Fresh air, my ass.
“Fine,” he said, but his smile was strained. “Just cold. Makes you appreciate being inside.”
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe him. But the man who’d made love to me in the kitchen mere hours ago had been replaced by someone who looked like he was preparing for war.
I tried to focus on normal things. The dough I’d started that morning was ready to bake, and I busied myself shaping it into two loaves and preheating the ancient oven.The familiar routine should have been soothing, but I could feel Eamon’s restless energy from across the room like static electricity.
The bread baked while we sat in the living room, the warm scent of yeast and flour filling the cabin with domestic comfort. I tried to read my book, but I was too aware of Eamon beside me. He was supposedly reading, too, but I caught him checking his phone every few minutes, frowning at the blank screen.
“I thought there was no signal up here,” I said finally.
Eamon startled slightly, like he’d forgotten I was there. “What?”
“Your phone. You keep checking it.”
“Oh.” He set the device aside with obvious reluctance. “Habit, I guess. Hard to break, even when you know it’s pointless.”
Another deflection. Another non-answer that raised more questions than it resolved.
As the afternoon wore on, Eamon’s behavior became more unsettling. He got up frequently, ostensibly to tend the fire or get water, but I noticed he always found excuses to check the windows and doors. At one point, I caught him testing the locks—not once, but three times in the span of an hour.
“Eamon,” I said when he returned from yet another circuit of the cabin. “What’s going on?”
He positioned himself on the couch so he had a clear view of both the front door and the kitchen entrance. “Just being thorough.”
“Thorough about what?”
He was quiet for a long moment, staring into the fire. When he finally looked at me, there was something desperate in his green eyes. “I can’t lose you.”
The words should’ve been romantic. Instead, they sounded like a man who already knew loss was inevitable. I didn’t know what to say, not when every question I’d asked him had gone unanswered.
When the bread was ready, we ate it warm with butter and jam, sitting at the small kitchen table while snow continued to fall outside. The bread was perfect—crusty on the outside, soft and airy within—but Eamon barely seemed to taste it.
“This is good,” he said, but his attention was divided, his gaze constantly shifting to the windows.
I set down my slice and leaned forward. “What are you looking for out there?”
“Nothing specific. Just…” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair. “It’s my job to be paranoid, Charles. Better safe than sorry.”
“Is it paranoia when you’re right to be worried?”
The question seemed to hit him like a physical blow. For a moment, his careful mask slipped entirely, and I saw raw fear in his expression. Not fear for himself—fear for me. “Charles?—”
“Don’t.” I reached across the table to cover his hand with mine. “Don’t lie to me again. Please. I can see you’re scared, and that scares me. If we’re in danger, I need to know.”
