Even if it felt like something when he growled that I was his.
I push myself upright despite my body's protests. Muscles I forgot I had scream complaints about yesterday's run, the fear, the cold, and then the wall. God, the wall. His hands fisted in my hair, controlling me, taking what he wanted while I gave it freely.
I shower in a bathroom that's surprisingly well-appointed for a remote cabin. Hot water sluices over sore muscles and sensitive skin. I try not to think about Magnus while I wash away the evidence of what we did. Try not to remember how it felt when he filled me. Try not to touch the places that still ache with memory and need.
By the time I emerge, dressed in yesterday's clothes because they're all I have, I've constructed a careful facade of normalcy. Scientists are good at compartmentalizing. Observing without emotion. Analyzing without attachment. I can do this. Walk out there and face him like a professional adult who made a choice and doesn't regret it.
The smell of coffee and bacon hits me first. Cooking sounds from the kitchen. Mundane domestic noises that feel surreal after yesterday's violence and last night's raw claiming.
Magnus stands at the stove, spatula in hand, looking completely at ease. Like he didn't rail me against a wall last night. Like he can't still smell me on his skin the way I can still feel him inside me. His hair is damp from taking his own shower. Flannel shirt rolled up his forearms. Focused on the eggs he's scrambling with the same precision he probably uses to calculate fuel loads.
"Coffee's fresh." His voice is neutral. Pleasant, even. The same tone he'd use with a stranger at a fuel stop.
That should make this easier. Instead it makes me want to shake him. Make him acknowledge what happened. Prove to myself that it meant something even though I told myself all through my shower that it didn't.
"Thanks." I aim for matching his casual tone. Fail when my voice comes out too tight. Too aware.
I pour coffee with hands that are steadier than I expected. Add cream. Pretend interest in the storm still battering the windows. Anything to avoid looking at him. Anything to stop remembering how his body felt against mine.
"Storm's not letting up." He slides eggs onto plates with economical movements. "Weather service says another day minimum before it passes."
Another day trapped here together. Another day of maintaining this facade while I can still taste him on my tongue.
"Forecast could be wrong." Even to my own ears I sound desperate. "Storms blow through faster than predicted sometimes."
"Not this one." He sets a plate in front of me. Bacon. Eggs. Toast. Competent and capable, taking care of basic needs like last night's primal claiming was just another task to check off his list. "Air pressure's dropping. We're in for days, not hours."
Days. Trapped in close quarters with a man who makes my body respond in ways my brain knows are dangerous. Days of fighting attraction that already won. Days of acting like professional colleagues while I can still feel his handprints on my hips.
I sit. Eat mechanically. The food is good. Everything he does is competent. Efficient. Like he approaches life as a series of problems to solve rather than experiences to feel.
Except last night he felt plenty. His mouth on mine. His hands controlling my body. The way he growled possessive words against my shoulder while claiming me from the inside out.
"We should discuss next steps." His tone is all business. Planning. Strategy. "Storm buys us time but also limits options. Can't move until it clears but staying here long-term is risky."
"Right." I try to focus on logistics instead of the way I remember his hands felt gripping my hips. "What's the plan?"
"Depends on their resources." He spreads the maps from last night across the table between us. "If they've got connections to check flight records, they're already narrowing down pilots who were in the area. My name will come up."
"How many bush pilots operate in that region?"
"Enough that I won't stand out immediately. But not so many that they can't investigate each one systematically." His finger traces routes on the map. Clinical. Detached. "We've got days. Maybe a week. Then we need to either run or fight."
"What about going to the authorities?" Even as I say it, I know it's naive. Wishful thinking from the part of me that still believes in systems and justice.
"With what evidence?" His look is flat. Unimpressed. "Footage from a trail camera placed on federal land? No chain of custody. No corroborating witnesses. Just you and a video that could be staged or manipulated. They'll bury you in procedure while the traffickers clean up their operation and disappear."
"So we run."
"Or we get them first." Something dangerous flickers in his expression. "Make them too busy dealing with their own problems to hunt you."
The predatory edge in his voice makes my pulse spike. Not from fear. From recognition of exactly what kind of man I let claim me last night. What kind of man I'm trusting with my life.
"How?" My throat is dry despite the coffee.
"Still working on that part." He folds the map with precise creases. "For now, we wait out the storm. Keep our heads down. Don't do anything stupid."
The word "stupid" hangs in the air between us. Loaded with meaning. Don't do anything stupid like fuck again. Don't do anything stupid like acknowledge that last night changed something fundamental.
