We eat breakfast in silence that's somehow louder than conversation. Oatmeal with dried cranberries. Coffee. The meal I threw together while trying not to think about her waking in my bed. Every sound amplified. Spoon against bowl. Coffee mug on table. Her breathing when she thinks I'm not paying attention.
But I'm always paying attention now. Can't help it. Catch myself tracking the way she bites her lower lip when she's thinking. How she tucks hair behind her ear with unconscious grace. The competence in her hands when she handles equipment. Details that shouldn't register but somehow do.
"You always this quiet in the morning?" She's watching me over the rim of her mug.
"Depends on the company." I finish my coffee. "You always this curious about someone's morning habits?"
"Depends on whether I've fucked them against a wall." Her bluntness catches me off guard. A smile tugs at my mouth despite myself.
"Fair point." I stand, collecting dishes. Need distance before I do something we both want but shouldn't repeat until I've got better control. "I'm going to check the perimeter. Make sure drifts aren't blocking the vents."
She nods. Doesn't argue. Smart enough to recognize when someone's looking for escape routes.
Outside it's brutal. The wind tears at my coat with teeth made of ice, and snow drives horizontally, reducing visibility to feet rather than yards. The temperature sits well below anything safe for exposure.
I force myself to stay out longer than necessary. I let the cold work through layers until my body focuses on survival instead of the woman inside who makes me forget careful planning.
The generator is fine. I knew it would be. I already checked it this morning. But I tinker anyway, adjusting settings that don't need adjusting, testing the fuel lines. It's busywork while my brain processes the reality of being trapped here with her while desire builds with nowhere to go.
When I finally return, she's working at the table. Notebook open, pen moving across pages with practiced efficiency. Reconstructing her research from memory. She's transcribing field notes, sketching maps of locations she studied. Salvaging what she can from the wreckage. Focused. Absorbed. Refusing to let the traffickers take everything.
"What are you working on?" The question surprises both of us.
She looks up. Considers whether to answer. "Field notes. From before. Trying to reconstruct what I can remember aboutthe research. Probably pointless but it's better than staring at walls."
"Not pointless." I shed my coat. Hang it carefully. "Documentation matters. Even if the original data's destroyed."
"You sound like my advisor." Her voice carries weight I recognize. Loss. Regret for things that can't be changed.
"The one who died waiting for medevac?"
"Dr. Bryan. Yes." She goes back to writing. "She used to say that the worst thing a scientist could do was assume they'd remember important details later. Write everything down immediately, even if it seems irrelevant."
I lean against the counter, watching her work. She's rebuilding from memory. Refusing to give up even when everything's been destroyed. That stubbornness does something to me. Makes the possessive part of me want to lock her away somewhere safe and keep her there.
"You're staring." She doesn't look up from her notes.
"Just watching you work."
"Why?" Now she meets my eyes. Challenge in her gaze. "Something I should know about?"
"Nothing you don't already know." I push off the counter. Move toward the radio setup. Need to check frequencies. Monitor traffic. Do my actual job instead of getting distracted by a woman who's becoming dangerous in ways bullets never could be.
I scan through channels methodically. Static. Weather reports. Some local chatter from pilots grounded by the storm. Then I hit a frequency that makes my spine straighten.
"—confirm the witness has the SD card. Intel suggests she's with someone. Pilot, probably. Running dark, no flight plans filed. They could be anywhere within fuel range of the pickup site."
Different voice responds. "Bounty's been authorized. Dead or alive recovery of the card."
"Preference?"
"Dead. Cleaner. Less testimony to worry about."
My hand tightens on the radio dial. Every muscle in my body goes taut. They've escalated. Put money on her head... mine too. Made us valuable enough that every desperate pilot and bush rat in the region will start asking questions about strange women and unscheduled flights. And they want her dead. Not captured. Not questioned. Dead and buried where she can't testify.
The protective rage that floods through me is visceral. Primal. I want to find every man involved in that conversation and put bullets in them. Slowly. Make them understand exactly what happens when you threaten what's mine.
I force the reaction down. Channel it into cold calculation. Log the frequency. Note the transmission patterns. Build a picture of how organized the hunt has become. How serious they are about permanent silence.
