And Willa’s getting her life back.
But the part that keeps circling in my head—the part I can’t shake—is the quiet hope she might want to come back up this mountain when it’s over.
Not running.
Just… coming home.
SEVEN
WILLA
The fire has burned low, casting long golden shadows across the cabin walls. It’s late—past midnight, I think—but neither of us has moved to bed. The sat phone calls are done, the evidence is safe in Colt’s locked drawer, and for the first time since I ran, I can breathe without the constant knot of fear in my chest. It’s almost over. Tomorrow or the next day the roads will open, Hank Lawson will get the flash drive, and Matthew will finally be finished.
I should be thrilled.
Instead, my heart aches at the thought of leaving this place.
I like it here. The quiet. The way the wind sings through the pines instead of traffic. The smell of woodsmoke and pine and Colt. The way he looks at me like I’m something precious he didn’t know he was missing. I don’t want to go back to my tiny apartment, to lesson plans and worried glances from June and the constant low hum of wondering if Matthew’s friends are still out there. I want to stay right here, wrapped in flannel and safety and the man who makes my pulse race every time he walks into a room.
He’s on the couch now, long legs stretched out, one arm draped along the backrest, staring into the flames. The gray Henley he’s wearing clings to every ridge of muscle, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His beard is a little longer after days without trimming, and his hair is tousled from running his hands through it while we talked strategy. He looks tired, but still so strong, so steady. So mine, even if he hasn’t said the words yet.
I want his hands on me tonight. Not gentle bandaging. Not careful restraint. I want all of him.
I pad across the room in nothing but his oversized flannel, the hem brushing the tops of my thighs. My panties are the only thing underneath—simple black cotton I washed in the sink earlier. I stop right in front of him, close enough that my knees bump his.
“Colt.”
His eyes lift slowly, green and dark in the firelight. They drag over my bare legs, the open collar of his shirt, the way my nipples have tightened against the soft fabric. His jaw flexes.
“Willa,” he says, voice low and rough. “You should be in bed.”
“I don’t want to be in bed alone.” I step between his spread knees, letting my fingers trail along the back of the couch until they brush his shoulder. “I want you to kiss me again. The way you did last night. Like you can’t stop yourself.”
His breath catches. “We talked about this. You’re still healing. You’re?—”
“I’m fine.” I lean down, bracing one hand on his chest, feeling the steady thunder of his heart. “And I’m not scared anymore.Not of you. Not of this.” My lips hover just above his. “Please, Colt. Kiss me. I need it. I need you.”
He makes a low, broken sound—half groan, half curse—and then his control snaps.
One big hand cups the back of my head, the other grips my hip, and he pulls me down into his lap. The kiss is fire—hot, hungry, no hesitation this time. His tongue slides against mine, deep and possessive, tasting like the whiskey he sipped earlier. I moan into his mouth, rocking against the hard ridge of him already straining behind his jeans.
“Fuck, darlin',” he growls against my lips. “You taste so damn sweet. Been driving me crazy all day in my shirt, looking like every filthy dream I’ve had since you showed up bleeding on my porch.”
I whimper, grinding down harder. “Then stop fighting it. I want you inside me, Colt. I’ve never… but I want my first time to be with you. Please.”
He pulls back just enough to search my face, eyes blazing. “You’re sure? Because once I get my hands on you, baby, I’m not gonna be gentle for long. I’ve been dying to stretch this tight little pussy around my cock.”
Heat floods my core. I nod frantically. “Yes. I’m sure. I trust you.”
That’s all it takes.
He stands with me in his arms like I weigh nothing, carrying me straight to the bedroom, and kicks the door shut. The big bed looms in the lamplight. He sets me down gently on the edge, then drops to his knees between my thighs.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, big hands sliding up my legs, pushing the flannel higher. “Already soaked through these little panties for me. Such a good girl, getting wet just thinking about Daddy’s cock.”
The word slips out—Daddy—and it sends a fresh rush of arousal through me. I like it. Love it, actually. I spread my legs wider in silent invitation.
He hooks his fingers in the waistband and drags my panties down, tossing them aside. Then he leans in and licks a slow, broad stripe up my center. I cry out, fingers fisting the quilts.
