My throat closes. I look at the fire instead. “My ex. And… his friends. They—” I stop. The words stick. “They found out I was leaving. For good.”
He doesn’t push. Just waits.
“I took proof,” I whisper. “Documents. Recordings. Enough to put them away if anyone ever believed me. They want it back. And me quiet.”
He exhales through his nose. “How many?”
“Three, maybe four. They were in the truck when I jumped out. I don’t know if they followed.”
He stands, crosses to the window, peers through the frost-laced pane. Snow lashes the glass. Visibility zero. “Storm’s locked everything down. No one’s moving tonight. Maybe not tomorrow.”
Relief makes me dizzy. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” He turns back. “You’re here because I’m not heartless enough to leave you to freeze. But this—” he gestures at the small cabin, one main room with a loft overhead, kitchen nook, single door leading to what must be a bedroom “—this is temporary. My rules are simple.”
I nod.
“Stay quiet. No lights at night unless necessary. No going outside without me. No phone—no signal anyway. And stay out of my bed.”
Heat prickles my neck again. The couch is narrow. The loft looks like storage. There’s only one real bed visible through the cracked bedroom door—big, rough-hewn frame, piled with quilts.
“I’ll take the couch,” I say quickly.
He snorts. “You’ll take wherever I put you. Right now, you need heat and rest. Couch is closest to the fire.”
He moves to the kitchen, fills a kettle, sets it on the woodstove. He pulls down two mugs, coffee, sugar. His movements are economical, practiced. A man used to being alone.
I pull the blanket he tossed over my lap tighter. My teeth still chatter. “What’s your name?”
He glances over his shoulder. “Colt Ryker.”
“Willa Marks,” I offer.
He grunts an acknowledgment as he pours hot water over the grounds. The smell rises, rich and grounding. He brings me a mug, wraps my hands around it. The heat seeps into my palms.
“Drink slow,” he says. “You’re half-frozen. Don’t want to shock your system.”
I sip. It scalds my tongue but I don’t care. “You live here alone?”
“Yep.”
“No wife? Kids?”
His jaw tightens. “No.”
I nod. And I don’t push. The silence stretches, broken only by the pop of the fire and the wind screaming outside.
He sits in the chair across from me, long legs stretched out, hat finally off. Hair tousled. He looks tired. Not just physically. The kind of tired that lives in the eyes.
“You’re safe here tonight,” he says finally. Quiet. “I don’t let things I don’t want on my mountain come close.”
Something in his tone makes my chest ache. Not pity. Trust. The first real sliver of it since I ran.
I meet his gaze. “Thank you, Colt.”
“I’ll get you a dry shirt to wear.” He looks away first, toward the fire. Then, he tromps down the hallway and comes back with a plain white tee. “Get some sleep, Willa. Storm’s just getting started.”
I take the shirt, slipping it over my head. “Thank you,” I say as I curl deeper into the blanket, mug cradled against my chest. The warmth spreads, loosening the knots of fear. My eyelids droop. For the first time in days, I let them.
