She disappears inside.
I stand there a long minute, listening to the creak of the bedframe, the rustle of quilts. Imagining her sliding between my sheets, her scent on my pillows.
Then I turn back to the fire. I won’t sleep tonight. But I’ll keep watch. And if anyone tries to take her from me? They’ll have to go through hell first. Because she’s under my roof now. Under my protection. And whether she knows it yet or not—she’s mine to keep safe.
THREE
WILLA
I wake to the smell of coffee and bacon, thick and warm, pulling me out of sleep like a gentle hand.
My body protests the movement before my brain fully catches up. A dull throb pulses along my arm where the gash is bandaged, and my ribs ache when I breathe too deep, but it’s not the sharp, tearing pain from yesterday. Just soreness. Manageable. I’m alive. I’m warm. That’s more than I expected twenty-four hours ago.
The bedroom is dim, heavy quilts still tucked around me, smelling faintly of cedar and him—Colt. I press my face into the pillow for one guilty second, inhaling, then force myself to sit up. My borrowed shirt slips off one shoulder. I tug it back into place, fingers brushing the soft, worn fabric. It’s huge on me. The hem brushes the tops of my thighs. No pants. My own were shredded and blood-soaked; he must have thrown them out or washed them while I slept.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed. The floorboards are cold under my bare feet. I pad quietly to the door, crack it open, and peer out.
The main room is bathed in pale gray light filtering through frost-crusted windows. The fire’s been stoked again, crackling low. And there he is.
Colt stands at the small cookstove in the kitchen nook, back to me, broad shoulders filling the space. No shirt. Just worn jeans slung low on his hips, a leather belt, and miles of golden-brown skin stretched over muscle that shifts with every small movement. Scars crisscross his back—some thin and white, some thicker and raised—like a map of fights he won and some he barely survived. A dark tattoo curls over one shoulder blade, something intricate I can’t make out from here. His dark hair is mussed, still damp like he washed up recently, and a few droplets cling to the ends, sliding down the groove of his spine when he moves.
My mouth goes dry.
Heat blooms low in my belly, sudden and startling. I’ve never felt anything like this before—not this sharp, this immediate. My thighs press together instinctively. I’m twenty-three, and I’ve never had sex. Never even come close. The men I knew before—my ex and his circle—made sure I understood I was something to control, not desire. But standing here, watching Colt flip bacon in a cast-iron skillet like it’s the most normal thing in the world, I imagine it.
I imagine his big hands on me—not careful like when he bandaged my wounds, but hungry. Rough. Gentle too, maybe, because I think he could be both. I picture him turning, seeing the want in my eyes, and crossing the room without a word. Lifting me onto the counter, the cold metal against my thighs making me gasp. His mouth on my neck, my collarbone, lower. Those callused palms sliding under the flannel, pushing it up, finding my heated skin. I wonder what his beard would feel likeagainst the inside of my thigh. What his voice would sound like, low and gravelly, saying my name while he?—
“Morning.” His voice snaps me back. He’s looking over his shoulder now, green eyes steady on me. One dark brow lifts slightly.
I feel the blush explode across my face, neck, chest—hot enough I’m sure he can see it through the open collar of his shirt. I clutch the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. “Hi,” I manage. My voice is too high, too breathy.
He turns fully, leaning one hip against the counter. The movement makes the muscles in his stomach flex, the faint trail of dark hair disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. I force my eyes up to his face. He’s watching me with that unreadable expression, but there’s a flicker in his gaze—something that makes my pulse jump.
“You sleep okay?” he asks.
I nod too fast. “Yeah. The bed’s… comfortable. Thank you.”
He grunts, turning back to the stove, and plating the bacon, then cracks a couple eggs into the skillet. The sizzle fills the silence.
I step fully into the room, hugging my arms around myself even though I’m not cold. “You’re up early.”
“Habit.” He doesn’t look at me again right away. “Storm’s still going hard. Wind’s died down some, but visibility’s shit. Snow’s drifted chest-high in places.”
My stomach tightens. “Do you think… they could’ve made it up here?”
He plates the eggs, and adds thick slices of toast, then carries everything to the small table by the window. Only then does he meet my eyes again.
“Possible. Not likely. But I’m not taking any chances.” He jerks his chin toward the chair. “Sit. Eat.”
I obey, sliding into the seat. The food smells like heaven. My stomach growls loud enough he probably hears it. He sets a mug of coffee in front of me, and then drops into the chair across from me. Still shirtless. Still unfairly beautiful.
I pick up a piece of bacon, and nibble the edge. Crispy. Salty. Perfect. “You’re going out there?”
“In a bit. Need to check the barn, the horses. Make sure nothing’s down. And—” His jaw flexes. “I’ll ride the ridge. Look for tracks. Signs anyone tried to come up after you.”
My fingers tighten around the mug. “You don’t have to?—”
“I do.” The words come out flat. Final. “You’re here. Under my roof. That makes it my problem too.”
