"You would have died." The conviction in his voice chills me. Not mean, just stating a fact. "Hypothermia sets in fast. You were wet. The temperature is dropping to ten below tonight. You would have gone to sleep and never woke up."
I swallow hard. The reality crashes into me. He’s right. If he hadn't come out of the woods...
"You’re the Vanguard," I whisper, the title tasting like a warning. "I heard the stories at the hardware store. The Gunnars don’t just live on this mountain—they own it."
I look at him, realizing the danger of being caught in his orbit.
"My cousins run the club," he grunts, his thumb tracing my ankle with agonizing slowness.
"I’m the one who makes sure threats stay buried. I watch the perimeter, Little Bird. And right now, you’re inside it."
"They say you live in the woods because you hate people."
"I don't hate people," he grunts, finally releasing my ankle and leaning back, though he stays perched on the table, looming over me. "I hate noise. And bullshit. Usually, they come in the same package."
"Am I noise or bullshit?" I try for a joke, but my voice wavers.
He looks at me for a long moment. Firelight dances across his face, casting shadows in the hollows of his cheeks. Wild. Dangerous.
"You’re trouble," he says. "Big trouble."
He stands up abruptly. I flinch at the sudden movement. He notices. His eyes narrow.
"I’m not going to hurt you, Avery."
"I know." And I do. I don't know how, but I know it in my bones. He’s lethal—I can see it in the way he moves—but he’s not a threat to me. He’s a wall. A shield.
"Hungry?" he asks, changing the subject with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
"Starving."
"Stay there."
He moves back to the kitchen, opening a stainless steel fridge that looks like it belongs in a restaurant. He pulls out eggs, steak, vegetables.
"You eat well for a hermit."
"Fuel," he says, chopping a bell pepper with speed and precision. "Body needs fuel to work."
"What work do you do? Besides rescuing damsels in distress?"
"I build things," he says. "Forge work. Metal. Wood. Whatever needs doing."
"Like railings?" I tease.
He pauses, knife hovering over the cutting board. He turns his head to look at me, a smirk ghosting his lips beneath that thick beard. "Yeah. Like railings. But I use bolts, not rusted nails."
I pull the flannel tighter around me, tucking my nose into the collar. It smells incredible. "Show off."
He grunts, turning back to the food.
I watch him cook. Strangely domestic for a man who looks like he could wrestle a bear. He moves with economy, cleaning as he goes. Within fifteen minutes, the smell of searing steak and onions fills the cabin, chasing away the last of the chill.
He brings two plates over, handing me a fork and a knife.
"Eat."
The steak is perfect. Rare, seasoned simply. I eat like I haven't seen food in days.
