I stop at the woodpile and grab an armful of split logs. A peace offering. Or an excuse for why I was outside.
I kick snow off my boots on the porch and open the door.
Warmth hits me instantly. Smells of coffee and bacon.
Avery stands by the stove. Wearing my flannel shirt, the hem hitting her mid-thigh. Bare legs. Hair a messy, glorious disaster.
She turns when I enter, a smile lighting up her face. It punches me in the gut harder than any fist.
"There you are," she says. "I woke up and you were gone. I thought maybe you ran away."
I dump the logs by the fire and hang up my coat. I wash my hands at the sink, scrubbing away the feeling of the smoker’s wrist snapping under my grip.
"I don't run," I say, drying my hands on a towel.
I walk over to her. Small. Fragile. But her eyes remain bright and fearless.
"Where were you?" she probes, flipping a piece of bacon in the cast iron skillet.
"Securing the ridge," I answer. "Ensuring the mountain knows who you belong to." Mostly the truth.
"Find anything?"
"Just some tracks. Deer, mostly." I lie smoothly. She doesn't need to know about the wolves. Not yet.
I step up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist. I pull her back against my chest, burying my face in the crook of her neck. She smells like sleep, vanilla, and the musk of our sex.
"You're cold," she murmurs, leaning back into me. She trembles, gooseflesh rising on her skin, but she doesn't pull away.
"You're warm," I rumble against her neck.
I hold her tighter. The memory of the men on her porch flashes in my mind. The way they looked at her home like garbage. Like she was nothing.
I press a kiss to the sensitive spot under her ear. Her pulse jumps.
"Avery."
"Hmm?"
"You're not going back down there today."
She stiffens. "Oliver, I have to eventually. I have things to do. I need to call the contractor about the roof, and?—"
"No." My voice comes out firmer than intended. "Snow is too deep. Road is blocked. You’re staying here."
She turns in my arms, facing me. Blue eyes narrow. "Are you asking me or telling me?"
I look down at her. I could tell her the truth. I could tell her bad men circle, that her home isn't safe, that I just broke a man's arm for littering on her porch.
But that would scare her. Make her feel like a victim.
"I'm telling you," I state. "The storm isn't done with us yet. And neither am I."
Her cheeks flush pink. Her jaw relaxes, blue eyes turning dark and liquid.
"Oh," she breathes.
I reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. My hand is large enough to crush a skull, but I touch her as if she’s made of glass.
