I’m not alone.
A heavy arm drapes over my waist, pinning me to the mattress. Oliver. He feels like a wall of heat against my back, his breathing slow and steady, a deep rhythm vibrating through my own chest. I freeze, the memories of last night crashing into me. The fear. The rejection. The reconciliation.
The keys.
I shift slightly, and his arm tightens instantly. Even in sleep, he acts the possessor. Even in sleep, he remains the Vanguard.
"Stop wiggling," he rumbles, his voice a gravelly scrape right against my ear.
"I’m not wiggling," I whisper, though my heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "I’m breathing. You’re squishing me."
"Good."
He buries his face in the crook of my neck, his beard scratching the sensitive skin there, sending a sensation skittering down my spine. He inhales deeply, dragging my scent into his lungs, before finally relaxing his grip enough for me to turn over.
I shift to face him. In the harsh glare of morning—real sunlight reflecting off the snow outside—he looks even more imposing. Dark hair messy, beard thick, the scar on his shoulder standing out pale against his tanned skin. But the tension usually radiating off him in waves has dialed back. The storm in his eyes has settled.
"The snow stopped," I say, glancing toward the window. The world outside shines a blinding, brilliant white. Silence lies heavy over the mountain, the howling wind finally gone.
"Yeah," Oliver says, not looking at the window. He looks at me. His gaze lands heavy and tactile, feeling like a physical touch. "Plows will be through by noon. Pass should be open."
The words hang in the air between us.
The pass is open.
Escape becomes possible. The world comes rushing back in. I can leave.
Ice floods my chest. I look at the man who built a fortress around my heart in three days, and the thought of leaving this cabin feels like stepping off a cliff.
"Do you want me to go?" I ask, the question quiet, terrified.
Oliver’s eyes darken. His hand comes up, cupping my jaw, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone. "You have the keys, Avery. Both of them."
"That’s not an answer."
"It’s the only one that matters." He leans in, pressing a hard, brief kiss to my forehead. The contact serves as a seal. A stamp of ownership. "Coffee. Then we check your place. See if my work holds up in the light."
He rolls out of bed, a magnificent expanse of muscle and scars, and pulls on his jeans. I watch him, shameless, feeling a flush heat my skin. He catches me staring and smirks—a rare, genuine expression transforming his face.
"Like what you see, Avery?"
"I’m just checking for injuries," I lie, scrambling to sit up and pulling the sheet with me. "You were out there all night."
"I’m fine." He grabs a flannel shirt from the floor and tosses it to me. "Put this on. It’s colder than a witch's tit out there, even with the sun."
I pull on his shirt, the fabric drowning me, smelling entirely of him. A comfort I didn't know I needed settles over me. As I button it up, the crackle of static erupts from the other room.
The radio.
I follow him out into the main living space. The fire has burned down to embers, but the room remains warm. Oliver stands by the desk in the corner, a black tactical radio in his hand.
"Gunnar here," he says, his voice shifting into that low command tone.
"About time you woke up, Sleeping Beauty." The voice on the other end is deep, mocking, and laced with exhaustion. Logan. The President. "Road crews are hitting the lower switchbacks. Austin is bringing the truck up with supplies for the shop. We’ve got a problem with the manifest."
Oliver scowls, rubbing a hand over his face. "What kind of problem?"
"The supplier sent us three crates of climbing rope and zero carabiners, and the invoice is a wreck. I need someone to untangle the paperwork before the shipment hits the floor at Peak Wilderness. You know I hate the admin shit."
