I look down at her, searching for the flinch. Most people recoil when I get this close. I’m too big, too scarred, too much of a weapon. But she’s not pulling away. She remains frozen, staring at my mouth like she’s never seen a man up close before.
Then it hits me.
The way she holds herself. The way her breath catches in her throat, terrified and fascinated all at once. The complete lack of instinct on where to put her hands. She clutches my biceps not to pull me closer, but to keep herself upright, fingers unsure and tentative.
She’s innocent.
The realization lands like a physical weight. I don't know how I know—maybe it’s the scent of her, sweet rain and clean skin, or the way she looks at me like I’m a wild animal she wants to pet but knows will bite.
She hasn't been touched. Not like this. Not by a man who knows what he wants.
"You're not walking on that ankle," I growl. My voice comes out rougher than I intended.
"It's not far," she stammers, gaze dropping to my throat. "I can limp."
"No."
I shift my stance, sliding my arm from her waist down to the back of her thighs. Before she can protest, I sweep her up, lifting her high against my chest. She squeaks, a startled sound that makes something dark and possessive uncurl in my belly.
"Oliver! Put me down!"
"Hold on," I order. "Unless you want to fall."
She stiffens, then reluctantly wraps her arms around my neck. Her face buries into the crook of my shoulder to shield herselffrom the sleet. She’s cold, convulsing against me, but heat builds where our bodies touch.
She weighs nothing. I could carry her for miles.
"You're stubborn," she mumbles into my jacket.
"I'm practical. You're a liability out here on one leg."
"I'm not a liability," she argues weakly. "I'm a homeowner."
I snort. "You're a hazard to navigation, Little Bird."
That nickname again. Little Bird. A fragile thing that needs a cage to keep the hawks away.
I start walking. My boots find purchase on the icy trail. The weight of her in my arms changes my center of gravity, but it feels correct. Grounding. I pull her tighter, my forearm locking her legs against me. She fits.
The trail gets steeper as we approach my property line. I have tripwires set fifty yards out—nothing lethal, just noise-makers to alert me to intruders—but I navigate around them by memory. Avery doesn't notice. She’s fading, the adrenaline of the fall wearing off as the cold settles into her bones.
"Stay with me, Avery," I say, nudging her side with my thumb.
"I'm awake," she murmurs. "You're warm. You're like a furnace."
"Engine runs hot," I mutter.
We clear the tree line and my cabin comes into view.
It’s not like hers. Mine is a bunker disguised in timber. Heavy logs, reinforced steel shutters on the windows, a perimeterclearing that gives me full visibility. It sits with its back to the sheer rock face of Grizzly Peak, defensible and solitary.
Just the way I like it.
Usually.
Hesitation slows my boots on the porch steps. I don't bring people here. My brothers come by for club business, and Chase sometimes drags me down to the forge, but this is my space. My silence.
Bringing a woman inside—especially this woman—feels like crossing a line I can’t uncross.
