He slammed out of the room, the sound echoing down the empty hall. He took two steps, then stopped, his fists clenching at his sides. He could feel the rage and the fear still thrumming through him, a chaotic, dangerous mix. He knew he couldn't leave it like that. He turned back around and opened the door, his movements more controlled this time.
Moses hadn't moved. He was standing exactly where Than had left him, a statue of shock and despair, water dripping from his clothes onto the floor.
"Moses! Move! That's a goddamned order."
The command finally broke through Moses's paralysis. He flinched, then started, his body finally responding. He turned and headed for the bathroom, his steps slow and unsteady.
Than watched him go, then shut the door, the click of the latch quiet this time, a final, decisive sound in the sudden silence of the hall.
Than turned on his heel, his anger and adrenaline still thrumming through him. He swore all the way to his room, the words a low, vicious stream of curses. He ripped off his cold, wet, fucking sandy clothes and got into the shower, the hot water a welcome, stinging relief. Only then did he let himself lean against the side, his breathing ragged, his body trembling with a delayed reaction. He kept them all together. He didn't lose one man, and he wasn't going to lose Moses. The guy had that spark. He just had to find his fire.
33
Blair’s Cabin, Outskirts of Kamloops, British Columbia
She unlocked the door and pushed it open, the hinges creaking softly.
Warm air met him, tinged with cedar, vanilla, and something faintly citrus…her. It wasn’t overpowering, just subtle enough to settle in his bones. Like the scent of comfort. Of place.
She stepped inside and flipped on a switch. A soft glow filled the open living space.
The front room was rustic, but not rough. Knotty pine floors, exposed beam ceilings, and thick, warm colors on the walls. A stone fireplace dominated the far corner, built from smooth river rock, with a wide hearth and iron rack stacked with wood. An overstuffed, comfortable-looking couch sat angled in front of it with a folded wool blanket draped across the arm, deep green, shot through with burgundy and navy. Lived-in. Cozy.
To the left, a beautiful kitchen opened up, separated by a wide island and an overhead beam strung with hanging copper pots. Soapstone counters, open shelves lined with mismatched mugs and spice jars, and an apron-front farmhouse sink that gleamed under the pendant lights. A bouquet of lavender and thistle sat on the windowsill, half-wild.
It was so her.
Soft but clean. Minimal but not sterile. Feminine but not curated. Nothing here was for show. It was lived in, a space that invited him to drop his guard. He was halfway there.
“This is…” He turned slowly, still holding her hand. “…not what I expected.”
She glanced back at him, smiling faintly. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Something more…tactical.”
“I have a tactical blanket,” she said, nodding toward the green wool one. “It doubles as a nap weapon.”
He huffed a laugh. “That’s dangerous.” Fuck him. She was so goddamned dangerous.
“You’ve seen nothing yet.” She nudged him gently. “Come on.”
She led him down a short hallway. “This one’s the guest room,” she said, motioning to a small but cozy space with a simple bed and a row of bookshelves built into the wall. “I haven’t had many guests, but I hope Emily can visit this summer.”
He nodded, absorbing every detail.
Then she opened the next door. Her room was warm and softly lit, with a queen-sized bed tucked beneath the slope of the ceiling. Cream-colored bedding, flecked with charcoal gray and soft blues. A vintage trunk at the foot. On the far wall, beneath a comfy chair piled with clothing, a pair of old pointe shoes hung from a hook beside a framed photo of a dance company.
The room was personal. Quiet. Private, and it made something inside him settle, made him ache, and want. He looked at her, and she was eyeing the bed, her hand sliding along his forearm. He pulled the door closed, his mouth dry. Move on, fuckhead.
The next door she opened stole his breath. “This is my favorite room in the whole house,” she said.
It was a sunroom, but not like anything he’d ever seen. Fully enclosed in glass, walls and ceiling, with a panoramic view of the ridge. The floor was stone tile, warm from residual sunlight. A cushioned bench ran beneath the window, stacked with pillows and a folded fleece throw. A small telescope sat in the corner. A shelf of books. A basket of folded socks.
“You can sit here at night and listen to the stream,” she said softly. “It echoes off the rocks, and on clear nights the stars are unreal.”
He couldn’t speak. He stepped forward and pressed a hand to the glass. The trees. The stream. The silence. The sky overhead, open and clear, felt like freedom.
“Blair,” he said, voice quiet, rough-edged. “How did you not tell me you lived in paradise?”
