She nods, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she gathers a few of her most important notes and moves toward the long couch.
I check the perimeter again from each window, peering into the black, rain-soaked woods. When I return, Isabella has turned on a couple more battery lanterns, casting a soft golden glow over the room. She sits on the edge of the couch, notes in her lap, but her eyes keep drifting toward the bedroom door and then to me.
The wind howls louder, and the lodge groans in response. Rain pounds the roof in a relentless rhythm. The air inside feels thick, charged with the storm outside and the growing tension between us.
I grab a dry shirt from the supply closet and change quickly, aware of her gaze on my back. When I turn around, she is watching me with those sharp, intelligent eyes.
“You really think this ledger is the key?” I ask, needing to keep the conversation on the mission.
“I do,” she says softly. “And if the thieves realize I have it, which I’m assuming they did because of the texted threat, they won’t stop at one warning shot.”
I cross the room and sit on the opposite end of the couch, close enough that our knees nearly brush. The air presses in on us. The howling wind, the flickering power, the isolated lodge, and the undeniable spark that has been building since the moment we first locked eyes.
Chapter Five - Isabella
The hurricane screams outside like a living thing, wind howling through the dense pinelands and slamming against the lodge with relentless fury. Rain lashes the metal storm shutters in heavy sheets, the sound a constant roar that vibrates through the thick timbers. Inside, battery-powered lanterns cast flickering golden light across the main room, turning the isolated space into something intimate and cut off from the world.
I sit on the edge of the long leather couch, knees drawn up. The Salt & Steel safe house feels both secure and impossibly small with Jax occupying so much of it. He moves with quiet efficiency, checking the wood stove and securing a loose shutter. His broad shoulders fill the dim space, and every time he passes near me, the air seems to thicken.
He has started calling me Bee, and the nickname feels personal. I find myself waiting for it now, that low rumble of his voice shaping the single syllable.
“Bee,” he says from across the room, voice cutting through the storm’s roar. “You should eat something. Storm’s only getting worse. We need to stay sharp.”
I glance at the small kitchen area where he has laid out supplies. “I brought a few things from home. Leftover Nettie’s biscuits from this morning are still wrapped in my bag. I saw some canned soup in the pantry.”
He nods once, that stoic expression never quite cracking, but I catch the faint softening around his eyes. He heats the soup while I unwrap the biscuits. The rich, buttery scent fills the lodge, a small comfort against the wild night. We settle at the sturdy kitchen table with bowls of steaming soup and the slightly smashed but still delicious biscuits. The meal feels oddly domestic, given the circumstances of two near-strangers sharing food while the world rages outside.
I dip a piece of biscuit into the soup, savoring the warmth. “This tastes like normal life. Hard to believe we’re trapped out here with a hurricane trying to tear the roof off.”
Jax grunts in agreement, tearing into his own biscuit with strong hands. “Better than MREs. You did well bringing these.”
The compliment lands softly, warming me more than the soup. We eat in relative silence for a few minutes, the clink of spoons and the howl of wind the only sounds. But the questions have been building inside me since he first walked into my cottage. I want to know the man behind the call sign. The one who stands watch all night and calls me Bee as if it is the most natural thing in the world.
“Tell me something real, Reaper,” I say, setting my spoon down. “You know almost everything about my life now. My work, my collection, the gala, the research into that ledger. I know next to nothing about you except that Cal trusts you with his life and you have a habit of brooding in corners.”
He leans back in his chair, his gaze meeting mine across the small table. Lantern light flickers over the hard planes of his face, highlighting the stubble along his jaw. “Not much to tell. I do the job. That’s it.”
I shake my head, refusing to let him deflect. “That’s not enough. Not tonight. Not when we’re stuck together like this. Why do you do this work? Why Salt & Steel? Why the name Reaper?”
He exhales slowly, staring into his bowl for a long moment. The wind howls louder, rattling the shutters. For a second, I think he will shut down completely, but then he speaks, voice low and rough.
“Cal and I served together. He walked away after a bad op. Lost a teammate. Took the blame even though it wasn’t his fault. Came home to raise his nephew and built this team from nothing. I followed because… I owed him. Still do.” He pauses, fingers tightening around his spoon. “I protect what needs protecting. People who can’t fight for themselves. That’s the job.”
There is a sliver of something deeper in his words, a protectiveness edged with hard-won discipline. It humanizes this big, stoic man who rarely smiles. I lean forward slightly, drawn in by the quiet revelation.
“You’re good at it,” I say softly. “But you carry a lot, don’t you? The weight of every mission. Every person you couldn’t save.”
His gaze sharpens on me, intense. “Some weights you learn to live with.”
The generator hums on, the lights flicker, dimming and brightening in warning. Letting us know we won’t have it back for long.
I glance toward the bedroom door and then at the long couch that is clearly too short for his tall frame. The tension that has simmered since we arrived now feels impossible to ignore.
I push my empty bowl aside. “You’re not sleeping on that couch, Reaper. It’s barely long enough for me. You take the bed. I’ll take the couch. It’s only fair.”
He shakes his head immediately, jaw set. “No. The couch is mine. You need real rest after last night, and with the injury on your arm. I’ve slept in worse places.”
“Exactly,” I counter, standing up and gathering the dishes. “You’ve sacrificed enough. This isn’t the battlefield. We’re adults. We can share the space fairly. The bed is big enough for both of us if we—”
