The silence in the cabin is heavier than the storm that battered the windows last night. It is thick with the memory of Shane’s mouth on mine, of the rough callouses of his hands branding my waist, and the way he looked at me before tearing himself away.
Mine.
The word echoes in the empty spaces of the house, bouncing off the exposed timber beams and settling deep in my belly, where a constant, low-grade heat has been simmering for twenty-four hours.
I dip my paintbrush into the jar of murky water, watching the crimson swirl and dissolve into grey. Late. Past midnight. Maddie has been asleep for hours, tucked safe in her room with her stuffed bear. I should be asleep too. I should be behind the locked door of my bedroom, just like Shane ordered. But sleep is impossible. Every time I close my eyes, I see him—the predatory intelligence in his gaze and the sheer, overwhelming mass of him.
I sit cross-legged on the rug in front of the dying fire, a sketchbook propped against my knees. I’ve been trying to capture the jagged line of the pines against the twilight sky, but my charcoal strokes have turned aggressive, darkening the page until it looks less like a landscape and more like a storm.
The front door opens.
No car approaches. He must have parked the bike down at the garage and walked up the gravel path. The heavy oak door swings inward, bringing a gust of cool mountain air that instantly raises gooseflesh on my bare arms. Shane fills the doorway.
He looks exhausted, his shoulders tight under his leather cut, dust and grime clinging to his jeans. He freezes when he sees me, his hand still on the doorknob. For a second, I think he might turn around and leave, retreat to the garage or the clubhouse to avoid me. Instead, he closes the door with a decisive click and throws the deadbolt. It is loud in the quiet room.
"You're awake," he rumbles. His voice is gravel and smoke, vibrating through the floorboards.
"I couldn't sleep." I don't stand up. I feel safer on the floor, grounded. If I stand, the size difference between us will be too stark, too overwhelming. Here, I can pretend I have some control.
He walks into the room, his heavy boots thudding rhythmically. He bypasses the kitchen and comes straight toward the fire—toward me. He stops three feet away, looming like a mountain peak blocking out the sun. He smells of cold air, motor oil, and that unique, masculine musk that makes my mouth water. Eventhe usual stubble he has has grown out a bit, like he's been too occupied to think about shaving.
"I told you to lock your door, Bianca."
"I’m in the living room, Shane. I can’t lock a door that isn’t there."
His jaw tightens. He looks down at me, his eyes hooded as he tracks the line of my neck and the curve of my shoulder where my shirt has slipped. "You know what I meant. You should be hidden away. Safe."
"Safe from who?" I challenge, my voice shaking. "The boogeyman? Or you?"
Shane lets out a rough, dark laugh. He rubs a hand over his face, his eyes bloodshot and burning with a hunger he isn't trying to hide. "There is no difference tonight, little girl."
The nickname shouldn't work. It's patronizing. But coming from him, with that low, dangerous timbre, it sounds like a caress. It makes me feel small and precious and entirely at his mercy. He drops onto the leather sofa behind me, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling between his spread thighs. He is so close I can feel the heat radiating off his body.
"Go to bed," he commands softly.
"No."
I turn my head to look at him over my shoulder. The firelight casts deep shadows across his face, making his scar look stark white against his tanned skin.
"No?" He arches a brow. "You forgetting who writes the checks?"
"You hired a nanny, not a prisoner. I'm allowed to sit by the fire."
Shane stares at me, the air between us crackling. Then, slowly, he reaches out. His hand is massive, his fingers thick and scarred, stained with the day's labor. He reaches out, his thick, grease-stained fingers tangling in the long, dark curls that spill over my shoulders and graze the floor as I sit before him. He rubs the strands between his thumb and forefinger, fascinated.
"You don't listen," he murmurs, more to himself than me. "City girl comes to the mountain, thinks she knows the rules. Thinks if she ignores the bear, it won't bite."
"I never said I didn't want it to bite," I whisper.
The air leaves the room. Shane’s hand stills in my hair. His gaze snaps to mine, piercing, stripping away every defense I have left. The admission hangs there, naked and terrifying. I have just invited the predator in.
"Be careful, Bianca." His voice drops into a low growl. "You don’t know what you’re asking for. You see the man who pays your bills and loves his kid. You don’t see the rest. You don’t see the blood on my hands."
I reach out, my fingers sliding over his scarred knuckles. "Whose blood, Shane? Is it Rina's?"
"The Costas didn't pull the trigger, but their presence was the catalyst. It was a cold night on the ridge, and they were testing the borders—showing teeth where they didn't belong. Rina panicked, the bike slid, and... they didn't stop. They left her." His eyes darken. "In this valley, if you aren't an ally, you’re an enemy. I don't hate them because they’re monsters, Bee. I hate them because they’re exactly like us—territorial. Lethal."
I turn my body fully toward him, abandoning the sketchbook. I reach out, my trembling fingers hovering over his knee, thensettling on the rough denim. The muscle beneath is rock hard. "I see you," I say. "I see how you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. I see how you breathe when I walk into a room."
