“It gives me responsibility,” he says. “And I take that seriously.”
I swallow, my throat suddenly too tight. “And what does that mean for me?”
He glances toward the trees, then back at me.
“It means you don’t leave this property without me.”
My eyes flash. “That’s not happening.”
“It is.”
“No,” I snap, stepping back, putting space between us because I need it. “I didn’t come here to trade one problem for another.”
“Then you shouldn’t have come at all,” he says.
Silence crashes down between us.
I stare at him, my chest rising and falling too fast, something twisting inside me that feels a lot like fear and a lot like something else I do not want to name.
“Say I stay,” I say slowly. “What then?”
He closes the distance again like I never stepped back.
“We get married,” he says. “And I find him.”
I blink. “And if you don’t?”
“I will.”
He says it like it is a fact.
Like there is no version of reality where that is not true.
“Why do you care?” I ask.
He does not answer right away.
And that is the part that unsettles me the most.
Finally, he steps closer again, until there is no space left to pretend there is distance between us.
“You showed up on my land scared and alone, willing to be my bride in exchange for protection,” he says quietly. “That makes you my problem.”
My breath catches.
“And you always this intense?” I murmur.
His gaze drops, just for a second, to my mouth, then back up.
“Only when it matters.”
Something in my chest tightens, something I do not understand yet.
“Where do I stay?” I ask finally.
He turns toward the cabin. “With me.”
My brows shoot up. “Absolutely not.”
