“I love them!” I gush as Jake rolls over and exposes his belly for rubs. I spend a few minutes giving him all the puppy love and then giggle when he licks my cheeks in thanks.
Wyatt just stares at me like he’s already solved me.
“So the rules,” he says, and it isn’t a suggestion.
I blink. “Your dog gives a warmer welcome than you do.”
His gaze slides over me, slow, controlled, rude. “You want a warm welcome, you can go back down the mountain. You want safe, you listen.”
The way he sayssafeshould not make heat curl low in my belly, but it does. I shift my weight, annoyed at myself, and make my mouth do something sharp. “Do you talk to everyone like they’re one wrong move from getting grounded?”
“Yes,” he says immediately. “And it works.”
I scoff. “I’m not a kid, Wyatt.”
His mouth twitches like he’s amused by the fact I said his name. He steps closer, not in a threatening way—worse. In a confident way. Like he knows I’m going to hold my ground because I always do, and he’s counting on it.
“You’re not a kid,” he agrees, voice low. “That’s the problem.”
My throat tightens. “Excuse me?”
He tilts his head, eyes dark. “You’re in my cabin, wearing that look that says you’d rather chew glass than admit you’re scared, and you think I’m going to play nice?”
“I don’t think you play nice with anyone,” I shoot back.
His gaze flicks to my mouth. “Careful.”
“Careful?” I repeat, laugh too bright. “You’re the one who posted a mail-order bride ad like you’re a grumpy pioneer.”
His jaw shifts. The control on his face holds, but I see the strain at the edges. The way his hand flexes once at his side like it wants to grab something.
Me, probably.
He doesn’t. He just says, “First rule. You don’t leave this property without telling me.”
I lift my brows. “That’s not a rule. That’s a hostage situation.”
He steps closer again, until I can smell him properly. My pulse stutters like it’s tripping over its own feet.
“You’re not a hostage,” he says. “You’re protected.”
“By you.”
“By me.”
The way he repeats it makes my stomach flip. I tilt my chin, refusing to let him see it. “Second rule?”
“You stay where I can find you,” he says.
I blink. “That’s the same rule.”
“It’s not,” he says, patient like he’s talking to a child. “First rule is about leaving. Second rule is about disappearing.”
My spine goes stiff. “I’m not disappearing.”
He watches my face like he’s reading a lie I don’t want to admit. “Not on purpose, you’re not.”
I push the words out with a smirk because if I don’t, they’ll come out trembling. “Are you always this controlling, or is this your special mail-order bride personality?”
