ONE
DAISY
The snow hits my face like tiny needles as I stumble out of the ditch. My left ankle screams with every step, but I keep moving because stopping means dying. Headlights sweep the road behind me again. The black SUV slows, engine growling low, hunting. I duck behind a cluster of pines and press my back to rough bark, breath fogging in frantic clouds.
My phone died two hours ago. No signal anyway. No one to call. Just me, the storm, and the men who want me quiet forever.
I wait until the taillights disappear around the bend, then limp toward the faint glow I spotted earlier. A sign half-buried in the snow reads HAVEN 7 – PRIVATE PROPERTY. The letters are faded, but the gate looks sturdy. Iron bars, keypad, camera mounted high. I drag myself the last fifty yards and slam my palm against the call button.
Nothing.
I hit it again. Harder. The cold has seeped so deep my fingers barely bend.
A voice crackles through the speaker. Male. Calm. Tired.
“Who’s this?”
Relief crashes through me so hard my knees buckle. I grab the gate to stay upright. “Please. I need help. They’re after me. I’m hurt.”
Silence stretches long enough I think he hung up. Then the gate clicks and rolls open with a low groan.
I stagger through before it changes its mind.
A tall figure steps out of the shadows near the first cabin. Broad shoulders, dark hair, wearing only a black thermal shirt and cargo pants despite the freezing wind. He moves toward me with purpose, flashlight beam cutting across the snow.
“Stop,” he orders when he’s ten feet away. Voice low, controlled. “Hands where I can see them.”
I lift both palms. My right one is bloody from gripping a jagged branch earlier. “I’m not armed. I swear.”
He sweeps the light over me. Takes in the torn coat, the blood on my jeans, the way I’m favoring my left leg. His jaw tightens. “Name?”
“Daisy. Daisy Madison.”
“Eli Mason. Medic. You’re bleeding. How bad?”
“Ankle’s twisted. Cut on my arm. Ribs hurt when I breathe. But I can walk.”
He snorts softly. “We’ll see about that.” He closes the distance in three strides, wraps one arm around my waist without askingpermission, and takes most of my weight. “Lean on me. We’re going to my cabin. It’s closest.”
I don’t argue. His body heat seeps through my coat like a furnace. He smells like antiseptic, cedar, and something warmer I can’t place. My head swims. Adrenaline crash, probably.
He half-carries me up three steps and through a door that opens into blessed warmth. Woodsmoke. Coffee. Clean cotton. The cabin is small, neat, masculine. Exposed beams. Leather couch. Stone fireplace. Medical kit already open on the coffee table like he was expecting trouble.
Eli eases me onto the couch and kneels in front of me. His hands are careful but efficient as he unlaces my left boot. When he peels off the sock I hiss through my teeth. The ankle is swollen, purple blooming across the side.
“Likely sprain. Maybe a hairline fracture. We’ll x-ray tomorrow.” He glances up. Eyes dark brown. Steady. “Shirt off. I need to see the ribs and that arm.”
I hesitate.
He holds my gaze. “I’m a medic, Daisy. Seen it all. You’re safe here. But I can’t help if I can’t see.”
I nod and shrug out of the coat, then peel off the torn thermal underneath. Cold air hits my skin. Goosebumps race across my arms. I’m wearing a plain black sports bra. Nothing sexy. Just survival.
Eli doesn’t leer. His eyes scan me clinically. Fingers probe gently along my ribs. I wince when he hits the sore spot. “Bruised. No crack I can feel, but we’ll tape them anyway.” He moves to the gash on my forearm. “This needs stitches. Eight, maybe ten.”
I watch him work. His hands are steady. Strong. Calloused but gentle. He cleans the wound with saline, threads a needle, and starts closing the cut with neat, even sutures.
“You do this a lot?” I ask, mostly to distract myself from the sting.
