"Here," she points to a jagged peak marked on the paper. "This is where we went down. The coordinates match my final dashboard reading."
She drags her finger north.
"And this is us. Blackwood Ranger Station. Elevation eight thousand feet." She taps the paper. "We’re thirty miles from the nearest logging road. And that road’s closed for the winter."
She looks up at me. She does not show fear. She presents the data like a tactician.
"Nobody is driving a snowcat up here," she says flatly. "And nobody is flying in this weather. We’re stuck."
"I will establish contact with my family," I reply, my voice a low rumble over the static of the radio. "If I establish contact, they will send extraction when the storm breaks. We wait."
"Your family." She studies my face. "You mentioned them on the helicopter. The business you were chasing."
"Yes."
"Are they coming to rescue you, or are they coming to finish the business?"
She is too perceptive. She sees the sharp edges I try to hide.
"They are coming for me," I say. "And they are coming for you."
I step away from the radio. I close the small distance between us. I crowd her against the wooden desk.
I do not touch her. I do not need to. My presence fills the space between her and the desk. I plant one hand flat on the deskbeside her, anchoring myself. I lean down. Our faces are inches apart.
Old paper, gunmetal, cold wind, and aviation fuel crowd the air between us. The cabin feels smaller with every breath.
I look down at her. I catalogue each detail. The stubborn set of her jaw. The slight flare of her nostrils. The rapid, visible thump of her pulse at the base of her neck.
For years, I have calculated every human interaction like a threat assessment.
Standing in front of Reese, the distance will not hold.
The sight of her hits like something physical. The breath goes out of me. It is not lust. I already know what she tastes like. I already know how she shatters in my grip. This is something else. This is a permanent shift in the tectonic plates of my reality.
I do not name the feeling. I refuse to name it. Giving it a name makes it real, and real things can destroy me.
She catches me watching her.
Most people look away when I stare at them. My brothers avoid my gaze when I am still. Enemies flinch.
Reese refuses to flinch or look away.
She lifts her chin. She meets my gaze with unwavering defiance. She sees the ruthless, possessive monster hiding just beneath my expensive watch and my tailored restraint. She sees the violence I am capable of. She sees what I cannot hide.
And she stays where she is.
"You're staring," she says softly. The sass in her tone is gone, replaced by a low, rough heat.
“I’m cataloging,” I reply, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper.
"Cataloging what?"
"Everything."
I lean in a fraction of an inch closer. My chest brushes the soft swell of her breasts. She gasps. A tiny, sharp intake of air that hits my eardrums like a gunshot.
"You survived," I say, my gaze dropping to her bruised mouth. "You flew a dying helicopter into a mountain, you walked through a blizzard, you faced down a wolf pack, and you survived."
