I blink hard, trying to make sense of all the motion. Then I see a man.
Is it him? Silas.
He strides through the chaos like he owns it—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a dark sheriff’s jacket that fits him like a promise. His hair is dark, his jaw rough with stubble, his eyes locked on me with a fierce kind of focus.
He’s… devastating. Like a man carved out of mountain stone and law. My breath catches. And then my body finally catches up to what just happened. My hands start shaking violently. My chest tightens. My vision swims. I’m nearly crying—not from sadness but from sheer adrenaline and terror and relief.
It’s him. It has to be.
Silas reaches the open plane door, stops, and looks at me like he’s making sure I’m real. “You did it,” he says, voice low. steady. “You landed.”
My throat works. “I thought I was going to die.”
“You didn’t,” he says. His hand reaches for me.
I move without thinking, practically falling into him as he pulls me down from the plane. The second my boots hit the ground, my knees threaten to give out. Silas catches me. Then—without hesitation—he wraps his arms around me and holds me close, one hand firm at the back of my head like he’s shielding me from the whole world.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs into my hair. “I’ve got you.”
My breath breaks into a sob. I cling to his jacket like it’s the only solid thing left. And as the medics rush Rick toward an ambulance and the runway lights blur through my tears, one thought pulses through my head, loud and clear: I have no idea who Sheriff Silas is.
But if he can sound that calm while guiding a stranger out of the sky… I have a feeling he’s about to change my life on the ground, too.
CHAPTER 2
Silas
Her boots scrape the pavement as she steps down from the plane, and her knees buckle like the ground just decided to betray her.
I'm already moving.
I close the distance in two strides, my hands finding her waist—firm, unyielding—catching her before gravity can claim her. She's trembling so violently I feel the aftershocks ripple straight through my coat into my palms, her adrenaline finally crashing now that the wheels are down and the nightmare is supposed to be over.
She grabs fistfuls of my jacket like I'm the last solid thing between her and oblivion.
Maybe I am.
"You're safe," I growl low, my mouth close enough to her hair that I catch the faint scent of jet fuel, sweat, and something sweeter underneath—something that's hers. "I've got you."
A sob rips out of her, and then she tries to choke it back, like showing weakness in front of me is a crime.
Don't.
Not with me.
Around us the tarmac is pure chaos: medics shouting vitals, stretcher wheels squealing, red and blue lights strobing across every surface. The instructor's limp form is hauled out of the cockpit and rushed toward the ambulance. I don't look away from her. She doesn't look at any of it.
Her eyes—wide, glassy, dark—are locked on mine like I'm the only anchor left in the world. I know that stare. I've seen it on survivors who clawed their way back from places they shouldn't have survived. Her breaths come too fast, too shallow. I slide one hand to the nape of her neck—not forcing, just holding—my thumb brushing the soft skin there.
"Breathe," I murmur, voice gravel-rough. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Slow."
She tries. Fails. Tries again. Each exhale shudders against my chest. A hard gust slices across the runway and she flinches, every muscle locking like she's bracing for the next impact. Instinct takes over. I haul her in tighter—possessive, immediate, no permission asked. My arms cage her against me and my whole damn body ignites. Heat roars through my veins, my pulse thundering in my ears, my skin prickling like I've just been hit with a live current. Every nerve ending wakes up screaming the same primitive word.
Mine.
It’s the kind of claim that says this woman is under my protection now, and God help anything that tries to touch her.
I force my voice steady even though my blood is roaring. "You did it."