My teeth grind. "What the hell does that mean?"
"I mean…" She swallows, eyes darting toward the windows like she's expecting shadows to move. "I don't have anywhere. Not right now."
She’s running from something, orsomeone.
Everything in me goes cold and lethal at once. "You in trouble?"
Her fingers crush the plastic bottle. "I'm fine." Rehearsed. Automatic. The lie people tell when the truth has teeth.
I don't buy it. But I don't hammer her—not yet. She just landed a plane without hours of lessons underneath her belt. So I ease back. Soften the growl without dulling the edge. "Okay." I hold her gaze. "Then hear me clear."
Her eyes lift.
"You're not walking out of here alone."
Her brows pinch. "Sheriff?—"
"Silas," I correct, low and deliberate. I need her to see the man, not just the star. "You tell me what's chasing you when you're ready. Or you never tell me. Either way, you're safe."
Her throat works. "Safe from what?"
"From whatever put that look in your eyes and made you say you got nowhere to go."
Silence stretches. She looks ready to fight—used to scrapping for every scrap of control. I respect the hell out of it. But I'm not letting her choose a path that ends in a ditch.
I rise, and extend my hand. "Come with me."
Her gaze flicks to my palm, then back to my face. "Where?"
"Haven 7. Up on Wedding Cake Mountain. Gated rescue compound. Good men. Warm beds. No questions you're not ready to answer."
Her lips part. Something flickers—relief warring with terror. "I don't want to be a burden," she whispers.
"You won't be." No room for argument. "And I'm not asking."
Her eyes widen.
I lean down just enough that my voice is for her alone, rough promise wrapped in gravel. "I talked you out of the sky, Hannah. You really think I'm letting you walk back into hell on your own two feet?"
Her breath snags. For a heartbeat she looks like she'll break open again. Then—slowly—her cold fingers slide into mine.
I close my grip. Steady. Certain. Like I've been waiting my whole life to hold exactly this hand. "Good," I murmur. I pull her up, guiding her toward the door, toward my truck, toward the dark rise of the mountain. Every step, my instincts hum louder, sharper, more possessive. Whatever she's running from just made itself my enemy. And it's about to learn what happens when you hunt a woman I've already decided belongs under my protection.
CHAPTER 3
Hannah
The truck’s engine rumbles low beneath me, a steady growl that matches the man behind the wheel. I keep my hands tucked between my thighs to hide how badly they’re still shaking, but every time Silas shifts gears, my eyes drift to his forearms—corded with muscle, veins standing out under tanned skin, the sleeves of his sheriff’s jacket pushed up just enough to make my stomach flip. God, he’s sexy. Not in the polished, magazine way. In the raw, mountain-man, I-will-end-anything-that-touches-you way. His jaw is clenched like he’s chewing on the same protective instinct that had him hauling me against his chest back at the airfield, and every time he glances over, those dark eyes pin me in place until I forget how to breathe.
I’m so happy he was there. So stupidly, bone-deep grateful that the voice on the radio belonged to him. If it had been anyone else, I might still be standing on that runway trying not to cry in front of strangers. But Silas James caught me before I hit the ground, wrapped me up like I was something precious, and nowhe’s driving me up a twisting mountain road like it’s the most natural thing in the world to rescue a stranger and keep her.
The headlights cut through the dark, catching snow-dusted pines and the occasional reflective marker. Wedding Cake Mountain looms ahead, black and massive against a star-pricked sky. I should be terrified—I am running, after all—but the fear feels… muffled. Like Silas’s presence is a heavy blanket draped over every sharp edge.
I clear my throat, voice still hoarse from the cockpit. “The men at Haven 7… they’re okay with random women showing up in the middle of the night?”
He makes a low sound—half chuckle, half growl—that vibrates straight through my chest. “They’re not random. They’re family. And they’ve seen worse than a pretty pilot who just landed a plane with a dying man in the seat beside her.”
Pretty. He called me pretty. My cheeks heat despite the exhaustion dragging at my bones.