He unlocks it and holds the door for me. “Home sweet temporary home.”
Inside, it smells like him—leather, woodsmoke, a hint of cedar. The main room is open-plan: cozy living area with a worn leather couch and a stone fireplace, small kitchen with butcher-block counters, a hallway leading to what I assume is the bedroom and bath. Everything is neat, masculine, lived-in. A rifle rests above the mantel, books on wilderness survival stacked on the coffee table, a sheriff’s hat hanging on a peg by the door.
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” he says, voice low. “Clean towels in the linen closet. Fridge has water, milk, eggs—help yourself. Bedroom’s yours if you want it.”
I turn, swallowing. “Only one bed?”
His eyes darken, but his tone stays steady. “Yeah. Or the couch pulls out and you can sleep there. Or, I can take the couch. Whatever makes you feel safest, Hannah.”
The word safest hits me like a warm wave. Because the truth is, both options feel safe when he’s the one offering. But the idea ofsleeping in his bed—surrounded by his scent, his sheets—makes something flutter low in my belly that has nothing to do with fear.
“It does,” I whisper. “Make me feel safer. With you. I mean… staying with you.”
His jaw flexes. That possessive growl rumbles in his chest again, soft but unmistakable. “Good.”
He shows me around properly—points out the thermostat, the extra blankets in the chest at the foot of the couch, the coffee maker that’s “fussy but reliable.” He even opens the bedroom door so I can see: king-sized bed with a simple navy quilt, one pillow dented from where he slept last night, a nightstand with a lamp and a worn paperback thriller. The sight of that single bed sends another rush of heat through me, mixed with bone-deep exhaustion.
We settle on the couch—me under the quilt, him on the other end, giving me space but close enough that I can feel his warmth. He hands me a fresh bottle of water. “Drink a little more. Then sleep. But first… you gonna tell me what you’re running from?”
The question is gentle, not demanding. His big body is angled toward me, elbows on his knees, eyes patient. I want to answer. I really do. The words are right there—my ex, the threats, the money he says I stole, the way he won’t stop looking— but my eyelids are heavy, my limbs feel like they weigh a thousand pounds each. The adrenaline that kept me upright for hours is gone, leaving nothing but a deep, aching tiredness that’s been building for months.
“I…” My voice cracks. “He… my ex… he won’t…”
Silas reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his calloused fingers brushing my cheek. The touch is so tender it makes my eyes sting. “Shh. Tomorrow. When you’ve slept. I’m not going anywhere.”
I nod, or try to. The room tilts gently. The fire pops softly in the hearth—Silas must have lit it while I was blinking. His voice keeps going, low and soothing, asking easy questions now—favorite color, whether I like dogs, if I’ve ever seen the northern lights—but the words blur together. My head lolls against the arm of the couch. The quilt is so soft. His presence is so solid.
I’m safe.
For the first time in forever, I’m safe.
The last thing I register is Silas’s low murmur—“Sleep, Hannah. I’ve got you”—and the feel of a blanket being pulled higher over my shoulders. Then everything fades into warm, dreamless dark.
I don’t even make it to the bed. But I don’t mind. Because Silas is here. And for tonight, that’s everything.
CHAPTER 4
Silas
Hannah’s curled on the couch like she’s trying to disappear into the quilt I tucked around her shoulders. Her breathing has finally evened out. It’s slow and deep. It’s the kind of sleep that hits like a freight train after too much adrenaline and terror. One hand is tucked under her cheek, the other loose at her side, fingers still faintly curled like she was holding onto something when she finally let go.
I can’t look away.
The fire’s down to embers now, casting a low, flickering gold across her face. That smudge of mascara is still there under her left eye, a dark crescent like she cried in her sleep and didn’t know it. Her lips are parted just enough that every exhale moves a tiny strand of hair across her mouth. She looks younger like this. She’s vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache and my hands itch to pull her close again. To shield her from whatever nightmare chased her into my truck and up this mountain.
Christ, she’s beautiful. Not the fragile kind. The kind that survives an almost plane crash and still has the strength to whisper “I’m fine” like it’s armor. My body remembers holding her. I remember every soft curve pressed against me on that tarmac, the way she trembled and then melted into my grip like she’d been waiting for someone to catch her. I’ve known her less than twelve hours, and already the thought of her walking out that door tomorrow makes something feral snarl in my gut.
Mine.
The word keeps echoing, low and possessive, every time I look at her.
A soft knock at the door pulls my eyes away. I rise without making a sound, cross the room, and crack it open.
Boyd stands on the porch, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, breath fogging in the cold. Moonlight catches the scar on his jaw, makes him look more dangerous than he usually lets on.
“She out?” he asks, voice pitched low.
“Dead to the world,” I murmur, stepping aside so he can slip in. I close the door behind him, careful not to let the latch click too loud.