“What were you picturing? Torture chamber? Hidden chains?”
“Honestly? Yeah. Maybe some taxidermy. Definitely less throw pillows.”
I glance at the sofa. “Those came with the couch.”
She wanders over to the fireplace and touches the mantel. Her fingers tremble. Just a little. “You live here alone?”
“Yeah.”
She nods. “Must be nice and quiet.”
“It is.”
I don’t sayit gets lonely. Because that’s not something I admit out loud. Not to anyone. Ever.
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” I say, steering us back to neutral. “You’ll take the guest room. It’s warmer than the back ones at HQ, and closer in case something happens.”
She stiffens. “You mean in case someone finds me.”
“I mean in case you need anything.” I hold her gaze. “You’re not alone out here. Not anymore.”
She looks away. But she doesn’t argue. Instead, she disappears down the hall, and I hear the door click shut behind her.
I lean back against the counter and exhale.
What the hell is her story?
I don’t buy the tough girl act. Not entirely. There’s something raw beneath it. Hurt. Worry. Maybe guilt. But it’s not my job to fix that. My job is to protect her. Even if every part of me—every primal, possessive, not-at-all-professional part—wants more than that.
Wants to wrap her up in a blanket and hold her through the damn storm.
Wants to know what made her eyes look like that. Hollow and bright all at once.
Wants to kiss her smart mouth just to see if it shuts her up or makes her burn.
I scrub a hand over my jaw.
Get a grip, Callahan.
She’s off-limits. I repeat it to myself while I change into joggers and toss another log on the fire. I don’t usually bother—let the house get cold at night, save power—but tonight I leave it blazing.
She’s got that edge-of-hypothermia look. And I’m not taking chances. I’m halfway through a glass of whiskey when I hear the soft shuffle of socks behind me. I turn.
Fiona stands there in a borrowed hoodie—mine, hanging off one shoulder—and a pair of leggings she probably snagged from Kayley’s emergency bin. Her hair’s damp from a quick shower. Her cheeks flushed. And her eyes… still guarded. But less so. She looks around the room like she’s memorizing the exits, then pads closer.
“Can’t sleep,” she says.
I nod to the couch. “You want the remote or the whiskey?”
She lifts a brow. “Are those my only options?”
“I’ve got Oreos.”
She smirks. “Sold.”
I grab the pack and drop it on the coffee table. She flops onto the couch, curling her legs under her like she owns the place. I join her on the other end, careful to keep space between us. For all our sakes. We sit in silence for a while. The fire crackles. Somewhere outside, an owl hoots. It’s peaceful. Almost.
Until she says, quietly, “I didn’t want to come here.” I glance over. Her gaze is on the flames, not me. “I didn’t want to ask for help,” she continues. “Didn’t want anyone to know I couldn’t handle it on my own.”