Thermal underwear, wool socks, and a flannel shirt that hangs to my knees. But they smell like him, and wearing them without anything underneath feels unexpectedly erotic.
He’s in the kitchen, stirring something that smells like heaven. He’s removed his jacket, and the play of muscles under his shirt shouldn’t be legal. The way the fabric stretches across his broad shoulders entices.
When he turns to look at me, his eyes darken as they take in the sight of me in his clothes, and I can see him imagining what’s underneath—or what isn’t.
“Better?” Mason asks, his voice rougher than before, his gaze lingering on the way his shirt hangs loose on my frame.
“Much.” I settle into the chair he indicates, hyperaware of how his gaze follows my movements, how the flannel rides up slightly when I sit. “Your cabin is—not what I expected.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips, while I stare at his mouth, wondering what his lips would feel like against mine.
“What did you expect?”
“Honestly? A one-room shack with a wood stove and maybe a sleeping bag.” I gesture at the high-tech security panel, the sophisticated electronics, trying to distract myself from the way he’s looking at me like he wants to strip his shirt right back off me.
“This is like something out of a spy movie.”
“Former military contractors tend to be particular about their security.” He ladles stew into a bowl and sets it in front of me. When he hands me the spoon, his fingers deliberately brush mine, lingering longer than necessary.
The contact sends heat shooting up my arm and straight between my thighs.
“Venison stew. Easy on the stomach.”
I take the first spoonful, and he watches me eat with an intensity that makes me squirm. There’s something almost predatory in the way he observes every swallow, like he’s cataloging my responses, learning what I need. The soup is rich and warming, but I’m more focused on the way Mason’s attention makes my skin feel too tight, makes me want to arch into his gaze.
“Good girl,” he murmurs when I finish half the bowl.
The praise lands on me like a physical caress. Mythighs clench involuntarily, and from the slight smile that curves his lips, he notices.
“The dogs,” I say desperately, trying to focus on something other than the way two simple words have made me wet. “They’re not just pets, are they?”
“Working dogs. Bear’s a Newfoundland—trained for search and rescue, though he thinks his main job is comic relief.” Mason’s smile is genuine when he looks at Bear, but when his attention returns to me, there’s something darker there. “Chaos is a Belgian Malinois. Military working dog, like me.”
“Like you are, or were?” I ask gently, studying the way the firelight plays across his features.
His expression shuts down slightly, but there’s something vulnerable there. “Some things you never stop being.” His eyes meet mine. “Some instincts never fade.”
The way he says it, the weight behind the words, makes me wonder what instincts he’s talking about. The way he’s looking at me suggests they have nothing to do with military training and everything to do with the tension building between us.
“You built this yourself?” I ask, impressed despite myself, trying to ignore the way my body is responding to his proximity.
“Most of it. Took about a year.” He refills my bowl without asking, his movements bringing him closer. When his knuckles brush mine, neither of us pulls away immediately. “Good project for a man with too much time and too many things to forget.”
The honesty in that statement hits me like a punch to the chest. This isn’t a cabin—it’s a fortress. A sanctuary. A place to heal from whatever haunts him. And he’s brought me into it.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “For bringing trouble to your sanctuary.”
Mason’s eyes meet mine, steady and sure, and the intensity there steals my breath.
“You’re not trouble, Willow.” He reaches out, cups my chinwith fingers that are gentle but firm, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. “You’re someone who needed help, and I was in a position to give it. That’s all that matters.”
But it’s not all that matters, and we both know it. My mouth opens to argue, but his thumb traces along my lower lip, stealing the words. The urge to suck it into my mouth, to taste his skin, overwhelms me. The air between us is charged with possibility, with want, with something that feels inevitable.
“Finish your stew,” he says softly, but there’s command in it, and my body responds before my mind can protest. I obey, taking another spoonful, and the approval in his eyes makes warmth spread through my chest.
We fall into comfortable silence, but the tension between us is palpable. Every glance feels loaded, every accidental touch electric. I finish the second bowl of stew, feeling more human than I have in months, more alive than I’ve felt in years. But underneath the contentment is something else—a building need that has nothing to do with food or shelter.
Mason moves around the kitchen, cleaning up. I should offer to help, but I’m mesmerized by the economical grace of his movements, the way he commands even this domestic space. When he catches me staring, his eyes darken.
