Something shifts in the space between us.
Outside, the snow continues to fall, but in here, something far more dangerous is building—something that threatens the carefully constructed walls of my self-imposed isolation.
I’m already addicted to the way she yields to my command, and that’s inherently dangerous.
“How about we start with some hydration?” I maintain a steady and professional tone. It’s easier to focus on immediate survival needs than the way she unconsciously leans toward me, seekingprotection.
I lift the canteen. One hand supports her neck as she drinks. Her throat works under my fingers, fragile and soft. She lets me guide her. The simple trust in that gesture hits harder than any firefight—the way she lets me control the flow, support her weight.
Something dark and possessive uncoils in my chest as her throat works beneath my fingers.
Lock it down, asshole.
The storm softens. Snow still falls, but the wind’s dropped. Chaos remains alert, but there’s no movement outside the shelter.
“I’m Willow Reynolds,” she whispers when I take the canteen away. Her eyes meet mine, fear warring with determination. “My husband?—”
“The one who gave you those bruises?” The words emerge as a combat growl.
She flinches but doesn’t withdraw. If anything, she leans closer, like she’s starved for protection rather than afraid of male aggression. Bear rumbles, responding to my tension, and I force my hands to unclench.
“Federal Judge Steffan Reynolds. He found my flash drive. Evidence. Witness tampering. Money laundering. Worse. I’ve been gathering proof of his corruption for months. Years. Offshore accounts, doctored verdicts, connections to...” She swallows hard. “The men tracking me are his head of security. Drake and his men. They’re all Ex-Delta Force.” Her fingers twist in the thermal shirt I gave her. “They’re not here to bring me back alive.”
I process this while checking the storm through the lean-to’s entrance. The snow’s lighter now, but visibility’s still shit. Wind chill is hovering around dangerous.
We’re on borrowed time.
“When’s the last time you ate?” The question surprises her,but I need to know what I’m working with. Her physical condition will determine our next course of action.
“I… Yesterday morning, I think. Everything after that is…” She shivers, and I automatically pull her close, sharing body heat.
“Here.” I dig through my pack, producing a protein bar. “Small bites. Slow. Let it settle.” My hand stays at the small of her back as she eats, monitoring her breathing, the way she favors her left side.
Combat medical training catalogs each detail: probable bruised ribs, mild concussion, severe bruising, and possible internal injuries.
She manages half the bar before her hands start shaking. Delayed shock, maybe, or just the weight of everything catching up. I take the wrapper, tuck it away—no trace left behind, automatic after years of spec ops.
“Can you walk?”
She nods, determination replacing panic. I help her dress in the spare clothes from my pack, cataloging each wince and swallowed gasp. The bruises on her skin burn in my tactical memory, building a target package I file away for future use. Each mark feeds the predator I’ve kept caged, the one that wants to hunt down every man who hurt her.
“The evidence,” she says suddenly. “It’s on a thumb drive. I managed to—” She pats her pockets, panic flaring. “No, no, no?—”
“Inside pocket of your coat,” I tell her, remembering the way her fingers had gone slack when she collapsed, the gleam of metal catching my eye as the drive slipped free. I tucked it into her coat pocket myself, close to her heart. “It’s safe.
Relief hits her like a body blow.
She’s not just running from an abusive husband—she’s carrying proof that could bring down a federal judge. No wonder this Drake asshole was sent to eliminate thethreat.
“Listen carefully.” I cup her face, making sure I have her full attention. “My cabin is three miles from here. Uphill most of the way. It’s defensible, stocked with supplies. But getting there won’t be easy. Tell me now if you can’t make it, and we’ll figure out another option.”
She stares at me like I’ve just rewritten her world. “You’d do that? Change your plans based on what I can handle?”
The question carries weight beyond its obvious implications. I hear the years of being ignored, her limits dismissed, and her needs trampled. My jaw clenches.
“I protect what’s mine.” The words slip out before I can catch them.
Shit! Rein it in, Mason. Not now.
