Chapter 2
T he nightmare was always the same. I’d been having the same one every night for the past five years. The details were different, but the story was basically the same.
I was chased through a mirror maze by a monster I never saw. I could smell it, sense it, hear it, but every time it was about to catch me, I woke with a start.
This morning, waking was like swimming up from the bottom of a deep pool. It took me a moment for the adrenaline to wash away before I could where I was—and what had happened.
Then it all came rushing back. The snow. The avalanche. The man who I’d thought was a bear.
The fire was nothing more than glowing embers now, the kind that looked hot but gave off no real heat. The cabin was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that creeps under your skin. I shifted under the blanket, and cold air rushed in at the edges, biting at me. My ankle throbbed, a low, steady ache that matched the beat of my pulse.
I stretched a little, testing the stiffness in my body, and then it hit me—Silas. He wasn’t there. No shadow by the stove, no low grumble of his voice bossing me around, telling me to stay put or rest. Just empty space. The whistle of wind snuck through the cracks in the cabin walls, thin as a well-sharpened knife.
"Silas?" My voice sounded small, tinny against the heavy wood of the place. It barely carried past the bed.
Nothing.
"Silas!" I tried again, louder this time, but it still didn’t feel loud enough. The empty room swallowed the sound whole.
No creak of boots. No scrape of furniture. No answer.
I sat up a little, propping myself on my elbows. The blanket pooled in my lap, and the chill wasted no time sinking its claws into my skin. My heart picked up speed—not panic exactly, but something close. Nervous energy.
He’d told me to stay put. Ordered it, really. But what was I supposed to do? Lie here like some damsel in distress and wait for him to come back? That wasn’t me. In the city, you couldn’t just sit still. Sitting still meant falling behind, losing your edge.
I shoved the blankets off and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The cold air bit at me immediately, sharp and unforgiving against my skin. My toes curled on instinct, searching for warmth that wasn’t there.
"Okay," I muttered under my breath, bracing myself.
The first touch of weight sent a sharp lance of pain up my leg. White-hot and insistent. I sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. It wasn’t unbearable, though. Not enough to stop me. Slowly, carefully, I shifted more weight onto my good foot, testing how much this busted ankle could take. Each step was a gamble—pain arcing with every move—but I didn’t care. Lying there doing nothing? That wasn’t an option.
"One step," I said softly, like giving myself instructions would keep me grounded. "Then another."
I hobbled forward, gripping the edge of the bed until I couldn’t anymore. The room swayed slightly as I let go, but I stayed upright. Barely. My breaths came shallow now, each one measured, deliberate. I’d been through worse. A breakup, a job layoff, my car breaking down during rush hour. This was just physical pain. Manageable.
The cabin opened up in front of me as I moved, piece by piece, like a puzzle fitting itself together. Tools hung neatly on wooden racks across one wall—a heavy axe, coiled ropes, fishing lines. Everything had a place, every item purposeful. Nothing like the cluttered chaos of my apartment back home. There wasn’t a single thing out of order here, except my pack. I was glad he'd brought that with me. It meant I'd have a few changes of clothes at least.
I reached the table in the center of the room, my hand gripping the edge for balance. The wood was rough under my palm, but solid. Reliable. I leaned into it, letting some of the weight off my throbbing ankle. My eyes roamed again.
A wool coat hung near the door. Big. Definitely his. It looked heavier than anything I owned, built for weather that could kill you if you weren’t prepared. Next to it, snowshoes leaned against the wall, their frames dusted with dried mud.
I could picture him out there now, trudging through the snow, face set like stone. Checking traps, maybe. Or scouting the storm’s damage. He seemed like the type who didn’t sit still, who thrived in this wilderness that had almost killed me.
My fingers tightened on the table. The ache in my ankle pulsed harder, matching the beat of my heart. But I stood there anyway, steadying myself, taking it all in. This place was raw. Practical. Every inch of it screamed survival.
Just then, I heard something. Faint, uneven, like static whispering through the cabin. I turned my head, careful not to jolt my throbbing ankle, and spotted it in the corner—a radio. Old-school, with big dials and a scratched-up speaker. Above it, taped to the wall, was a scrap of paper covered in blocky handwriting.
"Snowview Rescue," it read. Below that: "Deputy Archer—Local Law" and a few other scrawls that looked like frequency numbers.
I hobbled closer, every step a test of how much pain I could bite back. The ache flared sharp and hot, but curiosity won out. I leaned on the edge of the table near the radio for support, my fingers brushing against the cold metal surface.
It was weirdly comforting, this little piece of civilization in the middle of all this rugged isolation. A lifeline buried in static and snow. If I wanted to, I could use it. Call for help. Tell someone where I was. Maybe even get a ride out of here.
I straightened up slowly, the movement making me wince. My coat hung on the back of a chair nearby, slumped and still damp from yesterday. I reached for it, fumbling through the pockets until my fingers closed around the familiar rectangle of my phone.
The screen lit up, faint but functional. One bar of service. Barely there, but enough. Silas had said I should let people know where I was. It was a good idea. My bestie, Pam, would definitely want to know what was going on.
I tapped out a message with clumsy thumbs, my hands shaking slightly from the effort of standing and the lingering adrenaline buzzing under my skin.
"Caught in a storm. Rescued by a hot mountain man. Safe but stuck. Will explain later."
Pam would freak, but she needed to know I wasn’t dead.
The reply came almost instantly. My phone buzzed hard enough to make me jump, and then her name flashed on the screen. Before I could blink, the ringtone followed, shrill and loud in the cabin’s quiet.
Of course she was calling.
"Jesus, Pam," I hissed, fumbling to answer. "Hello?"
"Ally!" Her voice hit my ear like a fire alarm. High-pitched, frantic, pure Pam energy. "Oh my God, are you okay?! What happened? Are you hurt? Where are you?"
"Slow down," I said, leaning heavily on the table. My ankle throbbed harder now, but I ignored it. "I’m fine. Mostly. Just . . . stranded."
"Stranded where?!"
"Some cabin," I said. "Middle of nowhere. Got caught in a storm, twisted my ankle. This guy found me, carried me here. He’s . . ." I hesitated, glancing at the door like he might barge in any second. "He’s taking care of me. I think."
Pam went quiet for half a beat. Then her voice dropped into something suspiciously close to a purr.
"Taking care of you, huh?"
"Not like that!" I snapped, heat rushing to my face. "He's just—"
"Uh-huh," she cut in, clearly not buying it. "Let me guess. Tall? Broody? Built like a damn lumberjack?"
"Pam . . ."
"Don’t you 'Pam' me! You’re living my dream right now, Ally. Snowstorm, mysterious mountain man? Come on, tell me he’s hot."
"Goodbye, Pam," I said, ready to hang up then and there.
"Wait, wait, wait!" she squealed. "Okay, fine, I’ll stop. But seriously, are you sure you’re okay? Do I need to call someone?"
I glanced at the radio again, its dials catching the dim light. Silas’s coat hung heavy near the door, a quiet reminder of the man who owned it.
"I’m fine," I said softly. "Really. I think I’m gonna be okay. I’ve got two weeks off work. I’m hoping I’ll be able to have at least a little vacation time while I’m here. At least it’s peaceful."
"And this guy . . . what are we working with here? Details, Ally. Height? Beard? Chest situation?"
"Pam," I warned, though I felt heat rising to my cheeks as I pictured him again. "He’s tall. Like, really tall. Dangerous-looking. Built like he chops trees for fun."
"Jesus Christ, girl. Are you sure this isn’t a fever dream?" She laughed, this high-pitched squeal that made me want to hang up right there.
"I mean, yeah, he’s good-looking, but he’s also bossy as hell."
"Good-looking and bossy? God, you’re killing me." Pam’s voice dropped into something teasing, almost conspiratorial. "Total mountain Daddy energy, or am I reading too much into this?"
"Pam!" My face burned hotter, and I suddenly wished I could crawl under the table. "Can you not?"
"Why not? You’re stuck in a snowstorm with a hot lumberjack who sounds like he’d spank you for misbehaving. If that’s not fate, I don’t know what is."
"Goodbye." I reached for the phone, ready to end the call then and there.
"All right," Pam relented, though she still sounded skeptical. "But promise me you’ll call if you need me."
"Promise."
I hung up, and tucked my phone into my pocket.
My attention drifted to a journal, resting on a desk by the window. My fingers brushed the leather cover. It was rough, like it had seen years of use. I flipped it open, my curiosity outweighing my better judgment.
The handwriting inside was sharp and angular, each stroke deliberate. No wasted space, no messy scribbles. The first few pages were filled with numbers and dates—weather patterns, snowfall measurements, things I couldn’t make sense of. I turned another page and froze.
"February 3rd. Found three hikers near Bear Claw Ridge. Hypothermia was setting in. Got them to the ranger station before nightfall."
Another entry. Another rescue. This one detailed pulling a woman out of a ravine after she slipped on ice. Each story was written like a report: matter-of-fact, no embellishments. Just the facts.
So Silas had done this before. Saved people. Over and over again. My chest tightened as I ran my fingers over the ink, feeling the weight of every word. This wasn’t a hobby for him. This was his life.
I leaned forward, scanning the next page. Something about snares—sketches of loops and knots, instructions on which trees were best for setting them. Then a page covered edge to edge with narrow sketches of animal tracks, their shapes labeled in neat block letters. Deer, rabbit, fox. There were notes on herbs too—"good for fever" next to one plant, "poison" scrawled under another.
My mind wandered to my cubicle back home. Beige walls, fluorescent lights. The only mountain there was the mountain of emails I couldn’t care less about. I’d spent so much time chasing promotions, deadlines, numbers on a spreadsheet that would all blur together in a year. Meaningless. Compared to this—a life carved out of raw wilderness—it all seemed so small.
A slip of paper caught my eye as I turned the page. Not paper, I realized. Thicker than that. A photograph, folded neatly in half and tucked between two entries.
I hesitated, swallowing hard. This felt different. More personal. But my hand moved on its own, pulling it free.
The fold came undone easily, the creases worn soft with time.
A young woman smiled up at me from the photo. She was beautiful—bright eyes, wild hair tumbling over her shoulders, her face glowing with something I couldn’t quite name. Joy, maybe. Or freedom. She stood against a backdrop of jagged peaks that looked eerily familiar.
But it wasn’t her that made my breath catch.
It was him.
Silas.
Younger, lighter somehow. Not just in years, but in the way he carried himself. His face was softer, his smile easy and open. Like the weight he wore now hadn’t yet settled onto his broad shoulders. He stood beside the woman, his arm slung around her waist, his expression practically radiating warmth.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away. This wasn’t the man who barked orders at me by the fire or loomed silently over the stove. This was someone else entirely, someone who knew how to laugh, how to love.
Before I could fold it back into place, the cabin door rattled hard in its frame, the wind howling against the seams. My head snapped up, heart lurching to my throat.
Then it slammed open.
Silas filled the doorway like a storm himself, broad shoulders dusted with fresh snow and cold air curling around him. His eyes cut through the room, sharp and dark, locking on me instantly.
Panic shot through me.
"Shit," I hissed under my breath.
My fingers fumbled with the journal, clumsy and frantic, trying to shove the photo back where it belonged. My hands shook too much, and the journal flopped shut, the edges of the picture sticking out in betrayal.
"Silas," I stammered, his name thick in my throat. My legs instinctively tried to backpedal, but my injured ankle screamed in protest.
The next second hit like slow motion.
My foot slipped, sending a bolt of pain up my leg, and I went down hard. The journal tumbled out of my grasp, the photo fluttering free as I hit the floor with a yelp.
Silas was on me before I could even attempt to scramble up. One second, the journal and photo were splayed out like damning evidence on the floor in front of me; the next, his hands were under my arms, hauling me upright like I weighed nothing.
"I told you to stay put." His voice was low, rough, but not loud. He didn’t need volume to make me feel small.
I opened my mouth to explain, but his eyes pinned me in place. Dark, unyielding, and sharp enough to slice through whatever excuse I thought about offering. My stomach dropped. "I—"
"Save it." His tone left no room for argument as he lifted me off the ground in one smooth motion, his arms locking around me like steel.
"Wait!" I squirmed, heat rushing to my face. Being cradled like a child wasn’t doing my pride any favors. "I was just—"
"Just what?" His brow furrowed, his jaw tight. He glanced down at the journal lying on the floor, the photo sticking out like a scarlet letter. Something flickered in his eyes—something raw and closed-off—and then vanished as quickly as it came. "You went diggin’ where you shouldn’t."
I winced. "Okay, yeah, but I wasn’t—"
"Not a word," he growled, cutting me off again as he carried me back toward the bed. The muscles in his arms flexed under my weight, his strength so effortless it made me shiver.
"Silas, I’m fine. Put me down." I hated how breathless I sounded.
"Fine? You’re on the damn floor, clutchin’ your ankle like it’s hangin’ by a thread," he shot back, not even breaking stride.
"That’s dramatic. It’s not hanging by a thread."
"Could’ve fooled me, hobblin’ around here like you got somethin’ to prove." He stopped short at the edge of the bed, his gaze hard and unreadable. "What part of ‘stay put’ don’t you understand?"
"All of it," I snapped, trying to wriggle free.
Big mistake. Pain lanced up my leg, sharp and unforgiving. I sucked in a hiss of air, too stubborn to cry out.
"Jesus," he muttered, lowering me onto the mattress like I was made of glass. "Look at you. Hurtin’ yourself worse just to be contrary."
"Contrary?" I bit out, my face burning with equal parts pain and humiliation. "I’m not some . . . some damsel waiting for rescue, okay? I’m perfectly capable of—"
"Of what? Fallin’ on your ass again?" His brows knit together, and for a moment, I couldn’t tell if he was angry or amused. "Newsflash: this ain’t your office downtown. You can’t sweet-talk your way outta gravity."
I bristled. “Hey. You don’t know I work in an office!”
“Am I wrong?”
I pouted. “That’s not the point.”
“Whatever you say, city girl.”
"Don’t call me that," I said through gritted teeth, glaring up at him.
"What, city girl?" He smirked faintly, the first crack in his stern facade. "What else should I call you? Reckless? Stubborn? Trouble?"
"Alana works just fine," I shot back, crossing my arms over my chest even though my ankle throbbed like hell.
"Trouble suits you, though," he said, his voice dripping with dry humor. But then his expression sobered, and he crouched down in front of me, his elbows resting on his knees as he met my glare head-on. "Listen close, Alana. You don’t gotta like me, but while you’re under this roof, you’ll do as I say. Clear?"
"Crystal," I spat, even though my blood boiled at the calm authority in his voice.
“You don’t want to be here. I don’t want you here. Let’s get you fit and out of here.”
“Sounds good.”
“So stay put," he said again, quieter this time but no less firm. And then he walked off, leaving me simmering in a mix of frustration, shame, and something I didn’t want to name.
I bit my lip, hard. My chest burned with frustration—at him, at myself, at the mess of feelings I didn’t want to unpack. The ache in my ankle throbbed like a warning, but it wasn’t enough to stop the heat rising in my cheeks. “I’m sorry,” I muttered, barely audible over the crackle of the dying fire. “I shouldn’t have gone through your stuff.”
His eyes shifted toward the journal and the photo still lying on the floor. For a second, just one, something flickered across his face—something raw and too quick for me to name. Then his gaze sharpened, locking onto me like a hawk sighting prey.
“I oughta tan your hide.” His voice was quiet, low enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It wasn’t just the words—it was the weight behind them, the way they hung in the air like a challenge.
My stomach did this stupid flip, and for reasons I couldn’t explain, my body felt like it was on fire. I should’ve been angry. Offended. Anything but . . . this. But instead, that strange thrill sparked deep in my chest, sending a shiver straight down my spine. I hated it. Hated the way my pulse quickened under his stare. Hated the way something in me whispered, Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad for him to tan your hide .
“You wouldn’t dare,” I said, though my voice came out too soft, almost breathless. Damn it.
His brows lifted, and one corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close enough to make me bristle. “Wouldn’t I?” he asked, dragging the question out slow, deliberate. He crouched again, picking up the journal and the photo with the same care you’d use to handle glass. When he stood, his towering frame blocked out everything else, leaving just him and that unbearable tension hanging between us.
For a moment, it looked as though her was going to say something. He sighed.
"Just stay put," he repeated. “I’ve got logs to split.”