Chapter 3
T he snow fell so thick it swallowed the world outside. Even through the frost-rimmed window, I couldn’t see much past the porch. Just a blur of white and the faint outline of trees hunched against the storm.
Inside, the cabin was quiet except for the scrape of Silas’s knife against the whetstone. He sat at the table, head bent low, his dark hair falling forward as he worked. The blade caught the firelight now and then, flashing briefly before settling back to dull steel. His shoulders were broad under that flannel shirt, moving slightly with each stroke, deliberate and steady. Everything about him seemed deliberate. And steady.
I shifted on the bed, the movement sending a dull ache up my leg. My ankle still throbbed, but the sharp edge of the pain had dulled over the last day or two. I could move it now without wanting to scream, though Silas didn’t seem eager for me to test it too much. Rest, he’d said when I tried standing yesterday. That one word, spoken in his gruff tone, had been enough to send me back down, biting my tongue.
He didn’t talk much—barely more than a grunt here or there—but he moved around the cabin like he’d lived in every corner of it for years. Maybe he had. The way he knew exactly where to find things, how to keep the fire burning just right, even the way he handled the knife—it all felt practiced. Natural. Like the mountains themselves had shaped him.
"You're starin'," he said without looking up.
My face went hot. “I wasn’t,” I mumbled, glancing away.
"Uh-huh." He set the knife down, the soft clink of metal on wood louder than it should’ve been in the quiet. “You hungry?”
Before I could answer, he was already moving toward the stove. The heavy boots he wore barely made a sound on the wooden floor, which seemed impossible given his size. He lifted the lid off a pot and stirred whatever was inside with a long-handled spoon. Steam rose, carrying the scent of something earthy and rich that made my stomach growl.
"Rabbit," he said, answering the question I hadn’t asked. "And some herbs. Not fancy, but it'll stick to your ribs."
"Sounds good." My voice came out softer than I meant it to, almost shy. I hated that. Hated how small I felt around him sometimes, like I didn’t belong in the same space.
He ladled some into a bowl, chipped along the rim, and brought it over to me. His hand brushed mine as I reached for it—not on purpose, just a quick, accidental touch—but it sent a little jolt through me anyway. I kept my eyes on the stew, pretending not to notice.
"Thanks," I said quietly.
"Mm." He grunted, already turning back to the stove.
The first bite was . . . different. Gamey, yes, but not bad. It coated my tongue with warmth that spread down to my stomach, chasing away the last bit of chill in my bones. I ate slowly, trying to make it last.
"You know how to cook," I tried again, aiming for casual.
"Been livin’ off this mountain a long time," he said, his voice quieter than usual. For once, he wasn’t brushing me off completely.
"How do you know what’s safe to eat?"
He looked at me then, really looked, like he was deciding whether or not to bother answering. Finally, he leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. "Trial and error. You learn quick what works. What doesn’t."
"Like those herbs you use?" I pressed.
"Some help with flavor," he admitted. "Others keep you from gettin’ sick. Pine needles’ll fight off scurvy if you steep ‘em right. Birch bark can help with fever."
"Scurvy? What are we, pirates?"
"Could be worse." There was a flicker—just a flicker—of amusement in his eyes. Gone almost as soon as it appeared.
"Still," I said, holding the bowl close to my chest, "it’s impressive. Most people wouldn’t have a clue."
"Most people don’t stick around long enough to learn."
“You know they have a walmart down in the town.”
He smirked. “Not really one for . . . talking.”
Every few bites, I glanced at him, watching the way he moved. There was something careful about him, even in the smallest gestures. Like he was always holding himself back.
"So, how long have you been up here?" I asked after a while.
"Long enough." He didn’t look at me, just added another log to the fire, the sparks flaring briefly before settling again.
"By yourself?"
"Mostly." Short answers, clipped. Like he didn’t want me prying too deep.
"Must get lonely," I said, testing the waters.
"Doesn't bother me." He turned then, fixing me with those dark eyes of his. They weren’t unkind, exactly, just . . . unreadable. Like the snow outside. “Eat your stew.”
I bit my lip, swallowing the retort that bubbled up. Fine. If he wanted silence, he could have it. But that didn’t stop the questions buzzing in my head, louder than ever. Who was he? Why did he stay up here, alone and half-wild? And why, despite his gruffness, did I feel so safe with him?
The cabin pressed in on me. Four walls, a low ceiling, and the creak of wood under my restless steps when I dared to stand. Every inch was familiar now—the stack of rough-cut logs by the fireplace, the battered tin kettle on the stove, the single chair that groaned under Silas’s weight when he sat. Even the shelves, lined with tools and books too worn to read without squinting, had become part of the scenery.
It had been days now, maybe a week—I wasn’t sure anymore. The snow outside fell in relentless waves, soft and steady, muffling everything. Silas moved around me like one of the shadows cast by the firelight, quiet, deliberate. He didn’t talk much, and when he did, it was all short answers and gruff instructions. Rest your ankle. Stay put. Let me handle it.
I hated him handling everything.
But I couldn’t deny his care. The man had patched me up, fed me, kept me warm. And my ankle? Better every day. Still tender when I pushed too hard, but bearable now. I could stand, even walk a little when he wasn’t looking. He didn’t have to know.
Outside the window, the storm finally loosened its grip. The snow eased into thin streaks, drifting lazily against the glass. Pale light crept through the trees and spilled over the cabin floorboards.
Silas stepped out again early that morning, muttering about kindling or traps. He never explained much, just grabbed his gear and left. The door had closed behind him with a low thud, leaving me alone.
And this time, something shifted.
I stared at the door for a good five minutes. Maybe more. My breath came quick, chest tight with… I don’t know what. Curiosity? Defiance? Both? My pulse thudded hard enough I could feel it in my ankle.
"Just look," I told myself under my breath. "You’re not breaking any rules if you just look."
His coat hung by the door, thick wool, worn soft in some places and scratchy in others. It smelled faintly of pine and smoke—his smell. I slipped it off the hook and swung it over my shoulders. It swallowed me whole, the hem brushing my knees, the sleeves dangling past my hands.
"Perfect," I muttered, tugging the collar closer to my face.
The door gave way easily, barely protesting as I eased it open. Cold air rushed in, sharp and biting, cutting through me like a blade. I sucked in a breath, unprepared for how crisp and clean it tasted. It stung my lungs, but in the best way, waking me up better than any coffee ever had.
One step forward. Then another.
The porch creaked under my weight, the sound startling in the quiet. I hesitated, glancing back over my shoulder, half-expecting to see Silas standing there, arms crossed, scowling. But the cabin was still. Empty.
"Get a grip, Ally," I whispered, shaking my head.
Snow spread out in every direction, untouched and glittering like crushed glass. The forest beyond seemed to lean in close, branches heavy with frost.
The valley stretched out below me, endless and quiet, like something from a dream. I hadn’t expected it to look like this—so vast, so untouched. It was the kind of beauty that made your chest hurt, like you couldn’t take in enough of it no matter how hard you tried. Pines dusted with snow dotted the slopes, their dark green needles poking through the white, and far-off ridges rolled one after another, fading into pale blue shadows.
I pulled Silas’s coat tighter around me, the heavy wool swallowing my frame. My ankle throbbed, a dull, nagging ache, but I ignored it. Just a few more steps, I thought, my boots crunching softly against the snow. I needed to see more. To feel more. The porch was too confining, too small. Out here, the air was sharp and bracing, cutting through the fog in my head. I felt alive again, awake in a way I hadn’t since before all this started.
Testing my weight carefully, I stepped past the edge of the porch, where the snow grew thicker. My breath puffed out in front of me in little clouds as I moved forward, slow and deliberate. The slope dipped gently ahead of me, leading toward the treeline. If I could just reach it, I’d have a better view of the valley, maybe even spot a trail or some sign of where we were.
"Almost there," I murmured under my breath, though no one was listening. Another step, then another. The snow crunched differently here, giving slightly underfoot. I winced as my ankle protested, but I didn’t stop.
And then, just as I reached the first tree—a towering pine draped in frost—I heard it. A low, steady crunch, deliberate and measured, coming up behind me. My stomach dropped. I froze mid-step, heart hammering as I turned.
Silas stood there, arms full of kindling, his broad shoulders cutting an imposing figure against the stark white backdrop. His face was unreadable at first—eyes fixed on me, mouth set in a hard line. The silence between us stretched, thick and heavy, until the disappointment hit me like a punch to the gut.
"Did I say you could be out here?" His voice was quiet and calm, but there was an edge to it, sharp enough to make me flinch. The steel in his words left no room for argument, no space to wiggle my way out of what I’d done.
"I was just—" The excuses tumbled out before I could stop them. "I wasn’t going far. My ankle’s fine. I just needed some fresh—"
"Don’t." He cut me off without raising his voice. The kindling shifted in his arms as he took another step closer, boots crunching against the snow. His eyes pinned me in place, unblinking, unrelenting.
Heat crawled up my neck, pooling in my cheeks. I wanted to argue, to fire back with something sharp and defiant, but the words died on my tongue. Under that gaze, every excuse, every justification I’d rehearsed in my head felt flimsy and childish.
"Get back to the cabin," he said finally, voice low but firm. He didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. The weight of his disapproval hung heavy in the air, pressing down on me harder than any raised voice ever could.
The cabin door groaned on its hinges as I pushed it open, stepping inside and shrugging off his coat. It slipped from my shoulders and landed in a heap by the hearth. I didn’t pick it up. My ankle throbbed, sharp and insistent now, but I kept my chin high, refusing to limp no matter how much it hurt.
He came in after, his presence filling the small room like a storm cloud rolling in. The kindling hit the floor by the hearth with a dull clatter, and then he turned to face me.
"You know better." His voice was low, calm, but there was nothing soft about it. Each word landed heavy, clipped, like stones dropping one by one into a quiet pond. "You’re hurt. Could’ve slipped, done more damage. Or the snow gives way beneath you. Or you get turned around. Get disorientated."
I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. Heat prickled the back of my neck as his words sank in. He wasn’t yelling—he didn’t need to. That steady tone, so matter-of-fact, made it worse somehow. Like I’d failed some unspoken test. Like I’d let him down.
"I wasn’t gonna—" I tried, but he cut me off with a look. That sharp, unrelenting gaze pinned me like a butterfly under glass. My stomach twisted.
"Don’t start," he said, shaking his head once, slowly. "Not out here. Not when the stakes are this high." There was something in his eyes—something certain, grounded—that made it impossible to argue. He reminded me of a teacher, the kind who didn’t lose sleep over whether their students liked them or not. They just did what needed doing.
And yet . . . there was something else, too, underneath the frustration. Something almost tender, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. That warmth fluttered in my chest again, confusing and unwelcome, making it harder to hold on to my indignation.
"Come on," he said, stepping closer. His hand found my arm—not rough, not gentle either, but firm, steady. The kind of grip that didn’t leave room for questions. He guided me across the room, his touch warm even through the fabric of my sweater. I didn’t fight him. Couldn’t, really. My ankle protested every step, and the heat in my cheeks felt unbearable.
"Sit," he said, nodding toward the chair in the corner.
I stopped short, crossing my arms tight against my chest. "I don’t need to—"
"Sit," he repeated, his voice calm but unyielding.
My jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought about pushing back. About doing exactly the opposite, just because I could. But his gaze never wavered, steady and resolute in a way that made my chest ache. I hated that. Hated how easily he could strip away all my defenses with just a look.
"Fine," I muttered, dropping into the chair with a graceless thud. The wood creaked beneath me, loud enough to make me wince. I crossed my arms tighter, glaring at the floor like it had personally offended me.
He crouched by the hearth, stacking the kindling carefully, piece by piece. His movements were slow and deliberate as always. “No more sneakin’ around, no more doin’ as you please when you know better. I know you don’t want to be here, but I’ll be damned if I let you hurt yourself again on my watch.”
I rolled my eyes before I could stop myself. It was instinct—one last little rebellion. His lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t rise to it. Just shook his head slowly, like I’d only proven his point.
“Are we clear?” he asked, his tone steady but firm enough to make my chest tighten.
I bit down on the inside of my cheek, fighting back the urge to snap something smart. My pride screamed at me to push him, to remind him I wasn’t someone who took orders well. But the weight of his gaze pinned me where I sat, and for reasons I couldn’t fully explain, I nodded.
"Good," he said, like that settled it.
It didn’t, not for me. My pride was bruised raw, and the quiet between us only made it worse. I shifted in the chair, the wood creaking under me again. Testing him felt inevitable, like poking at a bruise just to see how bad it hurt.
“And . . . what if I don’t agree?” I asked, tilting my chin up. The words came out sharper than I intended, but I didn’t care.
Silas didn’t answer right away. He inhaled slow, deliberate, like he was counting to ten in his head. Then, finally, he let the breath out and met my eyes. “Then you sit there longer,” he said simply, like it wasn’t even a question.
I glared at him. The nerve. My fingers curled against the arms of the chair, nails biting into the rough wood. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t budge an inch. Just stood there, solid as the damn mountain itself.
I thought about what he'd said before, back when I was rummaging through his stuff. That threat still lingered in the back of my mind, taunting me. My chest tightened at the memory, heat creeping up my neck. If he wanted to act like the big boss, fine. Two could play that game.
“What about what you said before?” I asked, my voice dropping lower, testing the waters. “That you oughta spank me for rummaging in your things.”
His eyes narrowed, dark and sharp as a hawk’s. For just a second, a flicker of surprise crossed his face, gone so fast I almost missed it. My heart kicked up, uneven and too loud in the quiet room.
"Don’t tempt me," he said, voice low and steady, like a warning bell muffled under snow. His arms folded across his chest, broad and unyielding. There wasn’t that dangerous edge I half-expected—not the kind that made you shrink back. No, this was something different. Controlled. Measured. Like he knew exactly how much weight his words carried.
I swallowed hard. My heart hammered anyway, too stubborn to listen to reason. "Why not?" The question slipped out before I could stop it, sharper than I intended. Testing him again. Pushing, just to see if he’d push back.
"Because I don’t give spankings for foolishness." He didn’t miss a beat, his tone flat and final. “Not like this. Not when you’re hurt and just bein’ contrary.”
The words landed somewhere deeper than I thought they would. My chest tightened against the sting of them. Contrary. Foolish. My throat bobbed as I swallowed the heat rising behind my cheeks, but it wasn't anger this time. It was . . . something else. Something I couldn’t name.
"Shame," I muttered, looking away—anywhere but at him. My voice wavered, though I hated it for doing so. “Lesson like that might sink in.”
His calmness burned hotter than any anger could’ve. How did he manage that? To make me feel reckless and small with nothing more than a steady look and a few clipped words? I’d expected him to puff up, yell, maybe even prove he was the brute I tried to paint him as in my mind. Instead, he stood there like stone, the weight of his presence enough to pin me in place.
“I doubt that,” he said, softly.
"Why not?" I shot back, sharper this time. My chin lifted, defiant again. "I can learn."
His shoulders rose with a slow inhale. He shook his head once, then turned toward the stove. The movement dismissed me without saying a word. He crouched by the fire, reaching for the poker to stoke the embers. Metal scraped against metal, loud enough to fill the space between us.
"Because you’re not in the right headspace," he said finally, without turning around. The clank of the poker against the iron stove softened his words, but I heard them clear as day. "And I’m not punishin’ you for the sake of punishin’. I’m keepin’ you safe. That’s all."
"Safe," I repeated under my breath, the word sticking to my ribs like honey. It didn’t sound real coming from him. Didn’t match the picture I’d built of this gruff, untouchable mountain man who lived alone with his ghosts. But there it was, plain as anything. Safe.
"Yeah," he said, standing upright again. He tossed another log into the flames, the wood popping under the heat. "Safe." He turned back to face me, brown eyes darker now in the flickering light. "Not scared. Not humiliated. Safe. Now, let me see that ankle. You’re probably fine, you can probably walk on it. But I want to check."
He crouched in front of me, rough hands steady as he unwound the bandage around my ankle. The firelight threw sharp lines across his face, catching on the curve of his jaw and the furrow of his brow. I wanted to look anywhere else—out the window, at the books stacked against the wall—but his closeness pinned me in place.
"Keep still," he muttered, voice low, like gravel dragging under boots. His fingers brushed my skin, light but deliberate, and I flinched before I could stop myself. He didn’t comment, just kept working, peeling back the fabric until my swollen ankle was bare again.
"Doesn’t hurt that bad," I said, more out of habit than truth. My ankle throbbed, a deep ache radiating up my leg, but saying it aloud felt like giving him one more thing to hold over me.
"Uh-huh." His grunt didn’t even pretend to believe me.
"You call this bedside manner?" I shot back, sharper than I’d intended. His lips twitched, almost a smirk, but it was gone before I could be sure.
"This ain’t a hospital, Ally. You want sweet words and hand-holding, you’re in the wrong place."
I hated how my stomach flipped when he said my name. “Noted,” I said, crossing my arms tighter over my chest. The corner of the chair dug into my back.
He finished tying off the bandage, sitting back on his heels to study his work. For a second, he didn’t move, didn’t say anything, just stared at my ankle like it held the answer to some question he hadn’t asked yet. Then he stood, towering over me again.
"That’ll hold," he said. "Long as you don’t go sneakin’ off again."
"Didn’t sneak," I muttered, knowing full well it wasn’t true. His eyes narrowed, and I squirmed under the weight of his stare. “I was just looking at the view.”
"Don’t test me, Ally." His voice dropped, soft but firm. It sent a shiver down my spine.
"Yeah, yeah," I mumbled, waving a hand like I couldn’t care less. But my pulse jumped when he stepped closer, close enough that I caught the faint scent of pine and smoke clinging to him. My breath hitched, and I hated myself for it.
"Look at me," he said, quiet but commanding.
I dragged my gaze up, slow, defiant, daring him to call me out. His brown eyes locked onto mine, steady as bedrock. No anger there, just . . . intensity. Like he could see straight through all my bravado.
"Next time you pull somethin’ like that," he said, voice low enough to make the hair on my arms stand up, "you’re gonna regret it. Clear?"
"Crystal," I snapped, trying to sound braver than I felt. His mouth curved again, that almost-smile that wasn’t quite kind.
"Good." He turned away, walking back toward the stove with an ease that grated on me.
My cheeks burned hotter than the fire.