Chapter 5
Chapter Five
C allie
The night feels heavy, an unnatural stillness hanging in the air.
Liam paces around the living room of his cabin, hastily scribbled notes clutched in his hand, a hunting knife in the other.
“It’s not random.”
I swallow the lump of fear in my throat. Liam came in from his workshop just a few minutes ago to find the threatening notes on the front door of his cabin–the tip of a sharp blade holding it in place.
Scribbled in a harsh, jagged script, the accusations are ludicrous, but their intent is clear: to unnerve, to isolate. They blame me for everything, from the fire at my studio to Liam’s limp, as if I have the power to rewrite his past. And they’re all written in a blood red crayon. And what’s worse–when Liam tried to take my car into town earlier to fill my gas tank–he found the brake lines had been tampered with.
I sit cross-legged on the couch, the faint glow of the fireplace flickering across the room, shivering with the realization that I was here the entire time. Whoever left these notes did it while I was right on the other side of the door. Was it while I was in the shower earlier? Or making lunch? Or on the phone with the fire commissioner about the fire report for my studio?
Liam’s pacing by the window, his broad shoulders tense as he peers out into the darkness. His jaw is set, and the look in his eyes is one I recognize—focused, determined, and more than a little dangerous.
“Liam,” I say softly, but he doesn’t stop pacing.
“Someone’s messing with us–with you. Who the hell even knows you’re staying here? It’s been three days and I haven’t talked to anyone about it. Hell, I haven’t even been into town.”
“The Devil’s Peak gossip mill is hard at work, I’m sure,” I whisper. I close my book—pretending to read it was pointless anyway—and stand. “Anyway, maybe it’s just coincidence, or–”
He spins to face me, his gaze locking on mine. “Your car was tampered with, Callie. That’s not a coincidence.”
I flinch, if Liam hadn’t noticed it earlier, I might not be standing here. I might be in a ditch somewhere, or worse, wrapped around a tree. He’s right. It’s not random, but admitting that out loud feels too much like giving in to the fear that’s been creeping in around the edges.
“Maybe it’s just bad luck,” I try, though my voice lacks conviction.
His expression softens, just slightly. “You don’t believe that any more than I do.”
I cross my arms, hating how small I feel under the weight of everything that’s happened. “So what do we do? Stay locked up here forever?”
His lips twitch in what might be the ghost of a smile. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
The heat in his gaze pulls at something deep in me, something I’ve been trying to ignore since the day I moved into his cabin. It’s not fair, how easily he can disarm me with just a look. And he knows it, the bastard.
“I need air,” I mutter, brushing past him toward the door.
“Not alone,” he says, his hand closing gently around my wrist.
I stop, my heart thudding a little too hard in my chest. His touch is firm but not demanding, his thumb brushing against my skin in a way that sends heat spiraling up my arm. I turn to face him, and for a moment, neither of us speaks. Warmth heats his eyes, something soft and protective that sends shivers through my system. I’m instantly reminded of the boy I knew–the one that was sweet and playful and not hardened by life. I resolve then to do my best to put this look on his face as much as I can–to be the light in the darkness that seems to hang over him now.
“You’re not a prisoner here,” he says quietly, his voice rough. “But you’re not leaving without me.”
The possessive edge in his tone should irritate me. But it doesn’t. Instead, it sends a shiver down my spine, one I can’t entirely blame on the chilly mountain air.
“Fine,” I say, pulling free. “But if you hover, I’m locking you out. I don’t need a clinger–” I tease, “or worse, another stalker.”
His lips quirk into a smirk. “Are you sure about that? Because I’d stalk you any day, baby.”
I burst into a fit of giggles, thankful for the levity even in the darker moments.
Later that night, I wake with a scream, my chest tight, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The room spins, and I clutch at the sheets, desperate for something solid to ground me.
“Callie.” Liam’s voice cuts through the haze, low and steady. He’s there in an instant, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling me into his arms. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
I shake my head, tears spilling over before I can stop them. “I can’t—I can’t breathe?—”
“Look at me,” he says firmly, tipping my chin up so our eyes meet. “Breathe with me. In... and out. That’s it.”
His voice is a lifeline, and I cling to it, matching the rise and fall of his chest until the tightness eases. He doesn’t let go, even when my breathing evens out. Instead, he wraps the blanket around both of us, holding me like he’s afraid I might slip away.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my hair. “No one’s getting to you. Not on my watch. Not here. Not ever.”
I nod against his chest, too exhausted to speak. His hand moves in slow, soothing circles on my back, and for the first time since he discovered my cut brake lines and the accusing notes this morning, the fear recedes, replaced by something warmer, something that feels like hope.
Then, without words, Liam carries me to his bed, curling me against his side, while he keeps watch over me like a sentinel. It’s not romantic—at least, that’s what I tell myself. It’s survival, plain and simple.
Except it doesn’t feel plain or simple when his arm tightens around me in his sleep or when I wake to find him watching me, his gaze heavy with something I can’t quite name.
“This can’t be comfortable for you,” I say in the morning, my voice husky with sleep.
Liam’s sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on his boots as the morning sunlight cuts through the window. He glances over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. “I’ve slept in worse places.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” He stands, stretching, and the sight of his broad shoulders and bare chest makes my cheeks heat. “But I’m not kicking you out.”
“Is that your way of saying you like having me here?” I tease, trying to lighten the mood.
He smirks, leaning down until his face is inches from mine. “Don’t push your luck, Baker.”
My breath catches, and for a moment, I forget how to form words. He straightens, chuckling as he heads for the door.
Damn him and his infuriating charm.
For the rest of the day, I manage to distract myself from the lingering fear with moments of levity between Liam and I, small pockets of normalcy that feel like rays of sunlight breaking through the clouds. Like when Liam shows me how to shape a horseshoe in his shop, his hands guiding mine as I wield the hammer.
“You’ve got to put your weight into it,” he says, his deep growl low in my ear.
“I am,” I protest, though my swing barely dents the glowing metal.
“Here.” He steps closer, his chest brushing my back as he takes hold of my hands. “Like this.”
The heat from the forge pales in comparison to the fire that ignites under my skin. His hands are rough but gentle, his grip firm as he helps me strike the metal. When he lets go, I feel the absence of his touch like a physical loss.
“You’re a natural,” he says, his lips quirking into a rare smile.
“Don’t lie to me, Grayson.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
His gaze lingers on mine a beat too long, and I wonder if he feels it too—the pull between us, undeniable and electric. I can’t stop thinking about that kiss we shared the night of the storm, right here in his shop. I can’t stop thinking how much I want him to press his lips to mine again, and how I’ve come to crave his warm body pressed against mine at night in his bed.
I’m growing addicted to this man and every fiber of me is trying to warn me how dangerous that is.
“I’m not used to this,” I admit, breaking the silence.
“Used to what?”
“Relying on someone.”
He grunts softly, his forehead hovering against mine. “You should get used to it, Angel, because I like taking care of you.”