Chapter 25 A Moment of Reprieve
Now
The safe house sits like a forgotten relic among the Vermont mountains, its weathered cedar shingles and darkened windows speaking of years of abandonment.
Max’s family retreat—if you can call a fortress disguised as a rustic cabin a retreat—feels more like a tomb than a sanctuary as we carry our hastily packed bags up the gravel drive.
“Home sweet home,” Max mutters, fumbling with an old-fashioned key that looks like it belongs in a museum. The lock turns with a grinding protest that echoes through the surrounding pines.
Inside, the air tastes stale and forgotten. Dust motes dance in the weak afternoon light filtering through grimy windows, and everything—the leather furniture, the stone fireplace, the mounted deer heads watching us with glass eyes—feels frozen in time.
“Jesus,” I breathe, setting my bag down on a side table that immediately releases a small cloud of dust. “When was the last time anyone was here?”
“My father brought me here once when I was twelve. Some bonding trip that lasted exactly three hours before he got a business call, and we flew back to civilization.” Max moves through the space with the confidence of someone revisiting a childhood memory, but there’s tension in his shoulders that speaks to the complicated relationship he has with his family’s legacy.
I drift toward the massive stone fireplace, running my fingers along the mantelpiece and coming away with enough dust to write my name. “No electricity?”
“Generator out back, but I need to get it running.” He disappears into what I assume is a kitchen, and I hear the sound of cabinets opening and closing. “There’s bottled water and some canned goods. Enough to last us a few days while we figure out our next move.”
A few days. The reality of our situation crashes over me like ice water. We’re hiding in a cabin that time forgot, running from faceless enemies who’ve been orchestrating our lives from the shadows, with no idea who we can trust or where we can go.
“This is insane,” I say, more to myself than to Max. “Three months ago, I went back to being worried about final exams and whether you’d ask me to the school’s dance. Now we’re fugitives hiding from some shadow organization that thinks I owe them my life.”
“Hey.” Max appears in the doorway, his sleeves rolled up and dust streaking his expensive sweater. “We’re not fugitives. We’re survivors taking control of our own story.”
“Are we?” I sink into one of the leather armchairs, ignoring the way it creaks ominously under my weight. “Because it feels like we’re just running from one hiding place to another, reacting instead of acting.”
He studies my face with that intensity I’ve come to associate with moments when he sees through my carefully maintained composure to the fear underneath. “What would you rather be doing?”
“Fighting back.” The words surprise me with their vehemence. “I’m tired of being afraid, Max. Tired of looking over my shoulder, tired of jumping at shadows. My whole life, I’ve been either a victim or a weapon, and I’m done with both.”
“Good.” He crosses to the window, peering through the grimy glass at the darkening forest beyond. “Because I have some ideas about how to do exactly that.”
But even as he speaks, even as I feel that familiar spark of determination igniting in my chest, the oppressive silence of the cabin presses down on us. No television, no internet, no connection to the outside world. Just us, the dust, and the weight of everything we’ve lost.
“God, it’s quiet here,” I mutter, standing to pace the small living area. “How do people live like this? No stimulation, no distraction, nothing but your own thoughts echoing around inside your head.”
“Some people find peace in quiet.”
“I’m not some people.” I run my hands through my hair, feeling suddenly restless and trapped. “I need noise, movement, something to focus on besides the fact that everyone I ever trusted either betrayed me or is trying to kill me.”
The silence stretches between us, broken only by the settling of old wood and the distant whisper of wind through pine branches. It’s the kind of profound quiet that makes people hyperaware of their own breathing, their own heartbeat, the way their clothes rustle when they move.
“Belle.” Max’s voice is softer now, and when I turn, he’s moved closer, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his dark eyes. “You’re spiraling.”
“I’m processing.”
“You’re panicking.” His hands find my shoulders, warm and steady and real. “And that’s okay. After everything we’ve learned today, after those photographs and documents and threats—panic is a completely rational response.”
The gentleness in his voice nearly undoes me. I’ve spent so many years being strong, being controlled, being whatever version of Belle the situation demanded. The idea of letting myself fall apart, even here in the middle of nowhere with no one to see, feels both terrifying and oddly appealing.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit, my voice smaller than I intended.
“How to be normal, how to have a relationship that isn’t built on manipulation or survival.
I’ve been trying. We’ve been trying. But I still don’t know how to trust someone completely when everyone I’ve ever trusted has had ulterior motives. ”
“You’re doing it right now.” His thumbs brush along my collarbones, and I realize how close we’re standing, how the fading light through the windows casts his face in sharp relief. “Trusting me. Being honest about your fears instead of performing strength you don’t feel.”
“Max—”
“I know you’re scared,” he continues, his voice dropping to that intimate register that makes something warm unfurl in my chest. “I know everything feels uncertain and dangerous and out of control. But Belle, you’re not alone in this anymore.
Whatever happens, wherever this leads, we face it together. ”
The words should comfort me, but instead they ignite something else entirely—a desperate need for connection, for proof that this thing between us is real despite everything trying to tear us apart.
I close the distance between us, my lips finding his with a hunger that surprises us both. He tastes like coffee and determination and something uniquely Max that I’ve become addicted to. His arms come around me immediately, pulling me against the solid warmth of his chest.
“Belle,” he breathes against my mouth, and I can hear the question in his voice, the careful consideration that always comes before we take these steps together.
“Don’t think,” I whisper, my fingers finding the buttons of his shirt. “Please, Max. I need to feel something other than fear. I need to feel alive.”
“I’ll give you all that, baby,” he promises. “But first, I need to get the fireplace going. Will you find a blanket or something for us to camp in front of it?”
“Okay,” I whisper, pressing another kiss to his lips before retreating to the living room. I drag a musty-smelling blanket from one of the wooden armchairs and place it in front of the fireplace.
“It’s still damp, but if we keep the fire burning, it should heat the place up soon enough.” Max adds another log to the steadily growing flame and rises. His arms pull me close, like I’ve only been a fraction of a step away from them for so long.
I smile. “Are you gonna fuck my brains out, Max?”
He makes a low hum in the back of his throat. “And the other way round. But that’s not sex. That’s fucking. If we’re going to do this, I want to know that it means something.”
“You know I love you. Every part of you.”
“And I love you too, Belle,” he breathes. “Now tell me what you need from me, and don’t be shy. Do you want me to make love to you or fuck you?”
“Fuck me, Max,” I reply without hesitation. “Fuck me good. Hard. Rough even. I need it. I need you.”
Max wastes no time and lays me on the blanket in front of the fireplace. There’s an urgency now, not just a need to prove to each other that we’re still here, but also our need to protect our hearts from unforeseen dangers.
Max strips off my clothes, starting with my blouse, opening the button and yanking up the fabric. It rips, and that makes me laugh. A short, amused laugh. “Ripping my clothes is a good start.”
“Oh, we’re just getting started.” He unfastens my bra and sucks a nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive areola and scraping his teeth gently against the nub. Then he bites, and I gasp at the not-unpleasant sensation. “How does it feel when I bite your nipples? Too much?”
I shake my head. “Perfect. God, yes. Harder.”
But he doesn’t give me what I ask for. Instead, his mouth travels down my body, nibbling at the sensitized skin of my ribs, scraping his teeth against the little dip in my stomach that drives me wild.
When he reaches the zipper on my pants, he pulls it open with his teeth, his eyes glinting mischievously in the firelight.
“Fuck, that’s sexy,” I groan, arching my hips to give him better access. “Do the rest too. Your teeth, Max. Use them.”
He grins, releasing the button and tugging my pants slowly down my legs. The worn leather is cold against my skin, even as heat builds inside me. Max tosses the pants aside, staring at me with an intensity that threatens to consume us both.
His pants fly off his body within seconds, and there he is, glorious and hard and ready, restrained by his boxer briefs. He crouches over me on all fours and devours my mouth, nipping at my bottom lip, his cock hard against my stomach.
“You are fire, and I want to burn alive,” he says, his voice somewhere between reverent and desperate.
The weight of his body keeps me anchored while his teeth leave bruising kisses along my throat, down my breasts, across my ribs, scraping and sucking and claiming every inch of exposed skin.
When he reaches the delicate crease where my thigh meets my torso, he grazes the place with his teeth and looks up, dark eyes sparkling.