Chapter 11 #3
That was the thing about Evander Cole. He never pretended to be anything other than what he was—a man terrified of his own wanting, standing in front of her asking for it regardless. It undid her more than any pretty words could have.
She crossed to the cot and pulled back the sleeping bag.
The canvas was cool under her palms, the pillow still holding the faint indent from the back of her head.
She sat on the edge and untied her boots, working the laces loose with fingers that had gone clumsy.
Behind her, he moved through the cabin, checking the door, the window, the rifle where it leaned against the wall.
The quiet rituals of a man who couldn’t sleep without first proving the world wouldn’t end while he did.
When she stretched out on the cot, her ribs gave a dull throb, then settled.
She lay on her back and watched him bank the stove, the firelight moving over the tattoos on his chest, the names of his dead.
He didn’t look at her until he reached the cot.
Then he stopped, and she saw the hesitation flicker through him, there and gone.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.
“You won’t.”
“Your ribs—”
“I’ll tell you if it hurts.” She reached up and caught his hand before he could argue. His fingers were warm now, steady. “Lie down, Evander.”
He did. The cot complained beneath his weight, and then he was beside her, too broad for the narrow frame, his shoulder pressed against hers.
He was warm. That was the first thing she noticed—the heat of him seeping through the thin cotton of her borrowed shirt, the solid length of his arm pressed against hers, the faint tremor still running through his muscles like a current she could feel everywhere they touched.
The cot was too small for two people, especially two people with reasons to keep their distance, but he didn’t pull away, and neither did she.
She turned onto her side, careful of her ribs, and the movement brought her face closer to his shoulder.
Up close, the skulls on his chest were stark even in the dim light, the names beneath them a permanent ledger of loss.
She didn’t ask about them. She already knew.
Instead, she traced the edge of the bandage on his forearm with one finger, light enough that he wouldn’t mistake it for pity.
“I’m not fragile,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
“Then stop holding your breath.”
He exhaled, long and uneven, and some of the tension bled out of him. The fire popped. The rain had grown soft, a hush against the roof instead of a hammer. Tilly settled near the stove with a heavy sigh, her dark eyes reflecting the embers.
Rainey pressed her palm flat over his heart. The beat was fast but steady, and the skin beneath her hand was hot. She felt him tense, then slowly, deliberately relax. Like a man teaching his body something it had forgotten.
“This okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.” His voice was barely there, rough as the scrape of a match. “It’s okay.”
She closed her eyes. The warmth of him, the weight of the blanket, the rhythm of rain on tin—it all blurred together into something close to safety. Not the kind she’d written songs about, all sharp edges and locked doors, but something quieter. A safety that didn’t require running.
His hand found hers where it rested on his chest. His fingers threaded through hers, careful, deliberate, and he held on like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the cot.
“I used to think,” he said, and stopped.
She waited.
“I used to think if I stayed alone long enough, the wanting would go away.” His thumb moved over her knuckles, slow and absent. “It didn’t.”
Her chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with cracked ribs. She lifted their joined hands and pressed her lips to his knuckles, the way she’d pressed them to the bandage earlier. His breath caught, but he didn’t pull away.
“Go to sleep, Evander.”
He turned his head on the pillow, and even in the dim light of the woodstove, she could see the shadows under his eyes, the deep lines exhaustion had carved into his face.
He looked younger like this, and older, both at once.
Like a man who’d been fighting so long he’d forgotten what it felt like to put the weapon down.
“Rainey.”
“Yeah?”
“The song you’re writing. The one about the cabin. Play it again tomorrow?”
Her throat tightened. “If you want.”
“I want.”
She smiled in the dark. “Evander?”
“Hm?”
“You can call me songbird again. I don’t mind.”
She thought he might answer. She thought he might say something more, give her another piece of the puzzle, another crack in the wall. But he went quiet, and his breathing slowed, deepened, and after a long while she realized he’d actually fallen asleep.
She lay awake and listened to him breathe. The fire died to coals. The last of the rain stopped. The mountain night pressed against the windows, and for the first time, Rainey Beckett felt something like hope.
It was small. Fragile. Probably stupid.
But it was hers.
And she held it close, in the dark, while the man who’d killed for her slept his first real sleep in years.