Chapter 33
Blair’s Cabin, Outskirts of Kamloops, British Columbia
She unlocked the door and pushed it open, the hinges creaking softly.
Warm air met him, tinged with cedar, vanilla, and something faintly citrus…her. It wasn’t overpowering, just subtle enough to settle in his bones. Like the scent of comfort. Of place.
She stepped inside and flipped on a switch. A soft glow filled the open living space.
The front room was rustic, but not rough.
Knotty pine floors, exposed beam ceilings, and thick, warm colors on the walls.
A stone fireplace dominated the far corner, built from smooth river rock, with a wide hearth and iron rack stacked with wood.
An overstuffed, comfortable-looking couch sat angled in front of it with a folded wool blanket draped across the arm, deep green, shot through with burgundy and navy. Lived-in. Cozy.
To the left, a beautiful kitchen opened up, separated by a wide island and an overhead beam strung with hanging copper pots.
Soapstone counters, open shelves lined with mismatched mugs and spice jars, and an apron-front farmhouse sink that gleamed under the pendant lights.
A bouquet of lavender and thistle sat on the windowsill, half-wild.
It was so her.
Soft but clean. Minimal but not sterile. Feminine but not curated. Nothing here was for show. It was lived in, a space that invited him to drop his guard. He was halfway there.
“This is…” He turned slowly, still holding her hand. “…not what I expected.”
She glanced back at him, smiling faintly. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Something more…tactical.”
“I have a tactical blanket,” she said, nodding toward the green wool one. “It doubles as a nap weapon.”
He huffed a laugh. “That’s dangerous.” Fuck him. She was so goddamned dangerous.
“You’ve seen nothing yet.” She nudged him gently. “Come on.”
She led him down a short hallway. “This one’s the guest room,” she said, motioning to a small but cozy space with a simple bed and a row of bookshelves built into the wall. “I haven’t had many guests, but I hope Emily can visit this summer.”
He nodded, absorbing every detail.
Then she opened the next door. Her room was warm and softly lit, with a queen-sized bed tucked beneath the slope of the ceiling.
Cream-colored bedding, flecked with charcoal gray and soft blues.
A vintage trunk at the foot. On the far wall, beneath a comfy chair piled with clothing, a pair of old pointe shoes hung from a hook beside a framed photo of a dance company.
The room was personal. Quiet. Private, and it made something inside him settle, made him ache, and want. He looked at her, and she was eyeing the bed, her hand sliding along his forearm. He pulled the door closed, his mouth dry. Move on, fuckhead.
The next door she opened stole his breath. “This is my favorite room in the whole house,” she said.
It was a sunroom, but not like anything he’d ever seen.
Fully enclosed in glass, walls and ceiling, with a panoramic view of the ridge.
The floor was stone tile, warm from residual sunlight.
A cushioned bench ran beneath the window, stacked with pillows and a folded fleece throw.
A small telescope sat in the corner. A shelf of books. A basket of folded socks.
“You can sit here at night and listen to the stream,” she said softly. “It echoes off the rocks, and on clear nights the stars are unreal.”
He couldn’t speak. He stepped forward and pressed a hand to the glass. The trees. The stream. The silence. The sky overhead, open and clear, felt like freedom.
“Blair,” he said, voice quiet, rough-edged. “How did you not tell me you lived in paradise?”
She smiled, slow and knowing. “Because I reserve my time for special people.”
He turned fully toward her. “That so,” he said, one brow lifting. “I’m here.”
His eyes stayed on her, steady, unflinching, reverent, like the world had narrowed to her shape and nothing else.
“Exactly.” After a beat, she nudged his hip with hers, light and teasing. “I might have gotten you here under false pretenses.”
He blinked once. “What are you up to? You roping me into an op? You need overwatch?”
She laughed. “Instead of foreplay?”
He huffed out a breath, the corner of his mouth tugging. “I was such an insufferable tool. I was trying to contain myself.” His gaze dragged over her, unapologetic. “I didn’t stand a fucking chance.”
“Don’t feel bad,” she said lightly. “A Mountie always gets her man.”
He threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing off the glass walls of the sunroom. Every minute with her pushed him closer to the edge, the effort to hold himself together taking real, physical work.
“Duty calls. I’ve got to do something for HQ before we relax,” Blair said, her voice light, but Breakneck knew her too well. There was a purposeful edge to it, like she was bracing herself.
“What exactly?” he asked, his voice rougher than he intended. He watched her, trying to read the set of her shoulders.
“I need to bake a cake,” Blair responded, a small, almost mischievous smile playing on her lips.
“What? Did you lose a bet?” The question was out before he could stop it, a flicker of relief cutting through his tension. A cake. That was harmless.
“No. It’s Tyler’s birthday.” She said it softly, her eyes locking on his, watching him. And just like that, the relief evaporated, replaced by a familiar, bitter acid. Breakneck ran a hand through his hair, the gesture doing nothing to soothe the sudden, tight knot in his gut.
“Tyler…fuck.” The name was a curse on his tongue.
“I know he’s not your favorite person. I think I know why,” she said, her voice gentle now, which somehow made it worse.
“I don’t think you do,” he countered, his tone sharp. He turned away from her gaze, the accusation in it too much to bear. She thought this was simple jealousy. She had no idea.
“I’ve…never been with him, ever, Kelly.” Her voice was a raw, honest plea, and it made his chest ache. He spun back to face her, a harsh, humorless laugh escaping him.
“That doesn’t worry me,” he said, his voice dropping low. Dangerous. He stepped toward her without thinking. “I saw the way he was looking at me when I was on Talon. He knows your attention shifted. I know when a woman wants me. I’m damn good at it.”
The words landed hard.
That kind of confidence had always worked. It was easy. Women saw the body, the edge, the reputation. He let them. They got heat. He got distraction.
Nobody asked for more. He made sure of that.
But saying it now, here, it felt cheap. Like he was dragging old habits into a room that deserved better.
What he wanted from Blair wasn’t heat.
It was everything.
God, he couldn’t shake the lingering shame that stung.
He might not know how to do this right. He didn’t have a playbook.
He wasn’t operating from training or experience or rules of engagement.
He was going on instinct alone, and for the first time in his life, that instinct wasn’t telling him how to take.
It was telling him how to share…himself.
“Then—” She started, but he was done talking. He closed the distance between them, his frustration and too much regret boiling over.
“You turned to him when I was being that insufferable idiot because I was killing myself to keep my hands off you,” he snarled, the words ripped from his chest. “Trying to process my own shit the only way I knew how. So, you…got your comfort from him. He got pieces of you I wanted. That’s what pissed me off.
” His chest heaved and his breathing turned ragged, each gasp a testament to the storm raging inside him, angry and gutted.
He lifted a hand, his knuckles grazing her cheek with a tenderness that contradicted the violence of his confession.
“I want you to come to me, angel. Give me all your fears, hopes, and pain. I want to be your man in all ways that matter. God, help me, Blair. I want to earn the trust you say you have for me.” He’d laid himself bare, every ugly, desperate part of him exposed.
Her lips parted, and she blinked rapidly, her throat working to swallow past the sudden, overwhelming lump of emotion. “No man has ever spoken to me like that,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You’re making it very difficult to focus on baked goods.”
Blair’s eyes held Breakneck’s. His were the color of a stormy sea, but to her, they were an open book.
She read every dark intention, every possessive thought, every raw, carnal impulse he was fighting to restrain.
There was no hiding from her. The air between them crackled, thick with unspoken words and a tension so potent it was almost a physical presence.
She tilted her chin, a subtle challenge. Her fingers, resting on the polished counter, curled slightly, the only sign of the current thrumming through her. She watched his throat work as he swallowed, his jaw tight. He was a predator, and she was the only thing in his line of sight.
Breakneck’s gaze dropped, a slow, possessive sweep from her face down to her throat, to the frantic pulse beating there, and then lower still, lingering on all her curves before returning to her eyes. He stripped her bare without a single touch.
A muscle feathered in Blair’s cheek. She let her own gaze wander, tracing the powerful line of his shoulders beneath his shirt, the way his muscles tensed as if he were holding himself back from lunging across the space.
She saw the hunger in the clench of his fists, the raw, barely leashed desire in the set of his mouth.
Her lips parted slightly, a silent invitation, a dare.
What she saw in him was magnitude. Delicious momentum compressed into muscle and breath. The way he mastered it made her shiver.
He thought he had to hold it back.
She wanted him unleashed.