Chapter 6
Reagan woke to sunlight through dusty windows and the smell of coffee.
For three disorienting seconds, she didn't know where she was. Not the back room of her store. Not the cramped apartment she'd rented before she gave that up for inventory money. Somewhere unfamiliar, somewhere—
The cabin. The bluff. Channel.
She sat up, still in yesterday's clothes, and found him at the small kitchen counter. He'd made coffee on the ancient percolator, and the sight of him pouring two cups like this was normal—like they did this every morning—made something twist in her chest.
"How long have you been awake?"
"Few hours." He handed her a cup. Black, no sugar. She didn't remember telling him how she took her coffee. "You needed the sleep."
"You needed it too."
"I'm fine."
He wasn't. She could see the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders. He'd stayed awake all night watching the doors, watching her, and now he was pretending it hadn't cost him anything.
Stubborn man.
"There's no food," she said, wrapping her hands around the warm cup. "I should have thought about that."
"I'll figure something out. You should eat."
"So should you."
His mouth quirked. "You always this argumentative in the morning?"
"I'm always argumentative period. Didn't anyone warn you?"
"Must have missed that briefing."
Reagan sipped her coffee and studied him over the rim.
In the morning light, he looked younger than he had last night—the hard edges softened, the intensity banked to something almost gentle.
He was handsome, she realized. Not in the polished way of men who knew it, but in the rough, earned way of someone who'd been through things and come out the other side.
She'd spent nine years avoiding men who thought they could handle her. Now here she was, drinking coffee in a safe house with one who'd called her his like he meant it.
And she didn't hate it.
That was the problem.
"I need to work," she said abruptly, setting down the cup. "I can't just sit here."
"Then work."
He said it simply, without argument, and that surprised her more than anything else.
The men she'd known—her stepfather, the bosses who'd expected gratitude, the guys who thought buying her dinner meant owning her evening—would have told her to relax.
Would have made her stillness about their comfort.
Channel just handed her inventory and got out of her way.
She spread pieces across the kitchen table, falling into the familiar rhythm of pricing and sorting. Her hands knew this work. Her brain could calculate margins and value while the rest of her processed everything else.
Through the window, she watched Channel walk the perimeter.
He moved like something coiled, all that restless energy channeled into checking sight lines and testing locks.
She'd counted three complete circuits before noon, and he showed no signs of stopping.
Every few minutes, his gaze swept back to the cabin, to the window where she sat, like he needed to confirm she was still there.
Protective. Obsessive. A young man trying to prove himself to people who weren't watching.
Except she was watching. And she was starting to understand things she wasn't sure she wanted to know.
He was hungry for belonging. She could see it in the way he touched his prospect cut, the way he talked about Still's approval, the way he threw himself into this protection detail like his worth depended on it.
Somewhere along the line, someone had taught him that love had to be earned. That safety came with conditions.
She knew that lesson. She'd spent her whole life unlearning it.
"You're going to wear a path in the grass."
Channel looked up from his fourth circuit. "What?"
"The perimeter check." Reagan gestured through the window. "You've done it six times since I started working."
"Four."
"Six. I counted."
He crossed the distance to the cabin, stopping at the porch steps. Through the screen door, she could see the faint flush on his cheeks.
"Can't be too careful."
"You can, actually. It's called exhaustion. It makes you sloppy."
"I'm fine."
"You said that already." She set down the vintage brooch she'd been pricing. "When's the last time you slept more than two hours?"
"I've gone longer."
"That's not an answer."
Channel leaned against the porch rail, arms crossed, that stubborn set to his jaw she was learning to recognize. "I don't sleep well when there's a threat."
"There's always going to be a threat. That's what you signed up for."
"Not always." His eyes met hers through the screen. "When this is over, you'll be safe."
"And then you'll move on to the next crisis."
"Maybe." He held her gaze. "Or maybe I'll have something worth staying still for."
The words hit her low in the stomach, spreading heat through her chest. She looked away first, pretending to examine a piece of costume jewelry that didn't need examining.
"You're assuming a lot."
"I'm hoping a lot. Different thing."
"Is it?"
"Yeah." She heard his footsteps on the porch, the screen door creaking open. When she looked up, he was in the doorway, filling the frame with his presence. "Assuming means I think I've got a right. Hoping means I know I've got to earn it."
Reagan's mouth went dry. The jewelry piece trembled slightly in her fingers.
"You're very confident for a man I could kick out of this cabin."
"Could you?"
"It's not your cabin."
"No." He took a step closer. "But you're in it. And I'm not going anywhere."
She should argue. Should remind him that she didn't need a protector, didn't want one, had spent nine years proving she could handle everything alone. But his eyes were on her face, dark with something that made her pulse race, and the arguments wouldn't come.
"I'm going back to work," she said instead.
"Okay."
"And you're going to sit down and rest for at least an hour."
"Reagan—"
"An hour." She pointed at the worn couch against the wall. "I'll watch the perimeter. You close your eyes. That's the deal."
He looked like he wanted to argue. She watched the war play out on his face—the need to protect fighting the exhaustion he was pretending not to feel.
"Thirty minutes," he said finally.
"Forty-five."
"Fine." He moved to the couch, dropping onto it with the reluctant grace of a man who didn't know how to stop moving. "But you wake me if anything looks wrong."
"I know how to watch a tree line."
"I don't doubt it."
He closed his eyes, and within five minutes, his breathing had evened out into sleep. Deep sleep, the kind that only came when someone felt safe enough to let their guard down completely.
Reagan watched him for a long moment, this stubborn, possessive, unexpectedly gentle man who'd walked into her store and decided she was worth protecting. Then she turned back to the window and kept watch, her hands steady on the jewelry and her eyes on the tree line.
She let him sleep for two hours.
When he woke, he didn't yell at her for the deception. Just looked at her with something soft in his eyes and went back to patrolling.
The day passed slowly. Reagan priced inventory until her eyes blurred, then organized what she'd already priced, then reorganized it by category instead of value.
Channel brought her water, made her eat the protein bars he'd found in a cupboard, and watched the perimeter with an intensity that should have annoyed her but somehow felt like safety.
The sun was starting to set, painting the lake orange and gold, when she heard it.
Engines. Multiple vehicles, grinding up the bluff road.
Channel's head snapped toward the sound. In an instant, every trace of softness vanished, replaced by something harder, deadlier. He crossed to the window in three strides, positioning himself where he could see the access road.
"Three trucks," he said quietly. "Coming up slow."
Reagan's heart hammered. "Farris?"
"Probably. They're searching properties—checking vacation homes, looking for places we might hide."
The engines grew louder. She could see headlights now, cutting through the dusk, climbing the narrow road toward the bluff.
"The cabin's hidden," she said. "You said nobody knows about it."
"Nobody should." Channel moved to the front door, pulling it open just enough to see the porch. "But they've got local knowledge. People who know these lake roads."
The trucks crested the ridge. For one endless moment, the headlights swept across the tree line, illuminating the hidden drive that led to the cabin.
Then they passed. Kept climbing toward the main road.
Reagan let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.
"They didn't see us."
"Not yet." Channel hadn't relaxed. His eyes tracked the taillights as they disappeared around the curve. "But they're looking. And they'll keep looking until they find what they want."
"Which is me."
"Which is you."
He turned from the door, and something in his expression made her stand up from the table. He crossed the small room, stopping in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat coming off him.
"If they come back," he said, "I take the front. You hold the back."
"You think they'll breach the cabin?"
"I think Farris doesn't give up easy." His hand came up, cupped her cheek, tilted her face toward his. "And I think you're worth more than any amount of stolen merchandise."
Her breath caught. His thumb brushed across her cheekbone, featherlight, and she felt it everywhere.
"I can fight," she whispered.
"I know you can." His eyes held hers. "That's why I'm trusting you with my back."
He dropped his hand and moved toward the front door, taking position where he could see the access road and the porch simultaneously. His body was a wall between her and whatever was coming.
Reagan looked at the back door. At the bat she'd leaned against the wall when they'd arrived.
She picked it up without being asked.
The weight of it felt right in her hands. Solid. Ready. The same bat she'd reached for when Culver walked into her store, the same bat she'd held when Channel and Proof came through the door.
She'd spent nine years fighting alone. Every battle, every struggle, every small victory won by her own hands with no one standing beside her.
Now she had someone at the front door. Someone who trusted her to hold the back. Someone who looked at her like she was worth dying for and expected her to survive right alongside him.
Reagan faced the back door and waited.
Outside, the lake went dark and the stars came out, and somewhere on the bluff road, trucks full of men who wanted to hurt her were searching for a cabin they couldn't find.
Let them search.
She was done running.