Chapter 3 Avery
AVERY
The fabric of his flannel shirt is so thick it feels less like clothing and more like a heavy blanket, a massive weight reminding me Oliver is only a few feet away.
I stand in the middle of the bathroom, damp hands clutching the hem that hits me mid-thigh.
It swallows me whole. The sleeves hang past my fingertips, forcing me to roll the cuffs three times just to find my hands.
My wet clothes are piled in the corner, a sad heap of denim and cotton that failed to protect me from the mountain.
I catch my reflection in the small, frameless mirror above the sink. My hair is a damp, tangled mess, dark strands plastered to my pale neck. My eyes look wide. Frantic. A face that hasn't seen the sun in weeks staring back at me.
"Get it together, Avery," I whisper. The sound is harsh in the small tiled space.
I’m in a stranger’s house. A very large, very scary stranger who carried me through a blizzard like I weighed nothing more than a bag of groceries. Fear should be clawing at my throat. I should be looking for a weapon or a back door.
But the heat seeping from the vents in the floor feels too good. And the scent of him clinging to this shirt—deep pine and sharp musk—is calming me down when I should be panicked.
I take a deep breath, inhaling him, and regret it immediately. My heart hammers against my ribs.
I can’t stay in the bathroom forever.
I unlock the door. The click of the latch sounds like a gunshot in the quiet cabin. I step out into the hallway, the floorboards smooth and solid beneath my bare feet.
The main room is massive. Where my cabin is a rotting box of drafts and misery, this place is a fortress.
Thick, polished logs interlock perfectly to seal out the howling wind.
A massive stone fireplace dominates the far wall, a fire roaring inside it, cracking and popping with a violence that warms the air instantly.
And then there’s him.
Oliver stands in the kitchen area, his back to me.
He’s filling a kettle at the sink. Without the heavy canvas jacket, he’s even bigger than I thought.
Shoulders broad enough to block out the window in front of him.
A black thermal shirt clings to every ridge of muscle in his back, stretching taut as he moves.
He turns as if he felt my eyes on him.
Freezes.
I stop breathing.
His gaze drops to my bare legs, then slowly travels up the oversized plaid shirt, lingering on the buttons I fumbled with, before locking onto my face. His eyes are green—not the bright, friendly green of spring grass, but the dark, mossy shade of a forest where light rarely reaches.
Silence stretches, heavy and thick. I fight the urge to tug the hem of the shirt down.
"Better," he rumbles. The low vibration hits the soles of my feet.
"It’s... warm." My voice sounds thin, pathetic compared to his. "Thank you."
He turns back to the stove, setting the kettle down with a clatter. "Sit. Couch. Keep the weight off that ankle."
"I can walk fine."
"You were limping before you hit the floor," he says without looking at me. "Sit down, Avery."
I limp—trying to hide it, failing miserably—over to the leather couch facing the fire. It’s huge, distressed leather, dark brown and soft. I sink into the corner, pulling my knees up to my chest and wrapping the flannel around my legs.
The cabin is meticulously organized. Precise. Every tool by the fireplace hangs straight. No knick-knacks, no photos, no fluff. Just books on a shelf, a radio on the mantle, and a sleek, dangerous-looking knife resting on the side table next to a stack of maps.
"You said you knew me before I opened my mouth," I say, my voice gaining strength as I watch his massive back. "How long have you been watching my cabin, Oliver?"
He walks over, a steaming mug in each hand. He moves with a quiet grace that defies his size. No heavy footsteps. Just silent, predatory efficiency.
He sets a mug on the coffee table in front of me. "I know everyone who moves onto the ridge. Especially the ones who don't belong here."
I reach for the mug, welcoming the heat against my palms. "I belong here. It was left to me—an inheritance," I say, welcoming the heat against my palms while his heavy, moss-green eyes track the movement of my throat.
He straightens up, crossing his arms over that massive chest. Biceps bulge against the black thermal fabric. "Inheriting this place and surviving the winter are two different things. You have a toolkit from the 1950s and boots made for a mall, not a mountain."
My cheeks heat up. "That toolkit is vintage. It’s high quality."
"It’s rust and nostalgia," he counters flatly. "And you were trying to hammer a support beam with a wrench."
"I improvised," I snap, feeling that familiar defensive spike in my chest. "The hammer head fell off."
"Because it’s a piece of junk." He takes a sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim. His gaze is uncomfortably intense, dissecting me. "Why are you here, Avery?"
"I told you. I live here."
"No. Why are you here?" He gestures vaguely to the window, to the storm raging outside. "City girl like you. You hold a hammer like it’s going to bite you. You flinch when the wind howls. You’re scared of the dark, and you’re living in the darkest part of the valley."
I look down into the black coffee. Steam swirls up, dampening my eyelashes. "It was the only thing I’ve ever truly owned," I whisper.
"There are cheap apartments in town. Safer ones. With landlords who fix the heat."
"I don't want an apartment." I look up at him, gripping the mug tighter. "I want... mine. I wanted something that was mine."
Something flickers in his eyes. A shift. He lowers his mug slowly.
"Yours," he repeats, the word rolling around his mouth like he’s tasting it.
"I grew up in the system," I say, the words tumbling out. "Foster homes. Six of them by the time I was twelve. I never had a room that didn't belong to someone else’s kid before I got there. I never had a key that I got to keep."
The fire pops, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.
Oliver doesn't offer pity. He doesn't give me the sad tilt of the head social workers used to give. He just watches me, his expression unreadable, carved from granite.
"So you bought a wreck on the edge of Gunnar land," he says quietly.
"I inherited this home," I correct him, thinking of the biological uncle I never met. "It's mine. And I’m going to fix it."
"Not with that toolkit, you aren't."
He steps closer, and the air in the room seems to compress. He sits on the heavy wooden coffee table directly in front of me, knees spreading wide, invading my space. He’s so close I can see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, the coarse texture of his beard.
"Give me your foot."
I blink. "What?"
"The ankle. Give it here."
I hesitate, then slowly uncurl one leg, extending it toward him. He takes my foot in his hand. His palm is rough, calloused, warm and dry. Fingers wrap easily around my ankle. My foot looks impossibly small in his grasp.
Oxygen catches in my throat as he probes the joint with his thumb. His touch is firm, clinical, but my body reacts like he just ran a live wire up my leg. Heat races down my spine, settling heavy and liquid in my stomach.
"It’s not broken," he says, his voice dropping an octave. He rotates my foot gently. I wince, a small hiss escaping my teeth.
His eyes snap to mine instantly. "Hurts?"
"A little."
"Sprain. Maybe a minor tear." He keeps holding my foot, thumb brushing over the delicate skin of my arch. Distracting. Overwhelming. "You’re lucky you didn't snap it on the rocks. The trail up to your place is a death trap in this ice."
"I noticed," I mutter.
He doesn't let go. He keeps his hand there, anchoring me to him. "You shouldn't be up here alone, Little Bird."
"I’m not a bird," I whisper. "And I can take care of myself."
"Clearly," he says, dry and sarcastic. "That’s why you were turning blue when I found you."
"I would have figured it out."
"You would have died." The conviction in his voice chills me. Not mean, just stating a fact. "Hypothermia sets in fast. You were wet. The temperature is dropping to ten below tonight. You would have gone to sleep and never woke up."
I swallow hard. The reality crashes into me. He’s right. If he hadn't come out of the woods...
"You’re the Vanguard," I whisper, the title tasting like a warning. "I heard the stories at the hardware store. The Gunnars don’t just live on this mountain—they own it."
I look at him, realizing the danger of being caught in his orbit.
"My cousins run the club," he grunts, his thumb tracing my ankle with agonizing slowness.
"I’m the one who makes sure threats stay buried. I watch the perimeter, Little Bird. And right now, you’re inside it."
"They say you live in the woods because you hate people."
"I don't hate people," he grunts, finally releasing my ankle and leaning back, though he stays perched on the table, looming over me. "I hate noise. And bullshit. Usually, they come in the same package."
"Am I noise or bullshit?" I try for a joke, but my voice wavers.
He looks at me for a long moment. Firelight dances across his face, casting shadows in the hollows of his cheeks. Wild. Dangerous.
"You’re trouble," he says. "Big trouble."
He stands up abruptly. I flinch at the sudden movement. He notices. His eyes narrow.
"I’m not going to hurt you, Avery."
"I know." And I do. I don't know how, but I know it in my bones. He’s lethal—I can see it in the way he moves—but he’s not a threat to me. He’s a wall. A shield.
"Hungry?" he asks, changing the subject with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
"Starving."
"Stay there."
He moves back to the kitchen, opening a stainless steel fridge that looks like it belongs in a restaurant. He pulls out eggs, steak, vegetables.
"You eat well for a hermit."
"Fuel," he says, chopping a bell pepper with speed and precision. "Body needs fuel to work."
"What work do you do? Besides rescuing damsels in distress?"