Chapter 3
THREE
WILLA
I wake to the smell of coffee and bacon, thick and warm, pulling me out of sleep like a gentle hand.
My body protests the movement before my brain fully catches up.
A dull throb pulses along my arm where the gash is bandaged, and my ribs ache when I breathe too deep, but it’s not the sharp, tearing pain from yesterday.
Just soreness. Manageable. I’m alive. I’m warm.
That’s more than I expected twenty-four hours ago.
The bedroom is dim, heavy quilts still tucked around me, smelling faintly of cedar and him—Colt.
I press my face into the pillow for one guilty second, inhaling, then force myself to sit up.
My borrowed shirt slips off one shoulder.
I tug it back into place, fingers brushing the soft, worn fabric.
It’s huge on me. The hem brushes the tops of my thighs.
No pants. My own were shredded and blood-soaked; he must have thrown them out or washed them while I slept.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed. The floorboards are cold under my bare feet. I pad quietly to the door, crack it open, and peer out.
The main room is bathed in pale gray light filtering through frost-crusted windows. The fire’s been stoked again, crackling low. And there he is.
Colt stands at the small cookstove in the kitchen nook, back to me, broad shoulders filling the space.
No shirt. Just worn jeans slung low on his hips, a leather belt, and miles of golden-brown skin stretched over muscle that shifts with every small movement.
Scars crisscross his back—some thin and white, some thicker and raised—like a map of fights he won and some he barely survived.
A dark tattoo curls over one shoulder blade, something intricate I can’t make out from here.
His dark hair is mussed, still damp like he washed up recently, and a few droplets cling to the ends, sliding down the groove of his spine when he moves.
My mouth goes dry.
Heat blooms low in my belly, sudden and startling.
I’ve never felt anything like this before—not this sharp, this immediate.
My thighs press together instinctively. I’m twenty-three, and I’ve never had sex.
Never even come close. The men I knew before—my ex and his circle—made sure I understood I was something to control, not desire.
But standing here, watching Colt flip bacon in a cast-iron skillet like it’s the most normal thing in the world, I imagine it.
I imagine his big hands on me—not careful like when he bandaged my wounds, but hungry.
Rough. Gentle too, maybe, because I think he could be both.
I picture him turning, seeing the want in my eyes, and crossing the room without a word.
Lifting me onto the counter, the cold metal against my thighs making me gasp.
His mouth on my neck, my collarbone, lower.
Those callused palms sliding under the flannel, pushing it up, finding my heated skin.
I wonder what his beard would feel like against the inside of my thigh.
What his voice would sound like, low and gravelly, saying my name while he—
“Morning.” His voice snaps me back. He’s looking over his shoulder now, green eyes steady on me. One dark brow lifts slightly.
I feel the blush explode across my face, neck, chest—hot enough I’m sure he can see it through the open collar of his shirt. I clutch the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. “Hi,” I manage. My voice is too high, too breathy.
He turns fully, leaning one hip against the counter.
The movement makes the muscles in his stomach flex, the faint trail of dark hair disappearing into the waistband of his jeans.
I force my eyes up to his face. He’s watching me with that unreadable expression, but there’s a flicker in his gaze—something that makes my pulse jump.
“You sleep okay?” he asks.
I nod too fast. “Yeah. The bed’s… comfortable. Thank you.”
He grunts, turning back to the stove, and plating the bacon, then cracks a couple eggs into the skillet. The sizzle fills the silence.
I step fully into the room, hugging my arms around myself even though I’m not cold. “You’re up early.”
“Habit.” He doesn’t look at me again right away. “Storm’s still going hard. Wind’s died down some, but visibility’s shit. Snow’s drifted chest-high in places.”
My stomach tightens. “Do you think… they could’ve made it up here?”
He plates the eggs, and adds thick slices of toast, then carries everything to the small table by the window. Only then does he meet my eyes again.
“Possible. Not likely. But I’m not taking any chances.” He jerks his chin toward the chair. “Sit. Eat.”
I obey, sliding into the seat. The food smells like heaven. My stomach growls loud enough he probably hears it. He sets a mug of coffee in front of me, and then drops into the chair across from me. Still shirtless. Still unfairly beautiful.
I pick up a piece of bacon, and nibble the edge. Crispy. Salty. Perfect. “You’re going out there?”
“In a bit. Need to check the barn, the horses. Make sure nothing’s down. And—” His jaw flexes. “I’ll ride the ridge. Look for tracks. Signs anyone tried to come up after you.”
My fingers tighten around the mug. “You don’t have to—”
“I do.” The words come out flat. Final. “You’re here. Under my roof. That makes it my problem too.”
I stare at him. Something warm and fierce unfurls in my chest. Not just gratitude. Something deeper. He’s not doing this because he has to. He’s doing it because he wants to. Because he’s decided I’m worth protecting. “Thank you,” I whisper.
He shrugs one shoulder, and reaches for his own coffee. The motion makes the muscles in his arm and chest shift in a way that sends another pulse of heat through me. I look down at my plate, suddenly fascinated by my eggs.
We eat in silence for a minute. The wind rattles the windows. Snow pelts the glass like tiny fists.
“You’re staring,” he says quietly.
My head jerks up. “I—what?”
His lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but close. “At me. Not the food.”
Heat floods my face again. “I’m sorry. I just—you’re… not wearing a shirt.”
He glances down at himself like he’s only now noticing. “Gets hot by the stove.”
“Right.” I swallow hard. “Makes sense.”
He studies me for a long beat. Something dark and knowing flickers in his eyes. “You okay, Willa?”
No. Yes. I don’t know. “I’m fine,” I lie. “Just… sore. And trying to process everything.”
He nods once, like he accepts it. Doesn’t push. But he doesn’t look away either. “Finish eating,” he says. “Then I’ll wrap your ribs again before I head out. Keep ‘em stable.”
“Okay.”
He stands, and carries his empty plate to the sink.
I watch the play of muscle across his back, the way his jeans sit low enough I can see the dimples at the base of his spine.
My imagination helpfully supplies the rest—what it would feel like to trace those lines with my fingertips.
What his skin would taste like. Whether he’d groan if I kissed the spot just below his ear.
I press my thighs together under the table and focus on my coffee.
He turns back, drying his hands on a dish towel. “Storm might ease up tomorrow. If it does, we’ll figure out next steps. For now, you stay inside. Doors locked. Rifle’s by the couch if you need it. You know how to use one?”
I nod. “My dad taught me. Basic stuff.”
“Good.” He crosses the room, and stops a few feet away. Close enough I have to tip my head back to meet his eyes. “I’ll be back before dark. You need anything, you holler. I’ll hear you.”
I nod again, throat tight.
He hesitates—like he wants to say more, or maybe do more—then turns toward the bedroom. “I’ll grab a shirt.”
I almost tell him not to.
But I don’t.
He disappears inside, comes back a minute later in a black thermal that clings to every line of him almost as badly as no shirt did. He shrugs into a heavy coat, pulls on gloves, grabs the rifle.
At the door he pauses, and looks back at me. “Lock this behind me,” he says. “Don’t open it for anyone but me.”
“I won’t.”
He nods once. Then he’s gone, the cold rushing in for a second before the door shuts.
I sit there, heart hammering, bacon forgotten.
The storm howls outside. But inside, something else is waking up. And I’m not sure I want to stop it.