Chapter 4
T he next day, my ankle definitely felt a little better, and the snow was getting less thick. When I’d first met Silas, I worried that he might be kidnapping me. But the longer I spent with him, the more I felt as though I really could trust him.
“Soon as the weather breaks, and you’re back on your feet, we’ll get you back down to Snowview,” he said. And weirdly, the more he said it, the more I felt as though I was going to miss him.
Today, the cabin smelled like bacon grease and soap. I sat on the stool by the sink, my foot propped up on a stack of towels, swirling a chipped mug through the soapy water. My reflection wobbled in the suds—red hair tied back in a messy knot, cheeks pink from the heat of the fire across the room.
I’d insisted on helping, but that didn’t mean that Silas wasn’t bossing me around.
"Don’t slosh it around too much," Silas said over his shoulder. He was at the stove, spatula in hand, flipping something in a pan. His voice was soft, though still rough as sandpaper.
"Yes, sir," I muttered under my breath, but not quiet enough. He turned his head just slightly, one thick eyebrow lifting, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he exhaled sharply—more huff than sigh—and went back to cooking.
I pressed my lips together to keep from smirking. That little flicker of annoyance felt like a win. I could live with that. Better than the cold silence or barked orders from before.
"Here." I held out the first plate, dripping slightly despite my best efforts. He reached for it, arm brushing mine for half a second. Warmth prickled along my skin, unexpected, and I pulled back too fast, splashing water onto my lap. "Crap," I hissed, grabbing a nearby towel.
"Careful," he said, low and gruff, glancing at me sideways. There was something unreadable in his face, but he turned back to the stove before I could figure it out.
By the time we finished, the space between us felt . . . easier. Not friendly, exactly, but less sharp-edged. The kind of quiet you don’t mind sitting in, even if you’re not sure why.
"Time to rest your ankle," he said once the dishes were done. He grabbed his knife and a chunk of wood from the windowsill, pulling up a chair by the table. No argument this time—just a quick nod in my direction, like he’d already decided we were done talking for now.
"Bossy," I said lightly, testing the waters.
"Stubborn," he shot back without looking up, his pocketknife flashing silver in the firelight. But there was no bite to it. His lips twitched, almost smiling. Almost.
“You, uh, made a lot of noise in the night.”
My cheeks flushed pink. “Yeah, I have nightmares.”
“Sound scary.”
“Yeah. I always have the same one.”
“Every night?”
I nodded.
“That must suck.”
“Yep. Still. Nothing I can do about it.”
I let myself relax against the blankets on the bed, dragging one across my lap for warmth. The fire popped softly, filling the room with a golden glow.
This wasn’t exactly how I’d expected to be spending my vacation. Still, I had a feeling that my therapist might approve. I felt more stress-free than I had in years.
My eyes wandered to the shelves above the fireplace—mostly tools and knickknacks, but there were books too. I leaned forward, squinting. One of them had a worn green cover, corners curled like leaves pressed too long in a book.
"Mind if I . . . ?" I asked, pointing at the shelf. He glanced up briefly, then shrugged.
"Knock yourself out."
It wasn’t much of an invitation, but I took it anyway. Hobbling over, I pulled the paperback free, dust puffing into the air. It wasn’t what I expected. No romance, no thrillers. Just writing about wildlife and mountains—the kind of thing you’d find in a visitor center, probably. Still, it was better than staring at the walls.
"Interesting taste," I said as I settled back down, cracking the spine open. He didn’t respond, just kept whittling, curls of wood piling on the table like fallen feathers.
"Alright," I started, clearing my throat. The words felt strange in my mouth—scientific and dry—but they filled the silence. "‘Northern spotted owls tend to roost in old-growth forests, favoring dense canopies and abundant prey.’"
"Mm," came his noncommittal grunt. But his hand paused, knife hovering mid-cut.
My voice softened as I read, falling into the rhythm of it. "‘Their feathers provide natural camouflage, allowing them to blend seamlessly into the bark of towering Douglas firs.’"
"True," he murmured, barely audible. His knife moved again, slower this time, deliberate. He wasn’t looking at me, but I could feel him listening. Something about it made my chest tighten, like I’d stumbled onto a secret without meaning to.
"Do you see them a lot?" I asked, pretending to skim the next page while watching him out of the corner of my eye. “Owls?”
"Sometimes." His answer was clipped, but not dismissive. His shoulders eased, just slightly, as if the topic itself brought him some kind of peace. "Mostly hear ‘em at dusk. They stay quiet otherwise."
"Smart birds. No backchat," I said, flipping to another essay. His lip twitched again, almost a smile. Almost.
Silas stood by the stove, his back to me, shoulders broad and rigid as always. I heard the scrape of a tin on wood, then the soft clink of something stirring.
A delicious smell filled the space. Sweet and spicy and . . . chocolatey.
When he turned, there was a mug in his hand—ceramic, chipped along the rim. Steam curled lazily from its surface, carrying a faint, sweet scent that made my mouth water before I even knew what it was.
"Here," he said, gruff as ever, holding it out.
I blinked. "What’s this?"
"Hot cocoa." He hesitated, like the words felt strange in his mouth. "Had some stashed away."
"Seriously?" My voice came out higher-pitched than intended, more surprised than I wanted to admit.
"Just take it," he muttered, eyes darting toward the fire instead of me.
I reached for the mug, careful not to brush his fingers, though they lingered on the handle a second too long. The ceramic was warm against my hands, and the scent hit me full force now—rich and luxurious, with just a hint of something earthy beneath it.
"Thank you," I said softly, suddenly unsure what else to say. He nodded once, already stepping back, but instead of retreating to his usual spot at the table, he sat down on the edge of the bed. Not close enough to crowd me, but closer than ever before. Close enough to feel the weight of him beside me.
I sipped the cocoa. It was imperfect—thin, slightly grainy—but it might as well have been nectar. I couldn’t stop the smile that spread across my face. "This is... really good," I said, glancing at him.
He didn’t smile back, but his shoulders dropped a fraction. "Don’t get used to it," he said, but his tone lacked bite. “That was the last of my stash.”
"Guess I should feel special," I teased lightly, testing the waters.
"Maybe you should," he shot back, deadpan. But there was a flicker of something in his tone—dry humor, almost teasing. Almost.
I laughed softly, more out of surprise than anything else. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
"Have you seen a lot of animals out here?" I asked after another sip, shifting the focus off us. "Besides the owls, I mean."
"Plenty," he said, his voice low and steady. "Elk pass through every fall. Bobcats sometimes. Bears if you’re unlucky."
I raised an eyebrow.
He seemed to read my thoughts. "They’re not trouble unless you make ‘em trouble."
"That sounds like something someone who’s wrestled a bear would say," I joked, half-expecting him to roll his eyes or ignore me.
"Never wrestled one," he said simply, gaze drifting to the fire. "But I’ve been close enough."
"Close enough" sounded ominous, but he didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t push. Instead, I leaned back against the folded blankets, watching the way the firelight flickered over his face.
"How do you know so much about them?" I asked, curious now. "The animals, I mean. Tracks, behavior—all of it."
He hesitated. I could see it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers flexed briefly where they rested on his knees. For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping just enough to notice.
"As you’ve probably guessed, I’ve been here a long time," he said finally, voice quieter than before. "Long enough that these mountains feel like home. Like old friends."
I glanced at him. His profile was sharp, all hard lines and shadows, but there was a quietness about him now that wasn’t there before. Like he was letting himself breathe for once.
My fingertips brushed the edge of his sleeve, barely grazing him. “Thank you,” I said, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. “For keeping me safe.”
He froze. Not a big movement, just a slight stiffening in his shoulders, enough that I almost pulled my hand back. But then he looked down at where my fingers rested against him, and when his eyes lifted to meet mine, they weren’t cold. He looked happy.
I let my hand fall back to my lap, wrapping both palms around the mug again. The fire crackled, small pops breaking the quiet, filling the space where words might’ve gone. I watched him, wondering how someone so closed-off could still feel so . . . present.
"Silas," I said after a while, my voice low. I hesitated, twisting the hem of my sweater between my fingers. "Why do you stay up here? Alone?"
His shoulders tensed instantly, like I’d hit a nerve. I regretted it immediately. “You don’t have to answer,” I added quickly, my words tumbling over each other. “If it’s too personal, I mean. Forget I asked.”
He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he let out a slow breath, his head dipping forward slightly. For a second, I thought he wouldn’t respond at all, and I was ready to fill the silence with anything—an apology, a bad joke, whatever came to mind. But then he straightened, his face unreadable as he stared into the fire.
"People come here in trouble," he said finally, his tone flat. Matter-of-fact. "And I can help." He paused, his lips pressing into a thin line. "That’s reason enough."
I blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity of it. There was no bitterness in his voice, no defensiveness, but there was something else—something heavier.
“You could help from town, though,” I said softly, careful not to poke too hard, “join a rescue team or something, right?”
“That’s not who I am,” he said. “I don’t play well with others.”
The bed creaked softly beneath his weight. I could feel him, the warmth of him, so close it made my skin tingle. He sat stiff, hands resting on his thighs, fingers flexing once before going still again. I didn’t know where to look—at him? The fire? My lap? My pulse thudded in my ears, loud enough I worried he’d hear it.
"Storm’s letting up," he said finally, voice low and gravelly.
"Yeah," I murmured. My ankle shifted, brushing against his calf just barely. I froze. So did he. But he didn’t move away.
“You’ll be able to head off soon.”
“Yeah. Feels weird. I’ve enjoyed my time here.”
"Alana," he said, quieter this time, my name rough in his mouth.
"Yeah?"
His eyes flicked to mine then, holding for a beat longer than normal. Long enough that I forgot how to breathe. His gaze dropped—to my lips, just a second, maybe less—but I caught it. Heat rushed to my face.
"Silas . . ." My voice barely carried, but he heard it. I knew because his shoulders tensed, just slightly.
The room seemed to shrink. The crackle of the fire faded, everything narrowing to the space between us. He leaned in, not much, just enough that I felt the shift, saw the way his jaw tightened. His eyes searched mine, dark and unreadable.
His jaw tightened. I saw his throat move as he swallowed hard. His eyes were locked on mine for a split second before flicking down again, lingering on my mouth like it held some kind of answer he wasn’t ready to hear. I could hear his breathing now, uneven and strained, matching the frantic rhythm of my own heart.
I didn’t think. Couldn’t. The space between us disappeared, inch by inch, until I felt the faintest brush of his forehead against mine. Close enough that his warmth spilled over me, close enough that I could feel the tension radiating off him like static electricity. Every nerve in my body screamed at me to close the gap completely, to bridge whatever fragile thing had been building between us since the moment I’d stumbled into his world.
And then he was gone.
He pulled back so fast it startled me, the sharp intake of his breath breaking the spell. I froze, watching as he squeezed his eyes shut, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. His shoulders hunched, every line of his body screaming conflict.
"Silas?" My voice cracked, slipping through the tight knot in my throat. He didn’t answer. Didn’t look at me. Just pushed himself to his feet, the movement jerky, almost desperate.
"Goddammit," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. His fingers dug into the dark strands like he could pull whatever war he was fighting straight out of his skull.
"Hey—" I started, but he turned away, pacing toward the door like a caged animal. My chest tightened, confusion and something else—something raw—spreading like wildfire. "What’s wrong? Did I—"
“You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not you."
"Then what is it?" I asked, shifting to the edge of the bed. My ankle protested the movement, but I ignored it, leaning forward like I could physically reach him if I just tried hard enough. "Because it sure feels like it’s something I did."
He shook his head, still facing the door. His shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath, but it didn’t seem to steady him. If anything, he looked more wound up, his fingers curling into a fist where they rested against the wood.
"Silas." I said his name again, firmer this time. He flinched, just barely, like the sound itself hurt. My pulse hammered, a mix of frustration and worry tangling together in a way that made my voice sharper than I intended. "You don’t get to do that—pull away like that—and then leave me hanging. Talk to me."
He turned, and there was something wild in his eyes now, something I didn’t recognize but couldn’t look away from. "I can’t just . . . do this." His hand swept through his hair again, fingers tugging at the strands like they might distract him. "I’m not—" He stopped, exhaled sharply, then looked at me full-on, his gaze pinning me to the spot. "I’m not a casual man."
"Okay," I said slowly, frowning. "I’m not asking you to be casual. I don’t—" I cut myself off, unsure how to untangle whatever mess we’d wandered into. "Just tell me what you mean."
He laughed, but it wasn’t amused. It was bitter, low, a sound that scraped over my skin. "You don’t get it," he said, pacing again, his footsteps heavier now. "I’m not what you think. I can’t be what you’re probably used to."
"Then tell me." I stood, testing the weight on my ankle, but I couldn’t stay seated anymore. He’d built all this distance between us, and I needed to close it. "Help me understand, Silas. You’re making no sense right now."
He stopped pacing so abruptly I thought he might’ve hurt himself. His back was to me, the broad line of his shoulders rigid as stone. For a second, I thought he wouldn’t answer. That he might keep standing there like a statue until I gave up. But then, slowly, he turned.
His face was carved with something I didn’t have a name for—uncertainty, maybe? Shame? Longing? All of it swirled together in his dark eyes, and it hit me harder than I expected. "I’m a Daddy Dom," he said, voice low but firm, like he needed to force the words out before they locked up inside him forever.
I blinked. "What?"
"It’s . . ." He trailed off, looking down at his hands, like they might explain better than words could. Then he tried again. "It means I care deeply. Protect fiercely. And yeah, sometimes discipline if it’s needed." His throat worked, swallowing hard. "Not because I’m cruel, Alana. Because I . . . because I love that way. I trust that way."
"Discipline?" My voice cracked on the word, but he didn’t flinch. He just nodded, his jaw tightening like he was bracing for a blow.
"Not in a bad way," he said quickly, his tone quieter now, almost defensive. "It’s about guidance. Nurturing. It’s not about age or . . ." He shook his head, running his hand over his face. "It’s not about whatever you’re thinking. It’s about connection. Trust."
I stared, trying to piece it together. Words swirled in my head, but none of them quite fit. He looked away, his hands dropping to his sides, shoulders slumping like he was carrying a weight that had finally crushed him. "I can’t just be . . . regular," he murmured, barely above a whisper. "This is who I am."
I stared at him, my breath caught somewhere between my chest and my throat. The room suddenly felt smaller. His words hung in the air like frost, delicate and sharp-edged. Daddy Dom. It sounded foreign, almost absurd, like something out of a conversation I was never meant to overhear.
He stood there, shoulders stiff, arms hanging awkwardly at his sides. He didn’t look at me now—his gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder, like he couldn’t bear to see whatever reaction might be on my face. I could feel the tension radiating off him, thick as the woodsmoke curling in the corners of the cabin.
"Okay," I said finally, though it wasn’t okay, not yet. My voice cracked a little. "So . . . what does that mean? Exactly?"
He shifted his weight, one boot scuffing against the floorboards. "It means I take care of someone. Protect them. Guide them, when they need it. And yeah . . ." His jaw worked, like he hated spitting out the next part. "Sometimes that involves setting boundaries. But it’s . . . mutual. Always consensual. Never without trust. Fuck I’m bad at explaining this."
"Boundaries," I repeated, tasting the word. My head spun with half-formed questions, but his tone—it didn’t feel threatening. Just...steady. Firm. God, how had I missed this side of him? Or maybe I hadn’t. Maybe I’d been feeling it all along, in the way he carried himself, the way he’d taken charge since the moment I twisted my ankle and landed here.
"Alana," he said, low and careful, like he thought I might bolt. "I don’t even know why I’m sharing this with you. You don’t want to know."
“I do,” I said, without thinking.
That got his attention. His head snapped up, his eyes meeting mine for real this time. Dark, searching, waiting for me to flinch or laugh or storm out. My heartbeat thudded loudly in my ears, and I wondered if he could hear it too.
"Look," I started again, softer this time, because I saw how tightly wound he was. "I’m not pretending to understand everything you just said. Honestly, I’m still trying to catch up. But . . ." I hesitated, then shrugged, as much for myself as for him. "You’ve been taking care of me since day one. Isn’t that . . . part of it?"
His whole body stilled. Like really stilled, the way a deer freezes when it hears a twig snap. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. I watched the smallest shift in his face—the tight line of his brow easing, the set of his jaw relaxing just enough to notice. Relief. He wouldn’t say it, but I could see it in the way his shoulders dropped, in the faint softening of his expression.
"I don’t think it’s anything to be ashamed of," I added, because someone needed to say it, and clearly he wasn’t going to. "You acted like it was some dirty secret, but—" I looked him straight in the eye, daring him to disagree. "You kept me safe, Silas. That’s not wrong. That’s just who you are."
For a moment, the only sound in the cabin was the crackle of the fire, the occasional groan of the logs shifting under their own weight. Outside, the wind had quieted, but the snow still whispered against the windows, faint and steady.
This was uncharted territory, and I wasn’t sure where the map ended. "Tell me," I said finally, breaking the silence. "Not all at once, but . . . tell me what it means. For you."
His gaze lifted to meet mine, and this time, he didn’t hide. Didn’t look away. "Only if you’re sure," he said, the words slow and deliberate.
"Silas," I replied, matching his tone, "I’m sure."