Chapter 7
Seven
D elaney
Jack's hand wraps around mine, repositioning my fingers on the fishing rod with the same calculated control he uses when he pins my wrists above my head with one hand while the other maps every inch of my body—claiming territory no one else has ever touched.
"You grip it too tight," he murmurs, voice pitched low enough that it vibrates directly from his chest into my spine. "Gentle. Let it breathe."
My brain instantly flips the script—my fingers wrapped around his thickness last night, his growled instructions to "squeeze harder, baby girl."
Jesus.
Just like that, I'm wet again.
Eighteen years of life and no one told me it could be like this—that a man's voice alone could make me clench between my legs, that my body could be so stupidly eager for someone more than twice my age. That calling him "Daddy" in the dark would rewire my entire nervous system.
Two days since I woke up in his bed for the first time. Thirty-six hours since I almost packed my bags, before he caught me with one hand in my duffel. Since then, the rules have trickled out one by one: You eat three meals a day. You sleep when I sleep. You tell me where you're going, always. You answer me honestly when I ask what you need.
Easy rules to follow—soft suggestions wrapped in that voice that expects obedience. But I've wondered if they have teeth. If "there will be consequences" was just something he said, or a promise he intends to keep.
What I haven't asked—what I'm afraid to ask—is what happens when the novelty wears off. When the thrill of fucking his dead friend's daughter loses its edge. When he remembers why he chose this mountain in the first place: to be alone. Will it be a gentle nudge back down to civilization, or just a locked door one morning when I've gone to collect more of those damn rocks he pretends to find interesting? My traitorous heart has taken root here—in his bed, his cabin, his rules. But this can't be forever. Nothing ever is.
"That's not a fishing rod—that's a goddamn torture device," I grumble, struggling to untangle the line for the third time in twenty minutes. "Why are there so many... parts?"
Jack's laugh rumbles through the clearing, low and private like he saves it just for me. His eyes crinkle at the corners—a rare softening of his usually stern face. That dark beard that feels so good against my skin. His flannel sleeves are rolled to the elbows, revealing the corded muscles of his forearms, dusted with dark hair and marked with the faded ink of his military tattoo.
"City girl problems," he says, sunlight catching the silver strands at his temples—the age gap between us written in physical evidence I find ridiculously attractive.
I shoot him a look. "I'm from Flint, not Manhattan. We have fishing. I just never did it."
"What did you do?" he asks, taking the rod from my hands with easy confidence. His fingers work the tangled mess loose in seconds, movements precise, economical. The same fingers that mapped every inch of my body last night.
I dig the toe of my borrowed boot into the soft earth. The rubber squeaks against itself, comically large on my foot. "Collected rocks, mostly."
The admission feels childish, but Jack's eyes light with genuine affection—a softening I'm still learning to recognize.
"You and those rocks," he says, giving me his full attention. His voice drops to that private register that makes my stomach flip. "This is something you’ve been doing for a while, isn’t it? Tell me about them. Make me understand the fascination."
Something warm blooms in my chest at his response—not dismissive, not humoring me, but actually wanting to know this part of me.
"Yeah, that’s me. The crazy girl who loves her rocks. Minerals, fossils, formations." I watch him bait the hook with deft movements, but don’t feel any of the usual dismissal I get when I talk about my obsession. Kids at school thought I was crazy, but Jack Boone… He’s cut from different cloth. "Dad used to drive me all over Michigan to look for Petoskey stones. They're these fossilized corals with hexagonal patterns. I'd spend hours wading through freezing water to find the perfect one."
I trace a pattern in the dirt with the toe of my borrowed boot. "My grandfather—Dad's father—was a geologist. He's the one who got me hooked. He'd take me rock hunting when I was little, teaching me all the names, the formations, the stories behind each one." The memory warms me from the inside. "His favorite were Yooperlites—these rocks with fluorescent minerals that glow orange under UV light. Super rare."
Jack's eyes stay on mine, genuinely interested. It encourages me to continue.
"Grandpa used to say, 'God and nature got together and made these babies. Can you believe the beauty that comes from something so simple?'" I shake my head, surprised by the tightness in my throat. "He taught me to look for the extraordinary in ordinary things. That sometimes the most precious things are hidden until you shine the right light on them."
Just like the unexpected beauty I've found here, with this man most people would see only as dangerous and remote.
Jack passes the fixed rod back to me. "The ones you brought with you, they’re special, I would guess.” His tone is casual, but there's a weight beneath it—an understanding that my hasty departure might have left precious things behind.
"Yeah. Couldn't leave them. They are the ones with names. The others are just rocks, but these ones are the ones I couldn’t live without."
He shifts against me, his chest rumbling, laying a kiss on my cheek, the roughness of his beard reminding me of the redness he leaves behind on my inner thighs. “Lay it on me. I want to know all their names.”
“Really?” I turn to see him raise his eyebrows.
“A good Daddy knows all the names of his baby’s friends. Now, tell me.”
I spend the next few minutes running down the details of each rock and their names, and why I named them what I did. Jack acts like I’m telling him the world’s greatest secrets, and the truth is no one has ever made me feel this special except my dad.
After, once he’s set me up with my pole, his in his hands, he nods toward the picture-perfect surroundings.
"Most dangerous thing about fishing isn't the hooks, it’s the water," he explains, voice deepening into that instructional tone that makes my spine tingle. He points downstream. "Don't go beyond that big pine where the bank narrows. Spring runoff makes the banks muddy."
I nod, stomach tightening at his command. Not from defiance but from the thrill of how naturally he expects to be obeyed.
The creek cuts through the forest like a silver ribbon, sunlight fracturing across its surface in diamond patterns. The air smells of pine sap and wet earth, cleaner than any air I've breathed before. Birds call overhead—names I don't know yet, but Jack probably does. A fish jumps upstream, the splash drawing both our gazes before it disappears back into the current.
Jack shows me how to cast, his body curved around mine, arms encircling me like living brackets. His chest presses against my back, the heat of him burning through my thin t-shirt. His breath stirs the hair at my nape, sending goosebumps racing across my skin. He smells like woodsmoke and pine, with that underlying male scent that makes my stomach tighten every time I catch it.
"Feel the pulse of the line," he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. "Gentle. Patient."
Neither adjective describes what's happening between my legs as his massive body surrounds mine. Or what's happening against my lower back, where the unmistakable ridge of his hardness presses against me.
"You're not listening," he rumbles, amusement darkening his voice. "My little girl have something else on her mind?”
"No," I lie, cheeks heating. "I'm concentrating."
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through me. "I feel your heartbeat. Racing like a trapped rabbit."
His teeth graze my earlobe.
I shift slightly, wiggling myself against his erection. "So, was this a…problem you’ve always had? A constant state of… thickness? ”
His grip tightens on my waist, fingertips digging into my hip bones. "Nope. Only when you’re around. I’ve resigned myself to having a hard-on for the rest of my life."
The rest of his life .
The casual way he says it—like we have a future beyond next week, beyond next month—catches me off guard. My breath hitches, and I feel him go still behind me, sensing the shift.
"That scare you?" he asks, voice dropping lower. Not a challenge, but a genuine question.
I swallow hard. "No.” I answer, but the truth is much more complicated.
Am I scared? Yes. I’ve fallen down into a deep hole with Jack and if he decides that play time is over, I already know my heart will never recover.
His chin comes to rest on top of my head, his chest expanding against my back with a deep breath.
"Good girl," he murmurs, and those two words light up my nervous system like a Christmas tree. He steps back, rummaging for something in the wooden tackle box a few feet away.
He told me he built it himself when he was only ten. Made from scraps he found behind his father's woodshop. I asked about his father and his demeanor changed.
"He was a mean drunk," Jack said. "Cheated on our mom. Hit her once. Only once." His voice turned dark and heavy. "Me and my brothers made sure of that."
I left it alone after that. I don’t want to push, and sometimes, less is more.
I focus on the fishing, the water, the way sunlight filters through the pines. The day stretches lazy and warm around us.
That's when I see them—gleaming just beneath the water's surface, twenty feet downstream. The distinctive honeycomb pattern of Petoskey stones, partially buried in the riverbed where the bank cuts sharply away.
Jack is busy re-baiting his hook, crouched down, his back to me. I want to surprise him, bring back a perfect Petoskey, which for me is like giving someone a diamond or a new truck. Neither of which are even close to my budget, so a free rock might not seem like much, but to me, it’s precious.
I lower my rod to the grass and edge away, keeping my footsteps quiet on the soft earth. The bank narrows as I approach the stones, mud giving way to a sloping gravel incline. I crouch carefully, extending my arm toward the submerged treasures.
My fingers brush cool stone, slippery with algae. Almost there. The largest one, easily the size of my palm, sits tantalizingly within reach. But next to it—something glints with that florescent yellow. Could it be a Yooperlite? This far from the Upper Peninsula? But maybe, that would be a hundred times more precious than a Petoskey and I want to give that to him. A gift for Daddy.
I’m balancing on the balls of my feet within the oversized boots. I shift on the mud.
In less than a blink, I’m face first in the freezing water. The shock has me sucking for air but instead, I draw a full gulp of water, choking and coughing as the rubber boots fill instantly with icy water, turning to anchors dragging me deeper as the current catches my legs. My knee scrapes hard against a submerged rock, skin tearing as I scramble for the disappearing bank.
"Jack!" I gurgle, flailing as water rushes over my chest. Me and this river are not going to be exchanging gifts this Christmas, I can tell you that. I remind myself of my golden rule: showers, baths, hot tubs and water are all good, but rushing rivers are not my type of water.
“Jack!” I shout again, gulping air between being dunked in the freezing river, then, “Daddy! Fire!”
In seconds, strong hands scoop me under my arms, hauling me up and out like I weigh nothing. Jack's face is right there as I spit and gasp, his features like stone.
Not panicked. Not angry. Something worse—disappointed.
"What part of don’t go beyond that tree did you not understand?" His voice is low, controlled, but vibrating like a wire pulled too tight.
"I saw Petoskey stones," I stammer, teeth already chattering from the cold water, the boots lost in the river leaving me in sodden white socks, mud squeezing through my toes. "I was just—"
"Putting yourself in danger," he cuts me off, voice dropping to a dangerous register.
He doesn't wait for my response. In one fluid movement, he hauls me up and tosses me over his shoulder, driving the little air I managed to inhale out again. Blood rushes to my head as my wet hair dangles, water streaming down my face.
" Jack! " I squeak, hands finding purchase on the broad plane of his back. "My knee—"
"Is exactly why you're not walking," he growls, bending to collect our gear with his free hand, not even slightly unbalanced by my weight. His palm lands on my ass, holding me in place with a possessive grip that has heat swirling again in my center and those telling little muscle spasms start up again.
I can feel it in the tension of his shoulders beneath my hands, each step in the measured cadence of his strides making me more wary of what’s going to happen when we get back to the cabin.
"I can walk," I insist, even as pain throbs in my ankle.
"That mouth of yours is not helping you. I’d shut it if I were you."
The silence stretches between us, filled only by his measured breathing and the steady rhythm of the crunch, crunch, crunch of his boots on the path.
"Doing what you are told isn’t optional, little girl. When I tell you something that concerns your safety, you don’t ignore me."
My immediate instinct is to say something snarky, to remind him I'm an adult who makes her own decisions. But this is the second time he’s pulled me from that river, so I make the quick decision that right now, snarkiness is not the go to.
"I just wanted to get you a rock," I say quietly. "To say thank you."
I note the sigh that he exhales. "I appreciate that, baby. But not at the cost of your safety." He shifts me on his shoulder, giving my ass a quick tap, tap, tap. "I won’t ever apologize for protecting you, even from yourself. You disobeyed, there are consequences for that."
The word "consequences" sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with my wet clothes.
"What kind of consequences?" I ask, forcing volume into my voice, so I don’t sound like a scared little girl who just disappointed her father. Her hero.
Her daddy.
"You'll find out when I’m ready for you to find out."
My heart pounds against my ribs, fear and anticipation tangling into a knot beneath my sternum. Being carried like this, I feel simultaneously helpless and completely safe—a contradiction I'm still learning to navigate.
The cabin appears, sunlight glinting off its windows. Up the steps we go, tension forcing my teeth to grind together as Jack shoulders the door open, carrying me straight to the bathroom. He sets me on the counter with unexpected gentleness, turning immediately to twist the knobs on the chrome tub, more water rushing out of the tap, filling the vessel with warm soapy water.
"Strip," he orders without looking at me, grabbing a towel from the neat stack in the open closet. "We need to warm you up and check your knee."
I hesitate, fingers plucking at my sodden shirt. "Jack—"
" Now . Get naked. And drop the ‘Jack’. If we’re around other people, then you can call me Jack, but any other time, especially when my dick’s inside you, you’ll call me Daddy." His tone leaves no room for argument and my body betrays me with a rush of wet warmth between my legs.
I peel off my wet shirt, hop off the counter and tug off my jeans and panties, shivering as cool air hits damp skin.
“Come here.” He crooks his fingers and I step his way, hugging myself as he takes me by the hips and sits me on the edge of the tub.
He kneels, taking my leg in his massive hands, fingers probing the scraped skin with careful precision. Blood has mixed with creek water, making the injury look worse than it probably is. "Skinned pretty good. Might need antibiotic ointment." He helps me into the tub, the warm water sending needles of sensation across my chilled skin.
I sink deeper into the water, watching him through the rising steam. "Are you angry with me, Daddy?"
He stands, seeming taller than before. Impossible, but perception is everything. His jaw hardens, arms crossing before he answers. "Not angry. Disappointed." Somehow, that's worse. " The current is strong enough to pull a grown man downstream."
Guilt twists in my stomach. "I'm sorry."
"I know you are, baby," he says, fixing me with a stare that pins me in place more effectively than his hands ever could. "When you're finished in here, you'll dry off, come to the living room, and stand in the corner by the bookshelf. As much as I want to bend you over and fuck some sense into you, I’m thinking that’s more a reward. So I’m going to set aside what I want to do for your best interests."
My mouth goes dry. "Did you say stand in the corner?"
"Hands on your head,” he continues, ignoring my question. “You'll stay there, not turning around, not looking anywhere but at the corner where the two walls meet until I say otherwise, got it? You think you can follow my instructions this time?”
Heat floods my face, a mixture of embarrassment and something darker, more primal. "Jack—"
“Yes or no, baby girl. And you already broke another rule by calling me Jack again. Seems we have some work to do, don’t we?" His eyes are steel, unmoving, as I finally nod. Then he nods back, turns and leaves me in the tub, door clicking shut behind him.
I sink deeper into the warm water. This is the moment—the line between whatever we've been doing and something more defined, and am I ready? Willing? Able to do this with a man old enough to be my father that I’ve known for only a few days?
The memory of David's control flashes under my fleeting doubt about Jack—how he'd check my phone, dictate my friends, my clothes. But this feels different. Jack's rules aren't about possession, they're about protection.
Not controlling who I am, but keeping me safe.
When the water starts to cool, I step out carefully, the bubbles clinging to my skin as the water sloshes around my exiting legs. I dry off, pulse jumping in my throat. The logical part of me says to get dressed, to reject this bossy dynamic and assert my independence. But a deeper part—the part that melts when he gives me that look, that melts when he says "good girl"—already knows what I'll do.
I pad out of the bathroom, feeling weirdly vulnerable walking through the house naked, to find Jack sitting in his chair by a roaring fire, reading something. He doesn't look up, but I know he's aware of me. The corner he indicated is a few feet to his left, waiting. Ten steps away. A lifetime away.
I cross the space on tip toes, my body prickling despite the blazing fire he stoked while I was in the tub. The wooden floorboards creak beneath my feet as I position myself in the corner, raising my hands to rest on my head as instructed. My back to the room. Exposed. Vulnerable.
Behind me, I hear the rustle of pages turning. Jack continuing to read as if nothing unusual is happening. The casual dismissal burns hotter than any scolding, leaving me achingly aware of my position—displayed like a misbehaving child, naked, waiting for his attention.
Minutes stretch into what feels like hours. My arms begin to ache, muscles trembling from maintaining the position. Still, Jack doesn't speak. The only sounds are the occasional turn of a page, the crackle of the fire, the iron poker he uses to shift the logs, the heavy thud of my heartbeat in my ears.
I shift my weight, a tiny throbbing on the skin on my knee. A small sound escapes me—not quite a whimper, but close, and I start to sway back and forth, not in pain but craving movement.
"Did I say you could move?" Jack's voice cuts through the silence.
"No," I whisper.
"No, what?"
The response rises to my lips without thought. "No, Daddy."
"That's better." I hear him stand, heavy footsteps crossing the room behind me. He stops close enough that I feel his heat against my bare back, goosebumps rising on the skin of my bare ass, but he doesn’t touch me. Torture. Pure and simple. "Do you understand why you're being punished?"
"Because I didn't listen about the creek bank," I say softly. "I put myself in danger."
His hand comes to rest on my shoulder, thumb tracing the notch of my spine. "And why does that deserve punishment?"
The question catches me off guard. "Because... you told me not to?"
"No." His voice drops lower. "Because you're precious to me. Because the thought of you hurt—or worse—tears something open inside me I can't stitch closed." His fingers move to the base of my throat, pressing upward into my jaw while the fingers squeeze. "Because your safety is my responsibility."
The rawness in his voice makes my eyes sting. "I understand. I’m sorry, Daddy."
"Good girl." He guides me away from the corner by my throat, an odd sensation of struggling to breathe that should make me fearful but instead, it makes me feel floaty, my eyes start to droop as he turns me to face him. "Bend over the arm of the couch."
My stomach drops, as does his voice, but I obey, and he releases my throat, gathering my hair in his fingers before giving me an encouraging shove into place.
“Bend. Spread your feet shoulder width apart. Don’t speak unless I tell you to.”
Fire races through my veins as I position myself over the padded armrest, oddly hoping I’m doing things correctly. Hoping for those two words that make me feel better than they should.
Good girl.
Please, my heart begs, say it.
But he doesn’t, and I bite down on the inside of my lips to keep the burning in my eyes from overflowing.
The rough fabric scrapes against my bare stomach as Jack places one broad hand on my lower back, holding me down.
"Ten," he says simply. "You'll count."
The first smack catches me by surprise—the flat of his hand connecting with my cotton-covered backside with calculated force. Not gentle, but not cruel either. A sharp reminder disguised as heat.
"One," I gasp, fingers digging into the couch cushions.
The second lands slightly higher, the sound cracking through the quiet room. "Two."
By five, my skin burns beneath my underwear, each slap sending a confusing mixture of pain and pleasure radiating outward. By eight, I'm squirming, thighs pressing together as wetness gathers between them.
"Nine," I choke out, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes—not from pain, but from the overwhelming intensity of being handled this way. Cared for through discipline.
The final smack is the hardest, his hand lingering afterward, hot against my sensitized skin. "Ten," I whisper, body trembling.
I expect him to pull away, to declare the punishment complete. Instead, his fingers slide beneath the elastic of my underwear, tugging them down with deliberate slowness. Cool air brushes against my heated flesh, drawing a shiver from deep in my core.
"So wet," he murmurs, one finger tracing the evidence of my arousal. "Punishment gets you this worked up, baby girl?"
I bury my face in the couch cushion, embarrassment warring with desire. "I don't know why."
"I do." His touch becomes more deliberate, circling where I'm most sensitive. "Your body understands what your mind is still figuring out—you need this. Structure. Boundaries." His finger slips inside me, drawing a gasp from my lips. "Someone who sees all of you and still wants to keep you safe."
"Jack—" My voice breaks as he adds a second finger, stretching me with careful precision.
"Daddy," he corrects, free hand coming down in a light tap on my still-sensitive backside. "What do you call me when I'm touching you like this?"
"Daddy," I whimper, hips rocking back against his hand. "Please, Daddy."
"Please what?"
"More," I beg, beyond shame now, beyond anything but the need building between my legs. "Need more."
He withdraws his fingers, leaving me empty and aching. Before I can protest, he's lifting me, turning me to face him. His eyes burn dark and hungry, but there's something else there too—a careful assessment, checking that I'm truly with him in this.
"On your knees," he commands softly.
I sink down before him, my injured ankle carefully positioned to avoid pressure. He unbuttons his jeans with unhurried movements, freeing his cock—already hard, the tip glistening with evidence of his own arousal.
"Open," he says, thumb brushing my lower lip.
I part my lips, letting him guide himself into my mouth. He starts slow, one hand tangled in my hair, controlling the depth and pace. His other hand cups my cheek, thumb stroking the spot where he stretches my lips.
"So beautiful," he murmurs, voice strained. "Now, use your mouth and show me how fucking sorry you are for not listening to Daddy. Suck, little girl. Don’t make me say it again.”
Pride blooms warm in my chest at his praise, spurring me to take him deeper, to hollow my cheeks around him. His grip tightens in my hair.
"That's it, baby girl. Just like that."
I lose myself in pleasing him, in the weight of him on my tongue, the soft groans I draw from his chest. When he finally pulls away, I make a sound of protest that earns me a dark chuckle.
"Greedy," he says, lifting me to my feet. "But we're not done yet."
He carries me to the bedroom, laying me on the mattress with careful attention to my injured ankle. He strips methodically, revealing the expanse of muscled chest and stomach that still makes my mouth go dry. The tattoos that mark significant moments in his life. The scars I've learned not to ask about.
When he covers my body with his, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress feels like coming home. He enters me slowly, filling me inch by inch until I'm gasping, clinging to his shoulders.
"This is mine," he growls, grinding deep. "You understand? This body. This pleasure. Mine to protect. Mine to punish when necessary. Mine to worship always."
"Yours," I agree, the word broken by a moan as he hits a spot inside me that makes my vision blur. "All yours, Daddy."
He takes me with measured strokes, building a rhythm that has me arching beneath him, chasing the peak I can feel building. When it crashes over me, I cry out his name—"Jack!"—earning me a sharp slap on my still-sensitive backside.
"Daddy..." I correct myself immediately, the pain blending with pleasure to heighten my orgasm. "Daddy, please!"
He follows me over the edge with a growl that vibrates through my bones, spilling hot inside me. For long moments afterward, he stays buried deep, forehead pressed to mine, breathing ragged.
When he finally withdraws, it's only to gather me close, tucking me against his chest. His heartbeat thunders beneath my ear, gradually slowing as he strokes my hair.
"Wait here," he murmurs after several minutes, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
He returns moments later with fresh antibiotic ointment and a new bandage, carefully cleaning my skinned knee with practiced efficiency. His touch is tender, so different from the controlled strength he showed during my punishment.
"You did well today," he says, smoothing the last piece of tape into place. "Took your punishment without complaint."
"It wasn't exactly a hardship." I feel my cheeks heat. "I mean—the corner was, but the rest..."
His laugh rumbles through the quiet room. "Good to know." He sets the first aid kit aside, then hesitates, an unusual uncertainty crossing his features. "I have something for you."
He crosses to the dresser, opening the top drawer and withdrawing a small object. When he returns to the bed, I see it's a stuffed animal—a wolf, once gray but now faded to an indeterminate shade, patches worn thin on its muzzle and ears. One ear is singed black at the tip.
"Our house burned when I was nine," Jack says, turning the small wolf in his massive hands. "Electrical fire. Started in the kitchen while we were sleeping." His jaw tightens. "Dad was out—with another woman, we found out later. Mom got all five of us boys out, but there wasn't time to save much else."
I reach out, fingers brushing the blackened ear. "This was in the fire."
He nods. "One of the only things that survived. Mom gave it to me when I was four." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Used to tell me wolves protected their pack, no matter what. That I was her little protector."
The image of young Jack clutching this small wolf makes my throat tighten.
"I took it with me when I enlisted." He shakes his head. "Caught hell from the other guys. Big man with a little stuffed animal. But it reminded me what I was fighting for. Who I was."
He holds it out to me, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes. "I want you to have it."
The weight of the gesture nearly crushes me. This isn't just a gift—it's a piece of his history. One of his only connections to his mother. Something that survived fire and war to reach my hands.
"Jack, I can't—"
"You can," he interrupts gently. "And you will. Because it matters to me that you have it." He places the small wolf in my hands. "Something to remind you that you're safe. That you're protected."
Tears blur my vision as I cradle the worn toy against my chest. "Thank you," I whisper, inadequate words for the magnitude of what he's given me.
He gathers me close again, careful of my ankle, arranging us so my head rests on his shoulder. "We need to establish some ground rules," he says after a while, voice rumbling beneath my ear.
"Like what?"
"Like you don't put yourself in danger." His arm tightens around me. "You don't leave the mountain without telling me where you're going. If you're scared or uncertain about anything, you come to me first." He tilts my chin up, eyes serious. "Not because I want to control you. Because I need to know you're safe."
I nod, understanding the difference now between David's controlling demands and Jack's protective boundaries.
"There's something else you should know," he continues, voice dropping lower. "Billy from the ranger station mentioned someone's been asking around about a young woman matching your description. Red hair. Early twenties."
Ice forms in my stomach. "David."
"Possibly." Jack's expression hardens. "Billy said the guy claimed to be your brother, looking for his 'mentally ill sister' who needed medication."
"I don't have a brother." My fingers tighten around the stuffed wolf. "How would he even know to look here?"
Jack's jaw tightens. "Don’t know. You said you had stuff from your dad. Something that had my name on it."
The memory hits me—David "helping" me sort through Dad's belongings, insisting on organizing his office while I dealt with clothes and personal items. "Yes. He helped me pack up Dad's things."
"Your father was a saver. Sentimental. Old letters. Photos." Jack's eyes narrow. "If this guy went through his stuff, he might have found references to me. To this place. Might have gone back to your place…found more specifics."
The safe feeling from moments before fractures, reality intruding like cold water. "He won't stop looking," I whisper. "He can't risk me sharing those recordings. I should go. I don’t want to get you involved in—"
Jack's hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing away a tear I didn't know I'd shed. "Let him come," he says, voice deadly quiet.
The fierce protectiveness in his tone should frighten me. Instead, it wraps around me like armor, stronger than any lock or weapon.
"Now," he says, shifting to a lighter tone. "Tell me more about rocks, baby. The Petoskey ones."
I blink at the subject change. "Why?"
"Because they matter to you." He settles more comfortably against the pillows, drawing me against his chest. "And anything that matters to you, I want to know about. Everything about you, Delaney. The good, the bad, the fucking rock collection. All of it."
So I tell him—about fossil hunting with my father, about the geology classes I took in the summers, the books I read about how the earth formed, about the dream I'd once had of working in natural history museums. He listens with surprising interest, asking questions that show he's truly paying attention.
"You could go back to school," he says when I finish. "Online, maybe. Or at the community college in town."
"Maybe." The possibility feels distant but not impossible. "I'd need to figure out the debt from my dad's medical bills first."
Jack's expression shifts. "How much debt?"
I tell him, the number still staggering to me. He doesn't flinch.
"We'll figure it out," he says simply, like erasing six figures of debt is a minor inconvenience. "Together."
The word settles between us as I let his heartbeat carry me away from the problems of the outside world.
"Together," I agree, the stuffed wolf still clutched in my hands, a talisman against all the shadows that might come for us.
And for the first time since my father died, the future doesn't look like something to run from—it looks like something to build. One stone, one day, one rule at a time.