Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
EAMON
I woke to absolute silence.
No traffic humming past on busy streets, no neighbors slamming car doors, no distant sirens wailing. Just pure, crystalline quiet broken only by the soft whisper of wind through pine needles and the distant call of some bird I couldn’t identify. It almost sounded like home.
For a moment, I lay still in the narrow bed, staring up at the log ceiling and enjoying the peace and quiet. I’d actually slept almost six hours—unheard of for me. Apparently, my body had needed it.
I slipped out of bed and padded barefoot to the window, pulling back the simple cotton curtains to get my first real look at our temporary sanctuary in daylight.
Christ, it was beautiful. The cabin sat in a small clearing surrounded by towering pines and sugar maples, their leaves a riot of gold and crimson against the deep blue October sky.
The Adirondack mountains rose in the distance, their peaks shrouded in morning mist, and the air that drifted through the slightly open window was so clean and sharp it made my lungs ache.
It reminded me of home—the wild places in County Cork where I’d grown up, where the air smelled of peat smoke and sea salt and my mother’s herb garden.
The cabin itself was exactly what Gabriel had promised—remote, comfortable, and completely off the grid.
Two bedrooms separated by a small hallway, a kitchen that was basic but functional, and a main living area dominated by a massive stone fireplace.
The furniture was sturdy and practical, the kind built to last decades rather than follow fashion trends.
Thick wool rugs covered the wooden floors, and oil lamps sat ready on every table in case the generator failed.
I could hear Charles moving around in the other bedroom, probably as disoriented as I’d been upon waking. He’d barely slept during the drive, too wired with anxiety and adrenaline to relax. Hopefully, he’d managed to get some sleep as well once he’d been in bed.
By the time he emerged from his room, I’d managed to coax the old coffee maker into producing something that resembled actual coffee and was standing at the kitchen window, watching a family of deer pick their way delicately through the clearing.
“Morning,” Charles said, his voice rough with sleep. His hair was sticking up at odd angles, there were pillow creases on his cheek, and he looked so endearingly rumpled that I had to grip my coffee mug tighter to keep from reaching out to smooth down that wayward lock of hair.
“Morning. Sleep okay?”
He made a noncommittal sound and shuffled toward the coffee maker. “This place is…quiet.”
“Too quiet?”
“I don’t know yet.” He poured himself a cup and took a tentative sip, then made a face. “Okay, that’s terrible coffee.”
I couldn’t help but grin. “Sorry. I’m not exactly a barista.”
“No worries. I can work with it.” He opened a few cabinets, frowning at the sparse contents.
“Though we’re going to need supplies if we’re staying here for more than a day or two.
Real food, decent coffee, maybe something other than canned beans and stale crackers. And I’ll need flour to feed Wolfgang.”
“We can drive into town and stock up on whatever you need.”
Relief flickered across his expression at the prospect of civilization. “That would be great. I’m not really built for wilderness survival. Which reminds me, where exactly are we?”
“We’re near Keene, not too far from Lake Placid.”
His face lit up with recognition. “I’ve been there once with my parents, ages ago, during the summer. Beautiful area and of course quite well-known.”
“Ah, yes, the famous miracle on ice. Olympic Games of…1980, right?”
Charles snorted. “You’re asking me? Do I look like the type who follows sports?”
I flashed him a grin. “I thought you might’ve made an exception for hockey, seeing as how all those hockey players are built like gods.”
“Mmm, true. I hooked up with an NHL player once, and he was…” Charles kissed his fingers.
“Same. He wasn’t out, obviously, but we had some very satisfying encounters that week.”
“Ooh, do tell.”
“He was very vocal in bed, telling me exactly what he wanted me to do to him. And when I did, he made the most beautiful sounds…”
Charles’s breath hitched, and that tension that always simmered between us flared like a match struck in the dark.
The way Charles was looking at me—pupils dilated, lips slightly parted—made the air in the small kitchen feel thick and charged.
I could practically feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell the faint scent of his soap mixed with something uniquely him that made my mouth water.
The casual mention of past hookups should’ve been normal conversation, but instead it hung between us like a challenge, a reminder that we were both experienced men who knew exactly what we wanted.
And the fact that we couldn’t, that it wasn’t allowed, didn’t change that.
I cleared my throat. “Anyway, we can drive to Keene and get what you need. Or even Lake Placid.”
“Keene is fine.” Charles’s voice was slightly hoarse.
“Good. I’m gonna…” I vaguely gestured toward the door, then flew outside like a coward.
It took almost five minutes for my heart rate to come down and my cock to deflate, even while focusing on setting up motion sensors and cameras.
An hour later, we were winding down the narrow mountain road toward Keene, the BMW handling the curves with surprising grace despite being designed more for city streets than mountain passes.
Luckily, I had picked the all-wheel drive option, knowing I might have to drive in the snow, and boy, was I grateful for that foresight now.
Keene turned out to be exactly the kind of place that time forgot—a cluster of white buildings nestled in a valley between two mountains, with a general store that looked like it hadn’t changed since the 1950s.
The proprietor, a weathered man in his sixties with kind eyes and work-rough hands, greeted us with that classic casual friendliness.
“You just passing through town?” he asked as Charles loaded a basket with coffee, flour, milk, and some fresh fruits and produce.
“We’re here for the fall colors,” I said. “Needed to get away from the city for a bit.”
“Best place for it.” The older man nodded approvingly. “Mountains have a way of putting things in perspective. You’ll find what you’re looking for up here, mark my words.”
I wasn’t entirely sure what we were looking for, but I kept that thought to myself.
Charles charmed the locals the way he charmed everyone—with genuine interest and that warm smile that made people want to tell him their life stories.
By the time we left, he’d gotten recommendations for the best hiking trails, found out which restaurants to avoid, and somehow convinced the store owner’s wife to part with her secret recipe for apple butter.
“You’re good at that,” I observed as we loaded our purchases into the car.
“At what?”
“Making people like you. Trust you.”
Charles shrugged, but I caught the pleased flush that colored his cheeks. “I like people. Most of them, anyway. And small-town folks are usually happy to help if you ask nicely.”
The drive back up the mountain was more relaxed, with Charles pointing out views he’d missed on the way down and already making plans for how to organize the kitchen supplies.
Watching him plan and organize, even in this temporary space, made something warm settle in my chest. He was nesting, trying to create order and comfort even amid chaos.
Back at the cabin, Charles threw himself into the task of making our temporary refuge more livable while I tackled the more practical matter of firewood.
The pile beside the cabin was running low, and October nights in the mountains could get brutally cold.
The high peaks had already been dusted with the first snow, and by the time winter officially hit, there’d be a few feet, if not more.
I found the axe in a small shed behind the cabin, its handle worn smooth by decades of use.
It felt good in my hands—solid, purposeful, the kind of tool that connected you to something fundamental about survival.
I’d chopped plenty of wood growing up, back when keeping the fire burning was the difference between warmth and misery during Ireland’s wet, gray winters.
The first few swings felt awkward as my body remembered the rhythm, but I soon fell into the familiar pattern of lift, swing, split.
The physical labor felt good after days of tension and inactivity, my muscles loosening as I worked through the pile of massive tree logs, methodically chopping them into smaller firewood.
I was so focused on the work that I didn’t notice Charles watching me until I paused to strip off my sweater, the October air now warm against my skin. When I looked up, he was standing on the cabin’s small front porch, a mug in his hands and an expression on his face that made my mouth go dry.
He wasn’t even trying to hide it—the way his eyes tracked the movement of my shoulders, lingered on my arms as I lifted the axe, dropped to watch the flex of muscles in my back. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and I felt an answering heat curl low in my belly.
“Enjoying the show?” I called out, unable to resist teasing him.
His cheeks went pink, but he didn’t look away. “Maybe. You’re very…energetic.”
Christ, the way he said it, all breathless and appreciative, made me want to drop the axe and cross the clearing to kiss him senseless. Instead, I forced myself to turn back to the woodpile, hyperaware of his gaze on me as I continued working.
“Thought you might want some water,” Charles said eventually, and when I looked over, he was walking toward me with a glass in his outstretched hand.
I set down the axe and accepted the water gratefully, trying not to notice how close he was standing or the way he seemed to find excuses to let his fingers brush mine when he handed me the glass.