Chapter 11
Maddie
The air smells like pine and snowmelt, crisp and sharp enough to sting my lungs as I step off the cobblestone drive and onto the narrow trail. The sky overhead is pale blue, the kind that looks freshly scrubbed, not a single cloud in sight when you catch it through the trees.
There’s a small watchman’s hut at the edge of the drive, and two men inside: one for security, I assume, and the other is a driver I recognize who must just be on call. They’re chatting and watching me closely as the toe of my hiking boot touches down softly in a bed of pine needles.
“Mrs. Bronson.”
Already I can feel my muscles relaxing… fingers unclenching from the straps of my pack… two weeks inside the lodge. As gorgeous as it is, it’s started to feel like a kind of prison. I’m so used to being outside, in the fresh air…
“Mrs. Bronson.”
The voice is closer, sharper, and I finally register it with a little jerk.
“Oh—sorry, um, yes?”
Marco, Ben’s household manager, is standing at the foot of the front steps. His shoes rap out against the cobblestone, sending a small group of ravens into flight from the pines.
“You’re going out?”
“Yeah, if that’s okay. I just wanted to go for a walk.” I tip my head toward the trail, where it disappears into the shadow of the forest. Marco glances uneasily from me to the gloomy path.
“You haven’t been out there until now, right? I’m not sure you should go on your own…”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I interject, straightening my posture and adjusting the pack. “I used to hike all the time in Montana, and ride. I have everything I could possibly need.”
When his mouth parts, unsure, I add more firmly: “I’ll be back within an hour.”
His mouth snaps shut and he nods but doesn’t move as I turn and start to walk into the trees again.
An uneasy, creeping feeling snakes over my shoulders and down my spine.
Despite the beautiful day, Marco’s anxiety has managed to infiltrate my own mind.
These aren’t my woods. I don’t know them like I know home, where I spent thirty years wandering around the ranch and surrounding terrain.
It can’t be that different, I tell myself, enjoying the crunch of pinecones and the fresh air the further away I get from the lodge. Within seconds, it disappears from sight.
Two weeks. That’s how long I’ve lived here. Long enough to know which corridors creak, long enough to learn which paintings watch me the hardest, and long enough to feel like I’m suffocating inside a gilded cage.
So today, I choose the woods.
I tug my fleece tighter around me and think of Stella, who would be mortified to find out what I’m doing.
She’d definitely agree with Marco on this being an unsafe idea; Stella can’t stand dirt or dust and has always enjoyed how pristine everything is indoors.
She would have lectured me for sneaking out, but she isn’t here.
No one is. Just me, the towering pines, and the sound of birds chirping their endless gossip.
For a few minutes, I feel free. My boots crunch over fallen needles, the sun breaks through the branches in long golden fingers, and the tension that’s lived in my shoulders for months eases just enough to let me breathe.
I almost convince myself that I can disappear into these woods and never look back.
“Madeline!”
The stern shout shatters the illusion.
I stiffen, groan, and turn. Ben is striding up the path like he owns not only the trail but the entire mountain.
Which, technically, he kind of does. His shoulders are broad beneath a dark sweater, his jaw tight with irritation, and his green eyes locked on me like I’ve personally offended him by daring to step foot in the wilderness.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Walking,” I shoot back, spinning away from him before he can bulldoze me with that tone. “It’s a thing normal people do. For fresh air. For exercise.”
“You can’t go out here alone.” His boots thud against the packed earth until he’s just a few steps behind me. I can feel his presence, and it sends a shiver through me in a way that I don’t want to acknowledge. His voice is low, controlled, but vibrating with disapproval.
I glance over my shoulder and roll my eyes. “What, is a pine tree going to mug me?”
“Maddie.” My name in his voice is half warning, half growl. “This isn’t Montana. There are mountain lions here. Bears. A dozen ways for you to get hurt.”
“And what? You’ll swoop in and save me?” I laugh, hand grazing my hip—where there’s a massive hunting knife—and checking the bottle holder of my pack where I tucked away bear spray.
“You don’t get to control where I put my feet, Ben.
Besides, we have mountain lions and bears in Montana too, you know. ”
I expect him to bark back. To lecture me. But instead, he lengthens his stride until he’s next to me, his body radiating heat in the chilly air. His presence is a wall I can’t walk around.
“You’re stubborn,” he mutters.
“And you’re infuriating.”
We walk like that for a few minutes, the trail crunching under us, tension snapping in the space between our shoulders. I want to outpace him, but his legs are longer and he doesn’t tire. The bastard was probably born striding up mountainsides.
I keep my chin high, pretending he doesn’t unsettle me. Pretending I don’t notice how his scent—cedar, clean soap, a hint of smoke—wraps around me until I can hardly smell the trees anymore.
Then, just as I’m about to throw a snide comment over my shoulder, something rustles in the tree line.
It’s faint. Could be a squirrel. Could be a gust of wind. But my stomach clenches anyway.
Ben’s hand closes around my wrist before I can blink. Steady. Protective. “Stay close,” he says, voice low.
I want to argue. To rip my hand away and laugh at myself for being startled. But my heart is hammering, and suddenly the woods feel less like freedom and more like shadowed teeth waiting to bite.
I exhale shakily and nod. “Fine. You win. For now.”
A ghost of a smirk touches his mouth, but he says nothing more.
We keep walking. Together, this time, and slower. His grip eases, but I can still feel the imprint of his hand on my skin long after he lets go.
The trail curves upward, winding through a grove of aspens that shimmer like silver coins. Sunlight filters through their leaves, dappling the ground with patches of gold. The air is cooler here, the quiet broken only by the distant cry of a hawk.
When the path widens, I see it: a cluster of cabins tucked into a clearing.
They’re rustic but elegant, built from honey-colored logs with wide porches and shuttered windows.
The roofs are steep, perfect for heavy snow, but covered in a layer of pine needles and frost. For a second, I think I’ve stumbled into a postcard.
“What is this?” I breathe.
Ben steps ahead of me, his posture relaxing just slightly. “A camp.”
I snort. “This is not a camp. A camp is tents and bug spray and barrel grills. This is…” My eyes sweep over the details—iron lanterns, stone firepits, rocking chairs lined up like sentinels. “This is something else.”
He shrugs, as if it’s nothing. “I built it years ago. Rangers use it when they need a place to stay overnight. A thank-you for their work.”
I blink at him. “You… what?”
“It’s nothing,” he grumbles, turning away and ambling into the space, inspecting the nearest cabin. “I need to get Roger out here for some maintenance.”
“It’s not nothing.” I stare at the cabins, then at him. “You donated a whole retreat to the preserve and didn’t bother to mention it?”
His jaw ticks. “Philanthropy isn’t something you brag about, Madeline.”
I fold my arms. “Of course it isn’t. But you didn’t exactly strike me as the give-back-to-the-community type.”
His gaze sharpens, pinning me, but there’s a slight lift to the corner of his mouth, like I almost made him laugh. “You don’t know what type I am.”
The words hit harder than they should. I swallow, my cheeks warming. “Maybe not. But you could try telling me, instead of stalking me through the woods like some mountain warden. Did you just not want me to see this?”
Ignoring the question, Benedict bites out, “Maybe if you didn’t run off alone like a reckless child, I wouldn’t have to.”
That does it. I stalk up to him, temper flaring and pack jangling.
“I am not a child, Ben. I’m your wife, whether you like it or not. And I don’t need you dictating where I can breathe fresh air. I needed to get out.”
His eyes flash. He takes a step closer, towering over me. “You think I don’t know you’re my wife? Every goddamn minute I’m aware of it. Do you have any idea what it costs me not to—”
He cuts himself off, his jaw locking.
“Not to what?” The question comes out hushed, but it doesn’t shake. Part of what’s been driving me crazy in that house is being so close to him. Is wanting… “Not to touch me?” I breathe out. “Not to kiss me again?”
The silence between us crackles like lightning.
His hand comes up, cupping my jaw. His thumb brushes the edge of my cheekbone. “Not to ruin you,” he murmurs.
What if I want to be ruined.
I should pull away. I should remind him that this marriage is a contract, that I’m supposed to be with Derrick, that this is dangerous. And we said we wouldn’t do this again. But my body doesn’t care about the rules we set. My body leans closer, heat sparking under my skin where he touches me.
Before I can think, he pushes me back against the cabin wall. I struggle for a moment and Ben pulls back, but all I want is to let the pack fall at our feet, to stop it digging into my back. Then I grip the front of his sweater, pull him closer.
The logs are warm from the sun, pressing into my spine as he cages me in with his arms.
“You drive me insane,” he says, his breath hot against my ear.
“Good.” My voice is a whisper. “At least we’re even.” I close my eyes, run my hand up his shoulder and into his silver hair.
His mouth doesn’t claim mine, though I feel his breath feathering over my jaw. Instead, his hand trails down, slow and deliberate, over my throat, the curve of my breast, my stomach. When his fingers slide between my thighs, I squeeze them with a whine.
“Ben—”
“Shh.” His lips ghost over my earlobe. “Let me.”
I shouldn’t. God, I shouldn’t. But when his hand slips under the waistband of my leggings, when his fingers find exactly where I’m throbbing for him, every ounce of resistance burns away.
This isn’t breaking the rule… not really… not if he’s just…
I cling to his shoulders, biting down on a cry as he strokes me. The stubble of his beard against my neck makes my back arch, nipples harden as he runs his fingers leisurely through my folds. His pace is maddening—teasing, deliberate.
Another whine slips out. Ben’s free hand pushes my hip back against the wall, hard, and his fingers delve into my core. I try to grind my hips, but he holds me there, pulling back to watch me with a smirk on his handsome face as his thumb grazes my clit.
His eyes drop to my mouth, then my breasts, then the place where his hand works beneath my leggings.
“You have no idea what I’ve been wanting to do to you.” He says it calmly, like it isn’t a confession. Like it’s not pushing us both closer to crossing the line.
My pussy clenches around his fingers as I try to buck my hips again, and this time Benedict’s hand slides around to grip my ass and fuck me forward on his fingers.
“You’re mine,” he growls against my throat, and the sound alone nearly undoes me.
The release crashes over me, sharp and shattering. I hold him close, trying in a daze to bring his face to my breasts as I ride his fingers, gasping, trembling, my body shaking in his arms.
When it’s over, he pulls back, his hand sliding free. His eyes are wild, pupils blown, but his jaw is tight again, locked against whatever he’s feeling. He looks angry and turned on. I like the danger in that look.
Without a word, Benedict steps away. The sudden distance is a wound.
I tug my jacket closed, trying to steady my breathing, trying to make sense of what just happened, my soaked pussy still hot with want.
He doesn’t look at me as he mutters, “We should head back.”
The walk is silent.
My legs feel heavy, my body still humming from his touch, but my mind is chaos. I shouldn’t want him like this. I shouldn’t crave the man who’s supposed to be my father-in-law, the man who keeps walls higher than the mountains around us.
“What are the chances,” I murmur, not sure if he can hear me up ahead on the path, “that this will really get annulled? That Derrick and I…?”
His shoulders pull up, tighten.
When did I start wanting this, and not everything that was written into the original contract? When did I realize I could have something more?
“I don’t know,” he answers in a low, flat voice. “We have to find him first.”