Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
WREN
The stew tastes like something out of a memory I forgot I had.
Rich and warm and thick with beef and vegetables that melt on my tongue.
Calder sets a loaf of fresh bread on the table, the crust still crackling faintly when he tears it open.
Steam curls up from the soft center. I recognize the paper it came wrapped in.
The little bakery in town with the chalkboard sign and the woman who always slips me an extra cookie when Mae sends me to pick up orders.
The normalcy of it hits me in a strange, sideways way.
I sit at his kitchen table wrapped in his blanket, Bear stretched across my feet, and eat like I haven’t eaten a real meal in weeks. Maybe I haven’t. Every bite sinks heavy and comforting into my stomach, chasing away the last sharp edges of fear that have been riding me all day.
Calder doesn’t talk much while we eat. He doesn’t need to. The quiet isn’t awkward. It’s… peaceful. The storm rattles the windows, the fire pops in the other room, and the steady scrape of his spoon against the bowl is grounding in a way I can’t explain.
Halfway through my second slice of bread, a wave of exhaustion crashes over me.
It’s sudden and absolute. My eyelids feel weighted. My muscles go loose, the tension draining out of them all at once. The adrenaline that’s been keeping me upright since this morning finally gives up.
I blink hard and try to focus on my bowl. The edges of my vision blur.
“You’re about to fall over,” Calder says.
I look up. He’s watching me with a knowing expression, one corner of his mouth tilted slightly.
“I’m fine,” I murmur automatically, even as a yawn stretches my jaw.
He huffs a quiet breath. “You’re exhausted. Come on.”
I start to protest, then stop. What’s the point? My body is already leaning toward sleep like a plant toward sunlight.
He takes our bowls to the sink and gestures for me to follow. Bear lifts his head, considers staying put, then decides I’m more interesting and lumbers after us.
The hallway is warm and softly lit. Calder opens a door halfway down and flicks on the light. The guest room is simple and clean. A big bed with a thick quilt. A wooden dresser. A window looking out onto a blur of white storm.
“You can sleep in here,” he says.
I step inside slowly. The bed looks like heaven.
He crosses to the closet and pulls out extra blankets, layering them over the quilt with efficient movements. The mattress dips when he presses a hand into it, testing it like he’s making sure it’s good enough.
“The bathroom’s right there,” he adds, pointing to a door across the hall. “Towels are under the sink.”
“Thank you,” I say softly.
He studies me for a second, his gaze flicking over my clothes. I suddenly become aware of how grimy I feel. Sweat and fear and the lingering scent of my car cling to me.
“Hang on,” he says.
He disappears down the hall and comes back a moment later with a small stack of clothes folded over his arm. He holds them out to me.
“A long sleeve shirt, sweats, and socks,” he says. “They’ll be big on you, but they’re clean.”
The fabric looks impossibly soft. Warm. Mine for the night.
Emotion swells in my chest, tight and unexpected. No one has taken care of me like this in… I don’t even know how long.
“Thank you,” I whisper again, and this time the words feel heavier. Fuller.
He nods like it’s nothing. Like handing me clothes and a safe place to sleep is the most natural thing in the world.
“I’ll be in the living room,” he says. “Take your time.”
The bathroom fills with steam as the shower heats. I peel off my clothes and step under the spray, and the hot water nearly buckles my knees. It pours over me in a steady sheet, washing away the day. The fear. The cold. Alex’s voice echoing in my head.
I scrub my skin until it’s pink, until I feel like I’m shedding a layer of something dark and sticky. I let the water run over my face and breathe in the clean, soapy air.
When I finally step out, my limbs feel heavy and loose. I pull on Calder’s clothes. The shirt hangs past my hips. The sweats bunch at my ankles. The socks swallow my feet whole.
I’ve never worn anything that feels this safe.
The guest room is dim and quiet when I slip back inside. The storm is a distant roar beyond the walls. The bed waits, piled high with blankets.
I crawl under them and sink into the mattress. The sheets are cool and clean against my skin. I pull the blankets up to my chin and stare at the ceiling for a second, my mind trying to catch up with everything that’s happened.
This morning I was running from my stepbrother in a diner parking lot.
Now I’m in a mountain house behind locked gates, wrapped in borrowed clothes that smell faintly like cedar and smoke, with a big dog snoring somewhere down the hall and a man who barely knows me making sure I’m warm and fed.
I should be terrified.
Instead, a deep, steady calm settles over me.
Safe.
The word drifts through my mind as my eyes slide closed. My body melts into the bed, every muscle finally releasing its grip.
Sleep takes me fast and gentle, and I fall into it without fighting, wrapped in warmth and the unfamiliar, precious feeling of being protected.
I’m standing in Calder’s living room again, the storm pressing white and silent against the windows. The air is thick and warm, heavy with the scent of smoke and cedar. He’s sitting in the armchair near the fire, legs spread, forearms resting on his thighs, watching me like he’s been waiting.
The look in his eyes makes my breath hitch.
It isn’t soft. It’s focused. Intent. Like he sees straight through me to the part that’s been shaking all day and knows exactly how to steady it.
“Come here,” he says.
It isn’t loud. It isn’t harsh. But it isn’t a request either.
My body moves before my mind catches up. I cross the space between us on bare feet, the floor warm under my skin. His gaze tracks every step. When I stop in front of him, he reaches out and grips my hips, guiding me closer until I’m standing between his knees.
The size of him surrounds me. Grounds me. His hands are big and warm where they rest on my waist, thumbs pressing lightly like he’s checking that I’m real.
“You’ve been running all day,” he murmurs. “Haven’t you?”
The way he says it isn’t accusing. It’s knowing. I nod, my throat tight.
His hand slides up my spine, slow and deliberate, until it cups the back of my neck. The touch is firm, steady. Protective. He tips my head back just enough to meet his eyes.
“You don’t have to run here,” he says quietly. “I’ve got you.”
Something inside me loosens at the certainty in his voice. The fear that’s been buzzing under my skin fades, replaced by a deep, aching relief. I lean into his hold without thinking.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”
The praise sinks into me like heat. My pulse jumps. His thumb strokes slowly at the side of my neck, each pass sending a soft shiver down my spine. He watches my face like he’s cataloging every reaction, every breath.
His other arm wraps around my waist and draws me down until I’m half seated on his thigh. The movement is effortless, controlled. I gasp softly, my hands flying to his shoulders to steady myself. He doesn’t let me pull away. His grip is secure, anchoring.
“You’re safe,” he repeats, his voice low and rough. “Right here.”
The words settle deep in my chest. I feel held in the center of his attention, wrapped in the solid warmth of his body and the quiet authority in his touch. When he brushes his mouth against mine, the kiss is slow and claiming, like he’s sealing a promise.
I melt into it, into him, every nerve ending humming. His hand at my neck keeps me there, steady and grounded as the world narrows to the heat between us and the steady rhythm of his breathing.
His hand tightens slightly at the back of my neck, not enough to hurt, just enough to hold me exactly where he wants me. His eyes drop to my mouth, and the look in them makes heat coil low in my stomach.
“Look at me,” he murmurs.
I do. I can’t do anything else. The world has narrowed to the space between us and the steady certainty in his voice.
“That’s it,” he says softly. “Stay with me.”
Then he kisses me.
It isn’t tentative. It isn’t a question.
His mouth claims mine in a slow, deep press that steals the air from my lungs.
The kiss is firm and unhurried, his lips moving against mine with a confidence that makes my knees weaken.
His thumb strokes once at my neck as if to remind me he’s there, holding me steady.
A soft sound escapes me, and he answers by deepening the kiss, angling my head with gentle pressure so he can taste me fully. The warmth of him surrounds me. The solid line of his chest against mine. The arm around my waist keeping me anchored on his thigh.
Every sensation sharpens. The heat of the fire. The storm whispering at the windows. The steady rhythm of his breathing mingling with mine. He kisses me like he has all the time in the world, like there’s nowhere else he needs to be.
When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to rest his forehead against mine. His hand stays at my neck, his grip protective and sure.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
The praise settles deep, sending a trembling warmth through me. I lean into him instinctively, chasing the closeness, and he gathers me in without hesitation, his hold tightening just enough to make it clear I’m exactly where he wants me.
Safe. Wanted. Held.
The feeling wraps around me as the dream softens and drifts, his kiss lingering on my lips like a promise I carry with me into deeper sleep.