Chapter 6 - Cole
I slam the shed door behind me, the sound lost in the howling wind. The cold bites at my exposed skin, but I welcome it. Maybe it'll freeze away these thoughts, this need, this fucking weakness I thought I'd purged years ago.
The generator doesn't need checking. It's running fine. I serviced it last week. But I needed an excuse, any excuse, to get away from her before I did something unforgivable.
The way she looked at me when I stood over her, when I let my anger show... there was no fear in those green eyes. There should have been. Any sane person would have flinched away from the violence I know was written all over my face.
But not Ruby. She looked up at me with parted lips and flushed cheeks, her pupils dilated. I know that look. I haven't seen it in a decade, but some things a man doesn't forget.
Desire.
The realization hits me. She wasn't afraid of me. She was aroused. And that is infinitely more dangerous than fear.
I pace the small confines of the shed, my breath clouding in front of me.
The rational part of my brain is screaming at me to get a grip.
She's half my age, injured, dependent on me for survival right now.
The physical response she's having is probably just some fucked-up combination of gratitude and Stockholm syndrome.
But another part… The part I've kept caged and starved for eight long years is roaring to life. A part that remembers what it feels like to touch, to taste, to lose myself in another person's body.
"Fuck!" I slam my fist into the wooden wall of the shed, pain lancing up my arm. Good. Pain I can handle. Pain makes sense.
I stand there for a long time, letting the cold seep into my bones, forcing my mind to empty. When I'm certain I have myself under control again, I step back out into the storm, making my way to the woodpile to gather another armload of logs. The physical labor helps. Always has.
By the time I return to the cabin, nearly an hour has passed. I stamp the snow from my boots and push the door open, bracing myself for the sight of her.
She's asleep on the couch, curled up beneath the blanket, her dark hair spilling across the cushion. In sleep, she looks even younger, more vulnerable. Something in my chest tightens painfully.
I set the wood down quietly and move to the kitchen to make more coffee, keeping my back to her sleeping form. The mundane task grounds me, gives me something to focus on besides the soft sound of her breathing.
"Cold out there?"
Her voice startles me. I turn to find her watching me through half-lidded eyes, still drowsy from her nap.
"Below zero with the wind chill," I say, keeping my voice neutral.
She sits up, wincing slightly as she adjusts her position. "I didn't mean to fall asleep. And I'm sorry about before. I shouldn't have pushed."
I grunt, pouring myself a cup of coffee. "Want some?"
"Please."
I bring her a mug, and she wraps her hands around it, warming them against the ceramic.
"I've been thinking," she says after a moment. "About what you said, about choice."
I tense. This is dangerous territory. "What about it?"
"You chose to remove yourself from a situation where you thought you might hurt someone. That makes you the opposite of your father."
I’ve never thought of it that way. My self-imposed exile as a direct rejection of my old man's legacy.
"It's not that simple," I say finally.
"Isn't it?" She takes a sip of her coffee, watching me over the rim of the mug. "You could have stayed in the world, knowing you had these... impulses, or whatever they are. Instead, you came up here and isolated yourself. That's a kind of strength, I think."
I almost laugh. "Running away isn't strength."
"Depends what you're running from. And why." She sets her mug down on the coffee table. "I think you're a good man, Cole. Whatever happened before, whatever you did or didn't do, you're trying to do the right thing now."
The faith in her eyes is unbearable. She has no idea who I am, what I've done. The blood on my hands from war is one thing—justifiable, sanctioned killing. But what happened after, when I came home broken and couldn't put myself back together... that's something else entirely.
"You don't know me," I say roughly.
"I know you saved my life," she counters. "I know you gave me your bed and made me breakfast and haven't once made me feel like a burden, even though I literally crashed into your life uninvited."
I look away, unable to meet her gaze. "Basic human decency isn't the same as being good."
"Maybe not. But it's a start." She shifts on the couch, the movement drawing my eye back to her. "Can I ask you something else? Something not about... whatever you're running from?"
I hesitate, then nod once.
"How did you learn to live up here? All of this—" she gestures around the cabin, "—it's impressive. The hunting, the building. Was it part of your military training?"
The change of subject relaxes me slightly. This I can talk about. "Some of it. The survival skills, how to hunt, basic field medicine. The rest I learned from books and trial and error. First winter was... educational."
That gets a small smile from her. "I bet. Did you build this cabin yourself?"
"Most of it. The original structure was here—an old hunting cabin. I expanded it, added the bedroom, reinforced everything."
"It's beautiful," she says, and she seems to genuinely mean it. "Simple but solid. Honest."
I don't know why her approval affects me, but it does. Creates a warmth in my chest I haven't felt in years. "It's just shelter."
"It's more than that. It's a home." Her eyes move around the room, taking in the bookshelves I built, the handcrafted furniture, the small touches that make this more than just a place to survive. "You've put yourself into every inch of this place."
She sees too much. It unnerves me how easily she reads things I thought I'd hidden.
"The storm's let up some," I say, changing the subject. "Still not safe to travel, but maybe tomorrow."
She nods, and I think I see a flicker of something like disappointment cross her face. "Right. Of course. I'm sure you're eager to have your space back."
I should agree. Should reinforce the idea that her presence is an intrusion, that I'm counting the hours until I can return to my solitude. Instead, I find myself saying, "It's not so bad. Having company."
The smile that lights up her face makes my chest ache. "No?"
"No," I admit, feeling like I'm stepping off a cliff. "Not when it's... when it's you."
Her cheeks flush pink, and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear in a nervous gesture that's strangely endearing.
"I've enjoyed it too," she says softly. "Being here with you, I mean. Despite the circumstances."
We're veering into dangerous territory again. I need to pull back, establish boundaries. But my body betrays me, taking a step closer to the couch where she sits.
"Ruby," I say, my voice lower than I intended. "You should know that I—"
A loud crack from outside interrupts me. I instantly go on alert, moving to the window. Through the swirling snow, I can see that one of the large pine trees near the cabin has lost a branch under the weight of ice and snow.
"Everything okay?" she asks, concern in her voice.
"Fine. Just a branch." I turn back to her, and whatever I was about to say dies on my lips. She's leaned forward in concern, and the movement has caused the blanket to slip, revealing the curve of her breasts beneath the thin t-shirt. Fuck.
I force my eyes away, cursing myself for my weakness. "I should check for damage," I say abruptly, already moving toward the door. "Make sure nothing hit the roof."
"Oh. Okay." She sounds confused by my sudden change in demeanor. "Can I help?"
"No. Stay inside. I won't be long."
I escape into the cold again, slamming the door behind. Outside, I lean against the cabin wall, eyes closed, fighting for control. What the hell am I doing? I can't afford to let my guard down like this, can't allow myself to forget who and what I am.
But as I trudge through the snow to check the fallen branch, all I can think about is the look in her eyes when I told her I didn't mind her company. The flush on her cheeks. The way her lips parted slightly.
For eight years, I've lived without human touch. Without connection. I've convinced myself it's what I deserve, what the world deserves from me. But one day with this woman, and the walls I've built are crumbling.
I examine the fallen branch, confirming it caused no damage to the cabin. There's no reason to stay out in the cold any longer, but I linger, reluctant to go back inside and face both her and my own weakness.
Eventually, the biting cold forces me back to the cabin.
When I open the door, Ruby is still on the couch, but she's sitting up now, her dark hair cascading over one shoulder as she leafs through a book she must have taken from my shelf.
She looks up when I enter, closing the book. "Everything okay out there?"
"Just a branch. No damage." I shrug out of my coat and hang it by the door, brushing snow from my beard. "What are you reading?"
She holds up a worn copy of "Walden" by Thoreau. "Found it on your shelf. Seemed appropriate, given..." She gestures vaguely around the cabin.
A small smile tugs at my mouth despite myself. "Bit on the nose, isn't it?"
"Maybe a little," she agrees, returning the smile. "Though I don't think Thoreau had to deal with quite as much snow."
I move to the fireplace, adding another log, using the mundane task to center myself. When I turn back, she's watching me with those perceptive green eyes that seem to see right through me.
"Can I ask you something?" she says, her voice gentle but direct.
I brace myself. "Depends what it is."
"Why did you leave the military?"