Chapter 4
Nate
The ride up the mountain is quiet, except for Greta’s humming and the tires crunching over the snow covered roads.
She hums when she’s nervous. I clocked it early. That soft little buzz under her breath like her system’s too overloaded for silence. It’s better than panic, better than shutting down, but it still makes my jaw clench because she shouldn’t have to be scared.
She glances over as I make the final turn, gravel crunching beneath the tires.
“Definitely off the beaten path,” she says.
“Good,” I grunt.
The cabin sits low beneath the trees, tucked into the pines like it’s been hiding longer than both of us. One chimney. A solid wraparound porch. No neighbors for miles. No cell towers. Just us, the woods, and the occasional bear who’s learned not to mess with me.
Greta slides out of the truck, hugging her coat tighter around her.
“You sure this place isn’t haunted?”
“Only by me.”
She huffs a little laugh. “Comforting.”
I grab her duffel and walk her up the steps. Unlock the door. Step back so she can walk inside first.
“Wow,” she breathes.
The fire’s already going. I lit it before I left for the diner.
It throws warm light across the cabin—over the rough-hewn walls, the open kitchen, the bookshelf stuffed with paperbacks I’ll never admit to reading, and the big bed in the back corner that I instantly regret not putting in a separate room.
Greta takes it all in, spinning slowly like she’s cataloging every detail.
“This is… kind of amazing,” she says. “Like, rugged and cozy. If a lumberjack had a Pinterest.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that a compliment?”
“Don’t worry, Nate. I won’t blow your cover.” She walks over to the fireplace and holds her hands out toward the flames. Her sweater lifts just a little when she stretches, flashing a sliver of skin over her hip.
Focus, I growl to myself.
“I need your phone,” I say, setting her bag by the couch.
She turns, blinking. “My phone?”
“Yeah.” I pull out a Faraday pouch from the drawer. “It can be tracked. Even powered down. And I’m not letting anyone get a signal on this place.”
She hesitates, then digs it out of her pocket. “You’re really taking this secret bodyguard thing seriously.”
I give her a look. “You found a threat in your diner. Someone’s watching you. That makes this war.”
She chews her lip. “Right.”
I slip the phone into the pouch, seal it, and stash it in the metal lockbox beneath the woodpile. She watches every move I make like she’s trying to decide if she’s terrified or turned on.
Honestly? Same.
“Now,” I say, stepping closer, “you’re safe here. But that only works if you listen to me.”
She folds her arms. “Listen how?”
“If I say duck, you duck. If I say run, you don’t ask why—you run. You don’t look back. You don’t stop. You keep going until you’re somewhere public, and you don’t stop moving until someone official has you.”
She swallows. Hard. “Got it.”
I reach into my back pocket and pull out a small, curved blade in a leather sheath. “This is yours now.”
She takes it, flipping it over in her palm. “This is serious.”
“Dead serious.”
For a beat, the room’s quiet again. Just the fire crackling in the hearth.
Then she looks up, eyes darker now. Steadier. “So what’s your plan, exactly?”
“First, I protect you. At all costs.”
“And then?”
“Then I hunt.”
Greta doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t laugh. She just nods like she expected that answer all along.
And hell, I like her more for it.
She crosses the room, fingers trailing along the edge of the table, then toward the bed.
She stops. Looks over her shoulder. “So, um… not to complicate things, but I’m guessing that’s the only bed.”
“It is,” I say.
She raises both eyebrows. “Oh. Are we doing the ‘one-bed’ trope thing or…”
“No,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “You take the bed. I’ll take the floor.”
Her mouth tugs to the side. “How noble.”
“It’s not noble,” I mutter, already dragging a blanket and pillow toward the hearth. “It’s practical.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Greta.”
“Nate.”
She’s grinning now, but there’s a hint of pink in her cheeks. She knows what she does to me. She knows I’ve been watching her for months—trying not to look too long, trying not to think too hard about that mouth, those hips, the way she smiles like she could ruin a man just by saying his name.
And now she’s in my space.
Her scent’s already in the air—warm sugar, vanilla, and some kind of lotion that makes me want to press my face to her neck and forget what sleep is.
I clear my throat. “Tell me about him.”
The smile vanishes. She looks down.
“My ex,” she says. “His name’s Travis Carrick. He was charming at first. You know the type. Flashy smile. Big promises. Too many gifts.”
“What did he do?”
“Everything but hit me at first,” she says. “Because he wanted me grateful. Controlled. Dependent. He knew how to play the long game. Knew how to isolate me without raising alarms. And when I tried to leave—he lost it.”
I clench my fists. “Did he hurt you?”
“Yes. It became physical. A complete beating. I still wake up some nights waiting for the key in the lock.”
I take a long breath, forcing my hands to relax. “He’s not getting near you. Not now. Not ever.”
She nods, but I can see the fear still behind her eyes. And beneath it—something else.
Trust.
She’s trusting me. In my space. With her past. With her life.
And if that trust doesn’t put me on my knees, nothing will.
“You hungry?” I ask, voice rougher than I mean.
She smiles again, this time softer. “Always.”
I move toward the kitchen, keeping my distance, but I can feel her behind me. Her warmth. Her eyes. Her energy, like a flicker of light I’ve gone too long without.
It’s going to be hell, having her this close.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.