Chapter 4
Wren
It takes me a few hours to stop expecting him to lock the door from the outside.
I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Hale to snap. For the mask to fall and reveal something worse. But it never does.
He moves around the cabin like he’s lived here his whole life—efficient, quiet, steady. Like he was built for solitude. He barely says a word, and yet somehow, I don’t feel alone.
I sit cross-legged on the bed while he chops firewood just outside the window.
I can see him through the glass, his shirt clinging to broad shoulders, the sharp crack of the axe splitting through the stillness of the woods.
His forearms flex with every swing. There’s something hypnotic about the rhythm.
And I hate that I’m watching him like this.
Like I want to touch him.
This man—who’s been following me for years. Who’s broken a thousand boundaries without ever asking permission. Who should terrify me.
But I don’t feel scared.
I feel… safe.
And I don’t know what that says about me.
He comes back inside just before sunset, brushing snow off his boots and muttering something about a storm coming. He doesn’t speak unless he needs to. He moves with purpose, not noise. Everything about him is sharp-edged and quiet.
When he pours hot water over instant coffee and sets a mug down in front of me, I almost laugh.
“What?” he says, finally meeting my eyes.
“You’re… domestic,” I say, smirking. “I pictured more blood and violence. Less Folgers and flannel.”
He doesn’t smile, but something flickers behind his eyes.
“I can be both,” he says.
I sip the coffee. It’s bad. But I don’t care. It’s warm, and I’m starving for any version of comfort.
“So,” I say, watching him settle into the chair by the stove, “how long?”
His brow lifts.
“How long have you been watching me?”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t deny it.
“Since you were nineteen.”
I blink. “That long?”
He nods once.
“Why?”
His jaw tightens. His eyes stay locked on mine. “Your father asked me to.”
The silence that follows is heavy. Thicker than the heat rising from the stove.
“My dad,” I echo. “You knew him?”
“We served together.”
My stomach flips. “You were in the military?”
“Yeah.”
That’s it. No rank. No details. Just yeah.
“And my dad—he knew something would happen to him?”
“He didn’t know when. But he knew it would come.”
I try to imagine the conversations they must’ve had. My dad with his gravel voice and thousand-yard stare, sitting across from this man. Making plans. Asking him to protect me if he didn’t make it home.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
“He used to tell me I’d be okay,” I whisper. “Even before his last deployment, he always said, You’ll be okay. I made sure.” I look up at Hale. “He meant you.”
He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t look away.
I shift on the bed. The cabin creaks in the wind outside.
“I guess this is the part where I tell you what I did,” I say, voice low.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, waiting.
I take a breath and force it out.
“I didn’t know what I was looking for. I just had a bad feeling. Liam was acting off—hiding things, getting controlling, paranoid. And I found the SD card hidden behind a drawer in his desk.” I pause. “I only watched the first video. I didn’t need to see more.”
His face doesn’t change, but his knuckles go white against the edge of the chair.
“They were girls,” I whisper. “Barely legal. High. Scared. He was filming them like it was some kind of trophy collection. There were men’s voices in the background. Laughter. It was disgusting.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“I ran. Took the card. Then I disappeared.”
Hale’s voice is low. “And now they’re trying to erase the evidence. Starting with you.”
“Yeah.”
A long silence stretches between us. The storm outside starts to rattle against the windows.
Then he says it. Simple. Steady.
“I’ll take care of you.”
The words slide into my ribs like a balm and a blade all at once.
“You don’t even know me,” I whisper.
“I’ve known you longer than you think.”
His eyes hold mine like he’s seeing all the versions of me—the broken, the bruised, the reckless kid trying to outrun her grief.
“And the storm?” I ask. “When they come?”
He stands slowly, walking over to the window and staring out into the thickening dark.
“Let them come,” he says. “We’ll handle it together.”
Something breaks open in my chest. A dam I didn’t realize I’d built.
Trust. Fear. Relief. It all tangles up, messy and real.
I shift gears before I drown in it.
“What happened in the war?” I ask softly.
His whole body tenses.
He doesn’t answer.
“You and my dad… were you close?”
“He saved my life,” he says after a long pause. “Took a bullet meant for me. I owed him everything after that.”
I wait for more, but it doesn’t come.
“What about you?” I press. “What happened to you?”
He turns his back to the window.
“There are things I did I don’t talk about. Things I’ve seen that don’t go away just because the war ends.”
That’s all he gives me.
And somehow, I know it’s more than he’s given anyone in years.
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
I don’t push.
Because maybe I’m not the only one running from ghosts.
And maybe the two of us fit together better than we should.
I crawl under the quilt without another word. He pulls a second blanket from the trunk, settles onto the floor with his back against the door.
Like a shield.
Like a guard.
And for the first time in a long time, I fall asleep before the sun rises.
Not because the fear is gone.
But because he’s here.