Chapter 6 Wren
Wren
There’s something about watching a man sharpen a knife that shouldn’t be sexy.
But it is.
Especially when it’s him.
Hale sits at the table, hunched over the blade like it’s a ritual. His hands are steady, precise—like he’s done this a thousand times. The muscles in his forearms flex as he pulls the blade across the whetstone, slow and focused. No wasted movement. No nervous energy. Just control.
God, he has so much control.
I lean in the doorway, arms crossed, trying not to stare too hard. I’ve been trying not to stare for days now, and it’s not working.
Not even a little.
He’s older. Maybe late thirties, early forties. I don’t know the exact number and it doesn’t matter. He carries it like a weapon—quiet, grounded, sharp-edged. He moves like someone who’s used to surviving, and making others survive. Everything he does feels deliberate. Intentional.
Protective.
And that’s the part I can’t stop thinking about.
He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t touch. He barely looks at me longer than necessary. But every little thing he does is laced with this quiet intensity that makes my skin prickle.
He makes sure I eat, always setting food in front of me even if he doesn’t join.
When the fire dies low, he’s already tossing more logs in before I can even say I’m cold.
When I fell asleep reading on the floor last night, I woke up tucked into the bed with a blanket over me and a fire burning hot again.
He never says much.
But he doesn’t have to.
Liam talked all the time. Loud. Arrogant. Always knew the right thing to say, and somehow still made it sound like an insult. When we met, I thought it was confidence. I thought it was exciting—being wanted by someone so sure of himself.
But it wasn’t confidence. It was control.
The kind that coils around you slowly, like a snake. Whispering things that make you question yourself. Telling you he’s all you need. That no one else would want you.
He never did what Hale does.
Never made me feel safe.
I glance around the cabin. It’s cleaner than it was when I got here—mostly thanks to me. I needed something to do besides pacing and fantasizing about a man who keeps sleeping on the goddamn floor to avoid touching me.
I’ve scrubbed the floors, reorganized the kitchen, sorted the gear in the corner closet, and wiped down every surface I could find. I even folded his clothes. Which is… not normal behavior. But nothing about this situation is normal.
This shouldn’t feel like home.
And yet it kind of does.
I step into the room slowly, my fingers trailing across the edge of the table. “How many knives do you have, exactly?”
Hale looks up, his eyes sweeping over me in that calm, unreadable way that makes my stomach flutter. “Enough.”
“Of course.” I smile. “Do you ever give actual answers, or is everything classified?”
He doesn't smile, but I catch a flicker of something at the edge of his mouth. Almost.
“I tell you what you need to know.”
“I want to know you, Hale.”
He freezes.
Just for a second.
Then he goes back to sharpening the blade, slower now.
I lean in closer, standing just on the other side of the table. “I’m not asking for your blood type or your kill count,” I say, voice soft. “Just… tell me something real. One thing.”
He lifts his gaze again, and this time, he doesn’t look away.
“You’re too young for me.”
My breath catches.
That wasn’t what I asked, but it answers so much more.
“I didn’t ask that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
We stare at each other for a long moment, the air between us crackling with something thick and hot and unspeakable.
“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” he says finally, voice low.
“I think you’re avoiding something that’s already happening.”
He stands.
Slow. Deliberate.
And I feel it like gravity.
He rounds the table and stops in front of me, the knife still in his hand but pointed down, forgotten. His eyes roam over my face, my mouth, my throat.
“You’re not a little girl anymore,” he says. “I see that. Every goddamn minute you’re here.”
I swallow hard.
“But I made a promise, Wren. And I keep my promises.”
“You promised to keep me safe,” I whisper.
He nods.
“Then don’t lie to yourself,” I say. “Because this thing between us? It’s not dangerous. Not like them.”
He exhales, and it sounds like it costs him something.
“I want you,” I say. “I know it’s messy. I know it’s complicated. But I’m not scared of you, Hale. I trust you.”
His hand comes up slowly, like he’s reaching through a wall he built himself. His fingers brush the side of my face, rough and warm.
And then suddenly, I’m there, in his space, pressing against his chest. My hand on the front of his shirt, my body close enough to feel the heat rolling off of him.
We’re breathing hard. Like we’ve been holding it in for too long.
He leans down, his forehead resting against mine.
“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he growls.
“I’m asking for you,” I breathe. “Isn’t that enough?”
His hands grip my waist, hard enough to make my pulse race. For one wild second I think he’s going to kiss me. Take me. Break the world in half to have this moment.
But instead, he pulls away.
Fast. Sharp. Like he’s tearing himself off a live wire.
Then he turns and walks away, into the cold, into the dark, like it’s the only place he can still breathe.
And I’m left standing there—burning.
Wanting him more than ever.
Knowing I already have him.
He’s just too honorable to take what’s already his.