Chapter 7 Hale
Hale
I step outside and suck in a breath like it’ll purge the heat she left in me. It doesn’t.
The night air bites. Mountain cold. Pine and frost and smoke. But none of it’s enough to douse the fire raging under my skin. My heart’s still hammering like I just walked out of a war zone.
I almost kissed her.
I almost lost control.
And Jesus, what would’ve happened if I had? If I’d let my hands roam down her back, slipped my fingers into her hair, tasted her mouth like I’ve dreamed of doing for years?
She would’ve let me. Hell, she wanted it. I saw it in her eyes, in the way she leaned in like I was gravity and she couldn’t help but fall. And God help me, I wanted to fall with her.
But I can’t.
I won’t.
Not until this is over. Not until she’s safe. Not until I’m damn sure I’m not just another man using her trust against her.
I pace along the porch, jaw clenched, fists balled at my sides. The stars are bright overhead, the moon a pale sliver cutting through the trees. Everything’s still.
Too still.
Snap.
My head jerks toward the sound. A twig breaking—distant, but not distant enough.
I freeze.
My body reacts before my mind catches up, falling into old instincts. I scan the tree line. No movement. No light. Just shadows pressing in from every direction. I step off the porch, silent, smooth, listening for anything else.
Nothing.
But that sound wasn’t natural.
It wasn’t an animal.
And it sure as hell wasn’t the wind.
I spin back toward the cabin and move fast, two long strides to the door. I swing it open and find Wren still standing in the living room, eyes wide.
“Bedroom. Now,” I bark.
She jumps but doesn’t argue. “What is it?”
“Just go,” I say, already crossing to the gun cabinet. I grab my rifle, check the magazine, slam it shut. “Lock the door.”
She hurries down the hall, disappearing into my room. I hear the lock click a second later.
I shoulder the rifle and step back outside.
This time, I don’t just listen.
I hunt.
I move through the trees like I was born in them, every step calculated, slow, deliberate. My eyes adjust fast, my ears tuned to every small shift in the air. Branches. Wind. Animals.
But no voices. No scent of smoke. No second snap.
I circle the perimeter, doubling back twice just to be sure. The traps are undisturbed. No footprints. No signs of a breach.
But I know what I heard.
Someone—or something—was watching.
And it wasn’t far.
I stay out another twenty minutes before finally heading back, every hair on my neck still standing. Whatever was out there is gone now, or damn good at hiding. Either way, I don’t like it.
I step inside, lock the door, and head for the bedroom.
I knock once.
“Wren. It’s me.”
The door creaks open. She’s there in the soft lamplight, barefoot again, standing in the middle of the room like she doesn’t know where to put herself.
“You’re okay,” I say. “Nothing moved. No tracks. Could’ve been an animal, but…”
“But you don’t believe that,” she finishes quietly.
I shake my head.
Her arms are wrapped around herself. She’s pale, eyes too wide.
“I’ve never felt like this before,” she whispers. “Like someone’s always right there. Just out of sight. Like I can’t breathe.”
I step closer, slowly. “That’s fear. And it’s normal.”
“I hate it.”
“You’re still standing. That means it hasn’t beaten you.”
I want to reach out. I want to touch her. Just to remind her she’s here. She’s okay.
But I don’t.
She looks up at me. “Will you stay?”
I blink. “What?”
“Will you sleep here? Just—” she swallows. “Not on the floor. Not across the room. Here. With me.”
The air shifts.
She’s not teasing.
She’s not trying to tempt me.
She’s scared. And tired. And asking for comfort in the only way she knows how.
I nod once. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”
She doesn’t say anything—just crawls into the bed and slides over, leaving a space for me. I set the rifle against the nightstand, kick off my boots, and move in beside her.
The mattress dips beneath my weight.
I lie on my back, stiff as hell, trying not to let my body react to the warmth of her next to me. We’re not touching. Not really.
But she shifts a little closer anyway.
“Is this okay?” she whispers.
I turn my head. Her eyes are open, shining in the dark.
“Yeah,” I say, voice low. “This is okay.”
She lays her head on my shoulder.
And just like that, I stop breathing.
Her hand rests against my chest, right over my heart, and I know she can feel how fast it’s beating. How loud.
“I feel safe with you,” she murmurs.
And that breaks something in me.
Not because I doubt it.
But because it matters more than it should.
I wrap my arm around her, just once. Just to hold her.
And I don’t let go.