Chapter 11 Ellie
Ellie
I don’t remember the last time I felt this torn—like my heart is fighting my head and my body’s stuck somewhere in the middle.
Micah’s fingers are still wrapped around mine as we leave the diner, his grip warm and strong, grounding me in ways he probably doesn’t even realize.
I should be terrified.
There are stalkers and threats and broken ornaments and a man named Jonah Marks whose name probably isn’t even real.
But all I can feel is him.
The heat of his skin.
The way his thumb keeps brushing mine like he can’t stop touching me.
The way he glances at me every few steps, like he’s checking to make sure I’m still beside him.
“Micah,” I say softly, once we’re back inside his truck, the doors closed, the quiet wrapping around us. “Can I ask you something?”
He glances at me, all broad shoulders and slow-burning intensity. “You don’t have to ask permission to talk to me, Ellie.”
I bite my lip. “Okay. So… What are we doing?”
His jaw tics. “Protecting you.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He exhales and rests his hand on the steering wheel, fingers drumming lightly. “I know.”
I wait.
When he doesn’t speak, I reach over and put my hand on his thigh—not to distract him, but to anchor him. To touch him, because God, I need to.
“Micah,” I whisper, “do you want me?”
He doesn’t move for a second. Just breathes. Slow. Controlled. His entire body is coiled like a wire stretched too tight.
“Ellie,” he finally says, low and rough, “you have no idea how much.”
The air in the truck turns thick. Charged.
Then suddenly, we’re moving. He shifts into gear and pulls out of the diner parking lot, driving like he’s on autopilot, like if he doesn’t focus on the road, he might say something—or do something—that changes everything.
Neither of us talks for the rest of the drive.
But I feel it.
The tension. The heat. The way his hand flexes on the wheel like he wants to reach for me again but doesn’t trust himself.
And honestly? I don’t trust myself either.
When we get back to the cabin, it’s quiet. Snow drifts down like ash. The sky’s darkening, bruised purple at the edges. I step inside and shiver from the temperature shift. Micah locks the door behind us, then stalks past me to the fireplace, lighting it with practiced ease.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at me.
So I make the first move.
I step up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist. “You don’t have to hold it all in, you know.”
He stills.
“Everything that’s happening, everything you’re doing to protect me—it’s not just your burden.” I press my cheek to his back. “You don’t have to be the mountain all the time.”
His breath comes out ragged.
I feel the tremble in him—barely there, but it’s real.
And then he turns.
Suddenly, I’m facing him. His hands frame my face, his eyes dark and burning. “This is the worst idea,” he rasps.
I nod. “Probably.”
“People are watching you. Hunting you. You’re not safe.”
“I feel safe,” I whisper. “With you.”
That breaks something in him.
Micah crushes his mouth to mine in a kiss that’s nothing like the one under the mistletoe. This one is all hunger. Heat. Need.
It’s a release.
Weeks of tension snap loose as our mouths collide, as his hands find my waist, my hips, my back. He kisses like he’s starving, and I let him devour me, matching every desperate press of his lips with my own.
I tug at his flannel shirt, and he lets me pull it open, revealing the hard lines of his chest beneath the thin tee. My palms flatten against his skin, warm and solid, and he groans into my mouth like the contact undoes him.
He lifts me—literally lifts me—and carries me to the couch, dropping down with me straddling his lap. The fire crackles beside us, casting amber shadows over the room, over his jaw, his throat, his arms.
His hands grip my thighs, sliding under my sweater, exploring like he’s memorizing every inch.
“Ellie,” he murmurs, voice gravel and desire, “if we start this, I won’t want to stop.”
“Then don’t.”
He closes his eyes like that word physically affects him.
I lean in, pressing my lips to his jaw, down his throat. “You don’t scare me, Micah. You make me feel alive.”
He pulls me back by the chin, looking at me with something raw and unfiltered in his eyes. “You’re not a fling. You’re not a distraction. You’re everything I didn’t know I needed, and I can’t lose you.”
“Then don’t let go.”
And he doesn’t.
Our mouths meet again, slower now, deeper. His touch is reverent, trailing over my ribs, my back, the dip of my waist. He holds me like I’m both breakable and the most important thing he’s ever touched.
We lose time in that moment.
Clothes loosen. Boundaries blur. And every kiss, every graze of skin, every moan shared in the firelight is a promise neither of us dares say out loud yet—but it’s there.
We may be in the eye of a storm. But in this cabin, in his arms, I’ve never felt more wanted… or more seen.
And if this is a war?
Then this right here,
with Micah,
is the reason I plan on surviving it.