Chapter Six
Mack
Sleep had never come easily to me since returning from overseas. This night proved no different, my mind refusing to quiet. I'd spent hours on the couch, staring at the ceiling before finally giving up around 4am. Maybe checking the creek level would settle my restlessness. The water should be receding by now, and I needed to know if tomorrow might finally bring an end to this forced cohabitation.
I pulled on my boots and jacket silently, careful not to wake Brynn. Scout raised his head from his spot near the fireplace, ears perked in interest.
"Stay," I whispered, not wanting his claws clicking on the hardwood to disturb my houseguest. He sighed dramatically but complied, settling back down with resigned acceptance.
Outside, the rain had finally stopped, though the world remained saturated. I moved carefully through the darkness, headlamp illuminating a path down to the creek that marked the boundary of my property. The water level had dropped several inches since yesterday but still rushed high enough to make the access road impassable. Another day, maybe two, before we could drive out.
The thought provoked an unexpected conflict. On one hand, I desperately needed my space back, my routines, my solitude. On the other...
I shook off that dangerous line of thinking. The woman was leaving as soon as possible. End of story.
By the time I returned to the cabin, weak dawn light filtered through the trees. I entered quietly, removing my muddy boots at the door. Scout greeted me with a silent tail wag, padding over for a scratch behind the ears before heading to the back door, clearly communicating his need to go out.
"Give me a minute," I murmured, heading to the bedroom to grab dry socks.
The door stood slightly ajar, and I paused, listening. Brynn's deep, even breathing suggested she remained asleep. I pushed the door open just enough to slip through, intending to retrieve clean socks from the dresser without disturbing her.
In the gray morning light, I could make out her form beneath the quilt, dark hair splayed across my pillow, one hand curled near her face in unconscious vulnerability. Something twisted in my chest, and I looked away, turning toward the dresser.
That’s when I saw it—her notebook, lying open on the floor beside the bed. It must have fallen while she slept. I moved to pick it up, intending only to close it and place it on the nightstand.
But my eyes caught a phrase in the dim light, my own name written in her flowing script.
Mack embodies everything I've tried to create in my fictional heroes—strength marked by vulnerability, capability tempered by damage. The scars he bears, both visible and hidden, form the perfect canvas for redemption.
I froze, my brain struggling to process what I was reading. Against every instinct for privacy, I carefully lifted the notebook, angling it toward the window.
His military bearing reveals itself in subtle ways—the sharpness of his movements, the vigilant awareness of his surroundings, the discipline evident even in mundane tasks. Classic heroic potential trapped in self-imposed isolation.
My jaw tightened as I flipped to an earlier page, something cold and sickening spreading through my chest.
The scarred ex-Marine presents the perfect case study. Brooding, damaged, yet undeniably attractive. Readers respond to controlled strength, to the fantasy of being the one woman who penetrates those carefully constructed defenses.
And then, most damningly:
How would it feel to be touched by him? What sounds would escape his mouth in his moment of ecstatic release? Be sure to incorporate these sensory details to elevate the manuscript beyond Jillian's criticism, bringing veracity to scenes that previously read as hollow.
Realization crashed over me like icy water. I wasn't a person to her—I was research. A convenient specimen for her to study and dissect, my past and present nothing more than colorful fodder for her writing.
"Mack?"
I looked up sharply. Brynn had awakened, propping herself on one elbow, confusion giving way to horror as she registered what I held in my hands. Blood drained from her face.
"Oh God," she whispered.
"What is this?" I asked, my voice dangerously calm despite the rage building beneath my sternum.
She sat up fully now, clutching the quilt to her chest as though it might shield her from what was coming. "It's not what it looks like."
"It looks like I'm your guinea pig." I held up the notebook, pages flipping open to reveal more of her observations. "Your damn research rat."
"Please, let me explain—"
"Explain what?" The calm in my voice shattered, giving way to the anger I'd held in check. "How you've been analyzing me since you got here? Taking notes on my scars, my habits? Speculating about my sex life?"
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, reaching out as if to take the notebook. I stepped back, putting it beyond her reach.
"I'm a writer," she said, voice small but steady. "A romance novelist. I came to Montana because I've been struggling with my latest book."
"So you decided to use me as inspiration?" The betrayal cut deeper than I would have expected. "Poor damaged veteran, living alone in the woods. What a convenient character study."
"No, it wasn't like that. Not at first." She stood now, arms wrapped protectively around herself. "I rented a cabin to get away from New York and the pressure. To find what I was missing for my book. The crash was an accident. Meeting you was never part of my plan."
"But you adapted quickly." I flipped to another page, reading aloud: " 'His reluctance to discuss his injuries suggests trauma beyond the physical. Perfect backstory for a character seeking redemption through love .' Is that what I am to you? A character sketch?"
Her eyes filled with tears, but I felt no sympathy. I'd been betrayed before, manipulated by people who saw my service or my injuries as defining characteristics rather than parts of a whole person. But this seemed to cut deeper, feel more personal.
"My latest manuscript was rejected," she said, voice trembling slightly. "My editor said my writing lacked authenticity, that my love scenes felt forced. I thought getting away, experiencing something real might help me break through."
"Experiencing something real," I repeated, disgust coloring each word. "So I'm just material for your sex scenes? Is that it?"
Color flooded her cheeks. "No! I mean—it's more complicated than that."
"Seems pretty simple to me." I tossed the notebook onto the bed between us. "You needed details to spice up your story, and I was convenient enough to provide them."
"That's not fair," she protested, a spark of anger finally breaking through her embarrassment. "You're more than research to me."
"Save it." I moved toward the door, needing distance before I said something unforgivable. "I pulled you from that car, gave you my bed, shared my food. And you've been documenting it all, looking at me like some lab specimen—"
"I've never written anything like this before!" she interrupted, voice cracking. "My feelings, my reactions—they're real, not fictional."
I laughed, the sound harsh even to my own ears. "Right. The sophisticated New York writer, slumming it with the scarred mountain recluse. Great plot twist."
"You don't understand." She stepped forward, desperation evident in her stance. "I write about passion and desire that I've never experienced myself."
That stopped me, confusion momentarily overriding anger. "What?"
She closed her eyes briefly, as if gathering courage. When she opened them again, they filled with water. "I've published six romance novels. Bestsellers with...explicit content. But I've never..." She swallowed hard. "I've never been intimate with anyone. Not really."
The confession hung between us, unexpected and jarring.
"You're telling me you write sex scenes for a living, but you're a virgin?" Disbelief colored my words.
She flinched at my bluntness but nodded. "I guess that makes me a fraud.”
"And I'm supposed to feel better because of this?" The anger returned, perhaps even stronger for the momentary confusion. "You came to Montana to what—find a test subject?”
"No!" Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "That's not how it happened." She took astep toward me, eyes pleading. "Yes, I was taking notes. Yes, I found you... compelling. But what's in that journal isn't just professional observation. It's personal. More personal than I've allowed myself to be in years."
I shook my head, unwilling to be swayed. "You write fiction for a living. I imagine you're good at making things sound convincing."
Hurt flashed across her features, quickly masked. "I deserved that, I guess. But I'm telling you the truth now. My attraction to you isn't research—it's real. Probably the most real thing I've felt in a long time."
"Attraction." I practically spat the word. "You don't know me. You know the damaged veteran you've constructed in your mind, the one who fits neatly into your narrative."
"That's not true." She moved closer, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, smell the faint scent of her shampoo. "I see you, Mack. Not just the marks on your skin or what you keep in your cupboards. I see how gently you treat Scout, how you’ve taken care of me, how you check the perimeter each night to make sure we're safe."
The truth of her words caught me off guard and I sucked in a breath.
"I’m not a hero," I said, the fight beginning to drain from me, leaving a painful ache in its wake. "I'm not the man you've written about in there."
"I know." Her voice softened. "You're more complicated than any character I could create. You're real."
"I'm a mess," I corrected harshly. "A broken ex-Marine living off his brother's charity because he can't function in normal society. Not exactly romance novel material."
"You're not broken," she insisted. "Wounded and hurting, maybe. But not broken."
"You don't know what I've done. What I've seen." The memories threatened to surface—the explosion, the screams, the knowledge that I'd survived when others hadn't. I passed hand over my face, trying to force back my emotions.
"I never said you were perfect. Heroes are never perfect anyway—they're human." She reached out, fingers stopping just short of touching my arm. "I'm sorry for not being honest about who I am, about my writing. But my feelings aren't fiction, Mack."
For a moment, I almost believed her. Something in her eyes spoke to a loneliness that mirrored my own.
But it was too much all at once. Trust, once shattered, couldn't be repaired with pretty words—and words were her stock in trade.
"I think we're done here." I stepped back, breaking the tentative connection between us. "The creek's receding. Road should be passable tomorrow or the next day at latest. I'll drive you to town then."
"Mack, please—"
"I need some air." I turned away, unable to look at the hurt in her eyes a moment longer. "Scout needs a walk anyway."
Without waiting for her response, I stalked through the cabin, whistling for Scout. The dog bounded from his spot by the fireplace, eager for exercise despite the muddy conditions outside.
I grabbed my jacket and headed out the door, not bothering with my usual careful inventory of supplies. I just needed distance, needed the mountains and trees and absence of human complication.
"Come on, boy," I muttered to Scout as we headed up the trail behind the cabin. "Let's go somewhere quiet."
As if anything could quiet the storm of emotions raging inside me—anger at the invasion of privacy, bitterness at being reduced to character notes, and beneath it all, the troubling realization that part of my fury stemmed from disappointment. For a brief moment, in our conversations by the fire and shared meals at my table, I'd allowed myself to believe that Brynn saw me—really saw me—not as a project or a problem or a charity case, but as a man.
I'd been a fool. Again.