Chapter 5 #2
She leans down and kisses me, sloppy and urgent, and I wrap one arm around her back and flip us in a single motion. She lands on her back with me between her thighs and I drive into her deep and her nails score down my back in lines I'll feel for days.
I hook her leg over my shoulder. The angle lets me go deeper and her eyes go wide and glassy. I thrust hard and steady, watching her face, reading every micro-expression the way I read weather patterns, adjusting until I find the combination that pushes her to the edge.
"Come for me, Shelby." I press my thumb against her clit, rubbing in tight circles. "I want to feel you come around my cock."
She shatters. Her whole body locks up, her pussy gripping me so tight I see stars, and the pulsing clench of her orgasm drags me over the edge with her.
I bury myself to the hilt and come so hard my vision goes dark, my face pressed into the curve of her neck, her name the only word my mouth remembers how to form.
We stay there. Connected. Breathing each other's air. The storm still raging outside like the world is ending, and in here, in this room, something is beginning.
I roll to the side but keep her pulled against me. Her head on my chest. My hand in her hair. Her fingers drawing idle patterns on my ribs.
"Cory?"
"Yeah."
"I need to tell you something. And I need you not to go into military response mode."
I tense. I can't help it. She feels it and puts her palm flat against my sternum like she's steadying me.
"I have an ex," she says. "His name is Garrett.
We were together for eight months. He was controlling in ways I didn't recognize until I was already in it.
When I left, he didn't take it well. He's been tracking my movements through my published work for the past four months.
Anonymous emails. Comments on my posts that reference specific details about where I am.
Nothing overtly threatening, just... persistent.
Observational. Like he's letting me know he's watching. "
Every protective instinct in my body activates simultaneously. The SEAL doesn't retire. He just redirects.
"How long since the last contact?"
"Yesterday. He referenced an Instagram story I posted on the drive up here."
"Did you delete it?"
"Immediately."
"Does he know you're at Mountain Ready specifically?"
"I don't think so. The story was just mountain road footage. No identifying markers."
"But your article will have location details when it publishes."
She's quiet. Her finger stops drawing patterns.
"Yes," she says. "It will."
I process this the way I process any threat assessment.
Variables, vectors, likelihood, mitigation options.
The tactical part of my brain is already running scenarios.
The other part, the part that just had this woman crying out my name while the world disappeared around us, is running something else entirely.
A red, roaring fury that someone is hunting her. That she's been carrying this alone. That she walked onto my mountain with a stalker in her shadow and didn't tell me until I was already in so deep that nothing could make me let go.
"You should have told me before you came here," I say. My voice is controlled. Barely.
"I know. I didn't think it was relevant to the assignment."
"Everything about your safety is relevant. Always." I tilt her chin up so she's looking at me. "Listen to me. This is my mountain. My territory. No one gets up here without my knowledge and no one gets to you without going through me. Do you understand?"
Her eyes are wide. Vulnerable. Relieved in a way that tells me she's been waiting a long time for someone to say those words and mean them.
"I understand," she whispers.
"Good." I press my lips to her forehead. "Now give me his full name, his last known location, and every email address he's used. I'm calling Cal Hayes."
Her brow furrows. "Cal?"
"Salt and Steel runs counter-stalking operations. Rhea's team can trace those anonymous emails, build a profile, and flag any physical approach. If this guy is tracking your movements through published content, that's a pattern. Patterns can be predicted and intercepted."
She stares at me. "You're going to call in a security team?"
"I'm going to call in the best security team I know. And then I'm going to make sure that every man in the Grizzly Ridge veteran network is aware that Shelby Cruise is under my protection. That means Logan, Dan, Miguel, Sawyer, and everyone they can mobilize."
"Cory, that's..."
"Non-negotiable." I kiss her mouth. Soft. Brief. A promise, not a request. "You've been running from this alone for four months. You're not alone anymore."
Her eyes fill. She blinks hard, refusing to let the tears fall, and the stubbornness of it, the sheer determined refusal to be fragile even in the moment she most needs to be, makes me want to burn down the world for her.
"The storm will pass by tomorrow," I say, pulling her closer. "When it does, we deal with this. Together. But right now, you're safe, you're warm, and you're in my bed. That's where you're staying."
She presses her face against my chest and I feel the moment she lets go. Not a collapse, just a release. A long exhale against my skin that carries four months of hypervigilance and isolation and the bone-deep exhaustion of being your own only line of defense.
I hold her. The storm rages. And I make a silent promise to Tyler Rawlings' memory, to every man I've ever lost, to the mountain that gave me a second purpose.
I won't lose her. Not to the cold, not to the mountain, and not to any man who thinks he has a right to what's mine.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Channel 16.
I reach for it with one hand, keeping Shelby against me with the other.
Rhea: Storm's a beast. You two alive up there?
I type one-handed: Alive. Need to talk to Cal when this passes. Counter-stalking consult. Shelby has a situation.
Rhea's response is immediate: Copy. Cal's available. We've got her back.
I set the phone down. Pull the blanket over both of us. Press my mouth to Shelby's hair.
"Sleep," I murmur. "I've got you."
She does. And for the first time in three years, so do I.