Chapter 3
3
ABBY
I don’t dream much anymore. Not since Nick died.
But tonight, sleep comes fast and hard, probably helped along by stew, exhaustion, and the sharp commands of a man who makes the walls feel like they’re closing in—and not in a bad way.
In the dream, I’m standing in a war zone. Not a stylized version, but something pulled straight from one of the books I’ve researched a hundred times. Black smoke curling into a darkening sky, the pop-pop-pop of distant gunfire, the metallic bite of blood in the air.
And Nick.
He’s there, solid and whole, not the missing-in-action shadow the military gave me. His uniform’s dirty, torn in places, and his rifle is slung low across his back. But his face is clean. Calm. The way he always looked when he knew more than he said.
I take a step forward, and the ground trembles.
He doesn’t speak at first. Just watches me, arms crossed, head tilted like he’s waiting for me to catch up. I reach for him, but my hand goes straight through his chest.
“Not that kind of dream,” he says, lips twitching just enough to make my heart lurch. “Don’t freak out.”
“I—Nick—what is this? Where are we?”
“You know where.”
“No, I don’t. None of it makes sense. They said it was a training accident. That you…”
“It didn’t happen that way.”
His voice cuts clean through the noise.
I freeze. “Then how did it happen?”
He doesn’t answer. Just looks behind me, jaw tight.
“Trust Travis,” he says. “That’s all I can tell you. For now.”
“Why him?” I whisper. “Why not just tell me?”
His smile is sad this time. “Because knowing won’t keep you safe. Because he’s still breathing. And he might be the only reason you stay that way.”
The sound behind us grows louder. Sirens, shouting, the rumble of something collapsing. Nick reaches out like he might hug me, but I wake before he touches me.
The loft is warm. Quiet. But the dream clings to me like frost that won’t melt. I sit up, dragging the blanket tighter around myself, and glance down at the main room. Travis isn’t in sight, but there’s a low glow coming from somewhere behind the kitchen. Maybe he’s in his bedroom. Maybe he never went to sleep—he doesn’t strike me as the type who sleeps much.
Last night I laid my wet clothes in front of the fire. I run downstairs to fetch them and bring them back upstairs. My parka and boots are still wet, but everything else is dry and toasty warm. Once I’m dressed, I make my way down the stairs carefully, aware that every creak echoes like a shout in the silence. The wood floor’s cold under my bare feet, but the fire’s still going strong, logs crackling like they were just fed.
The snow’s still falling outside. I can see it through the big front windows, the thick flakes swirling like someone shook the entire forest. The world’s gone white.
Oh great, I’m snowed in with a man who makes growling feel like a full sentence and looks at me like I’m a problem he hasn’t decided how to solve. Fantastic.
I walk toward the kitchen, taking in more of the space than I had last night. His cabin is pure function—everything dark, solid, built for utility. Leather and wood. No art on the walls. No soft throw pillows or curated trinkets. Just what he needs, and nothing more.
Except… I open a small door near the back hallway. I expect a broom closet. What I get is a library. Not a big one. Just shelves built into the wall, but it’s full—paperbacks, hardcovers, some worn, others pristine. Genres I recognize, titles I’ve read and done the research for, even a few dog-eared thrillers with highlighted notes in the margins.
I pull one down— Deadfall Protocol , his second book. There’s a post-it stuck to a page near the middle.
“Rewrite—make the sniper more like Nick. Cocky. Always two steps ahead.”
My throat tightens. This man, who practically growled me into submission last night, who lives like a ghost in a mountain fortress, annotated his manuscript with my brother in mind.
There's a desk tucked against the far wall, clean except for a closed laptop, a neat stack of index cards, and a black fountain pen. There’s a kind of discipline here, but not cold. Not distant. It's intentional. Controlled… like him.
I close the book and slide it back into place just as I hear boots behind me.
“You don’t take orders well,” Travis says from the doorway. His voice is still like gravel smoothed with heat.
I turn. He’s leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest, wearing a fresh thermal shirt that hugs his broad frame a little too well for polite thoughts. His hair’s still damp. Must’ve showered.
“I didn’t touch anything,” I say, even though that’s a lie.
“You touched the books.”
“Technically, books don’t count as ‘things’ in my world. They’re sacred.”
His eyebrow lifts. “Try again.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. Yes, I looked. No, I didn’t break anything. You going to punish me or just lecture me into oblivion?”
That makes something flicker in his gaze. Something sharp. And hot.
“You dream?” he asks, ignoring the question.
It throws me. “What?”
“Last night. You looked… restless.”
“I—yeah.” I don’t know why I tell him. “Nick. He showed up. Said it didn’t happen the way they claimed. Told me to trust you.”
Travis doesn’t react the way I expect. No eye roll. No scoff.
Just a slow, deep inhale, and then, “He always was too damn loyal.”
I take a step closer. “Why won’t you tell me what happened?”
His jaw tightens. “Because knowing won’t keep you safe.”
“But it might help me understand why someone tried to kill me.”
His eyes pin me in place. “Or it might get you killed. You’re safer not knowing—for now.”
He steps into the room, moving past me as if to ensure I haven’t stolen anything. I don’t follow. I watch. He calculates every movement he makes. Controlled. Like he’s spent his entire life walking a line no one else can see.
“You always this bossy in the morning?” I ask.
He glances back at me. “You haven’t seen bossy yet.”
The way he says it sends a thrill down my spine. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
He doesn’t answer. Just stands, eyes holding mine, and for a second, I forget about everything else—Nick, the break-in, the snowstorm trapping me here.
For a second, it’s just us, and I feel it again. That pull. It’s dangerous, magnetic.
Whatever this is, I have a feeling it’s only getting started.
Travis moves like the world owes him answers. Like he’s not waiting for permission—never has. Every step is deliberate, heavy without being loud. A walking contradiction of control and power wrapped in flannel and don’t-test-me silence.
He sets down the fire poker, still watching me like I’m the problem he hasn’t decided whether to solve or ignore.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
I lift my chin, already sick of hearing it. “You’ve already said that… numerous times. You’re an author—words are supposed to be your stock-in-trade. Want to try a different approach?”
“You think this is a joke?”
“No. But I think you pushing me out into a blizzard because you’re uncomfortable isn’t exactly what Nick had in mind when he told me to find you.”
He straightens, eyes narrowing.
I don’t back down.
He wants me to. I can feel it in the way he stares—like he’s waiting for me to flinch, to apologize for throwing his life off-balance. But I’ve already survived more than I should have this week, and being glared at by a grumpy, six-foot-something mountain man with a Grecian God-like physique isn’t enough to scare me off.
“I don’t do well with people in my space,” he says, voice low.
“Good thing I’m not people.”
That earns the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost like a laugh. Almost.
“Look,” I say, stepping toward him, “if you’re trying to intimidate me, save it. I’m not easily intimidated. I’ve been sleeping with a knife under my pillow, and I have eaten nothing that didn’t come out of a vending machine since I left Philadelphia. If you want to throw me out, go ahead. But don’t pretend this is about me. You’re scared too.”
He takes a step toward me, and I immediately feel the difference. His size. His heat. His presence.
“Scared?” he repeats, voice rough.
I nod, forcing my heartbeat to stay level. “Of letting someone in. Of what might happen if you stop running.”
He’s in front of me now, so close I can feel the heat of him, smell the mix of pine, smoke, and whatever soap he uses that should probably be illegal.
“I’m not running,” he says. “I’m surviving.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m not dying.”
The air between us goes electric. Neither of us moves, but we’re close enough to feel the pull—like if one of us leans in even a fraction, we’ll snap together.
His eyes drop to my mouth, then lift back to mine. “You’re trouble,” he says quietly.
“I’ve been called worse.”
We stay like that for a beat too long. His jaw clenches. I feel it more than see it. Like the man’s restraining himself from doing something reckless, and maybe I want him to stop restraining himself. Just for a second. He stands for a moment more, but then he turns away.
He stalks toward the back of the cabin, muttering something under his breath I can’t quite catch. A string of curse words, maybe. A prayer. Possibly both.
I breathe out slowly, wrapping my arms around myself. The fire’s still crackling, the snow still falling, but everything feels different now. I sit back on the couch, grabbing a soft throw blanket and wrap it around me. My body is warm, but I’m wide awake. Adrenaline still buzzing through my veins from our verbal sparring match.
I don’t know what I expected… coming here. I didn’t expect him to be this. Not just the size and the strength, but the intelligence in his eyes, the way he watches everything like he’s already calculated the odds. He’s all sharp edges and hard truths, and I’ve always been the type of woman who pokes at sharp things just to see if they’ll bleed.
By mid-morning, the snowfall has thickened and nearly covered the windows. There’s no sound outside except wind and trees creaking under the weight of ice.
Inside, it’s too quiet. Travis has said little since our earlier exchange. He’s been fixing something in the mudroom/laundry, boots thudding against the floor like punctuation marks.
I eventually wander into the kitchen and make myself useful. He didn’t offer, but I find eggs and cheese and whip together a frittata I could’ve made blindfolded. It’s the only thing I cook well, and even then, it’s mostly because it’s hard to screw up.
When he finally comes in, he pauses in the doorway, eyes flicking from the plate to me.
“You cook?”
“Survival skill. Kind of like growling at strangers and stockpiling canned goods.”
His brow rises, but he takes the plate. Sits at the table. Eats without comment.
“Thank you,” he says when he finishes, and it surprises me.
“You’re welcome.”
I curl up with one book from his library for the rest of the day after every offer of help was rebuffed, including cooking. Lunch was leftover stew, and dinner was the best pot roast I ever had. We don’t talk much during dinner.
Watching him move throughout the day has me making observations. For one thing, I watch him more than I should. The way he moves. The way he eats like it’s fuel, not pleasure. Everything about him is efficient. Controlled. A man used to surviving by rules and discipline, even when he’s not on a battlefield anymore.
After we clean up, I disappear to the loft to give him space—or maybe to give myself space.
The room is simple. A brass double bed. A nightstand. A small window looking out into the storm and a comfortable armchair from which to watch. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring out at the snow-covered woods, trying to shake the image of him in the doorway, watching me like he wanted to do something about the fire between us.
When I finally lie down, sleep doesn’t come easy. It’s the creak of the floorboards downstairs. The way the wind seems to press against the walls. The memory of his body just inches from mine.
I turn onto my side, pull the blanket over my shoulders, and curse my attraction to impossible men. None of them have ever been like Travis. I’ve never been more aware of a man in my life.
Every sound he makes. Every breath. Every glance that lingers too long, and it terrifies me more than the assassin in my apartment ever did.
Because this—whatever it is brewing between us—isn’t something I can outfight or outrun. It’s something I feel in my bones, and it’s only just begun.