Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Lyra
“Yeah.” I force a smile. “Everything’s fine.” Can he hear the strain in my voice from the lie?
Silence stretches until movement outside catches my eye.
I freeze, and so does Stryker, going preternaturally still.
Then a deer—slender, cautious—steps out of the tree line, its breath a puff of white in the cold.
I exhale deeply. The moment is beautiful but fragile.
“Snow’s coming. Won’t see much wildlife once it starts.” He picks up our mugs. “Want to go out while we’ve still got the view?”
I’m relieved by his suggestion.
He makes me a fresh chai and pours more coffee for himself. Or I assume it’s coffee. The liquid that fills his mug is so dark it looks more like tar.
We bundle up—me in his oversized coat, him throwing a flannel over those sinful sweatpants—and step onto the porch, the air crisp and biting, the mountains stretching endless before us.
The quiet hits me first. Not silence, exactly—there’s the distant rush of wind threading through the pines.
But everything about the view feels untouched, like the world’s holding its breath.
Snow clouds huddle on the horizon, heavy and gray, their edges glowing faintly gold where the sun is trying to fight through.
In the distance, movement catches my eye again—a flicker of tawny fur against the white frost. Another deer, or maybe the same one, hesitates at the edge of the clearing.
Next to me, Stryker shifts, hand finding the small of my back, his touch as possessive as it is reassuring.
The animal’s ears twitch, muscles tense, and for a heartbeat, it seems to look straight at us. Then it bolts, vanishing into the trees, breaking the spell.
With his fingers still on me, Stryker leads the way to the firepit area.
While I wrap my arms around myself, he effortlessly lights the fire. Within a few minutes, flames are roaring high, and heat chases away the chill.
Unlike last night, Stryker sinks down onto the two-seater bench. Then he captures my wrist to tug me down next to him.
If I were smart, I’d sit in an Adirondack. But when it comes to Stryker, smart no longer seems to be part of my vocabulary.
Without any resistance, I join him.
But he doesn’t allow me to keep any space between us. Instead, he pulls me against his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
His masculine heat seeps through my coat. I wish I was immune to his effect, but instead, I find his touch steady and grounding.
I cradle my chai, the steam curling around my face, the spice and honey cutting through the cold. For one suspended heartbeat, it feels like a life I could want.
He takes a long drink of his coffee, eyes scanning the tree line. “Forecast says the snow’ll start by evening.” His voice is quiet, low enough that I feel it against my temple more than I hear it. “Could be half a foot. Maybe more.”
Which means I’m stuck, trapped with him, for a while longer.
I’m frustrated with the part of me that’s silently doing a happy dance.
Stryker doesn’t seem at all upset by the fact we’re stranded together with one bed. Of course, part of the reason he’s successful at what he does is because he’s patient. Patient and persistent.
“I’ll need to haul in wood, make sure the generator’s topped off.”
I glance at him, trying to read the line of his jaw, the way his expression shifts when he’s thinking. He’s always assessing, always three steps ahead. The protector. The soldier. But when he looks down at me, something in his face softens—so faint, it’s almost impossible to see.
“You been in Colorado a while?”
Warily I turn to face him. His question shouldn’t surprise me. The man wants information, and he’ll use any means to get it. “Long enough.”
“Wasn’t pushing.” His eyebrows draw together slightly. “Just wondering if you’ve been here long enough to see a major storm.”
When I don’t respond, he goes on. “The first flakes hit, and then like the whole mountain exhales.”
Sounds beautiful and scary. The right kind of person might even enjoy it.
“Everything slows down. Even the air feels thicker.”
“Mmm.” I sip my chai to cover the fact I’m barely responding.
Stryker is looking off into the distance, maybe lost in thought, and I follow his gaze toward the tree line. I half expect the deer to still be there, but it’s gone.
My breath mingles with his, white clouds that fade too fast. The quiet is thick enough to touch.
Absently he strokes my arm with his thumb. It’s a small motion that undoes me. He’s not offering anything, not asking, either.
Maybe because of that, I tip my head against his shoulder, telling myself it’s for warmth, nothing more. “It’s beautiful. So beautiful.”
“Yeah. It is.” The sound of his voice seems to vibrate through his me. “I spend as much time here as I can.”
So it may be a Hawkeye safe house, but it’s much more than that to him.
His arm tightens around me, the movement protective, unconscious. “That’s the trick of it. Peace never lasts.”
A chill slides through me that has nothing to do with the weather.
He’s right about peace.
It’s fragile, and it doesn’t belong to people like us.
When the wind shifts, it blows harder, colder, carrying a sharper, more threatening edge. My body stiffens, instinct firing before thought. Stryker notices—it’s impossible for him not to—and his hand slides down my arm, steadying. “You’re jumpy this morning.”
“Hard to turn it off,” I admit. “I keep expecting something to go wrong.”
“Smart.”
I appreciate that he doesn’t offer ridiculous, soothing words.
“We’ll get another update from Hawkeye soon.”
The mention makes my pulse skip. I nod, forcing the words out. “Right.”
He studies me for a second, then kisses the top of my head, his lips warm. “But don’t borrow trouble, Allie. Be prepared, but not so much that you’re blind to every possibility.”
“Your mantra?”
“Yeah.” He’s silent for a moment. “Learned the hard way.”
The fire pops, a log collapsing into glowing embers. He stirs them with a length of wood, his movements calm, practiced, like he’s done this a hundred times before. Watching him always feels like this—like staring at a controlled burn. Contained, but only just.
“I’ll grab more wood before it really gets going,” he says finally, pushing to his feet. “We’ll want the cabin stocked.”
“You don’t have to—”
He cuts me off with that lazy, resolve-melting grin. “Sweetheart, I don’t mind the work. You do enough worrying for both of us.” He reaches out, brushes his knuckles along my jaw, then turns toward the stack of logs near the tree line. The axe gleams where it rests against the chopping block.
I sit there, mug cupped in my hands, watching him.
He moves effortlessly, broad shoulders flexing as he hefts the axe. Every swing is deliberate, the crack of splitting wood echoing sharp against the still air.
This should be an ordinary thing—someone chopping firewood—but with him it’s something else. Strength turned graceful. Power restrained. I press my legs together as heat curls in my belly despite the cold.
When he pauses to catch his breath, the mist of it hangs around him, a halo in the morning light.
For a second, I swear he looks up at me—right at me—and something wordless passes between us.
“I’ll…uh…” I need to do something. “Wash the dishes.”
With a nod, he turns back to the work, and I force myself to move.
After I gather the mugs, I head toward the cabin.
The shift from the cold air to the cozy inside is abrupt and a little jarring.
The buzzing of my phone slices through the quiet. My pulse jumps. I reach for it without thinking. One message glows on the screen.
Remy: Where are you, kid? Need your coordinates.
The words are cold, clinical, a stark reminder of the life I’ve always known—running, hiding, surviving. My throat goes dry.
Outside, the steady rhythm of Stryker’s axe continues, each strike a heartbeat counting down.
I type I’m safe… Then I delete the message. Because I’m not. Not from what’s chasing me and definitely not from the man I’m sharing a bed with.
Finally I give Remy a general idea of my location.
Weather is going to make this impossible unless you can get to an easy extraction place soon.
I can’t.
Sit tight. Help is coming.
The screen goes dark.
My reflection flickers across the black glass before disappearing altogether.
I slip my phone back into my duffel.
I busy myself with the dishes, the clink of plates grounding me as I glance out the window.
Despite the frigid temperature, Stryker has unfasted the top few buttons of his flannel shirt, revealing the sculpted lines of his chest.
He swings, the blade splitting a log clean through, his biceps bulging, sweat glistening on his skin despite the cold. It’s raw, masculine, a display of strength that makes my insides tighten.
Memories of last night flood back—his hands bruising my hips, his cock filling me, his voice claiming me as his. And my complete, total surrender to his commanding control.
Wanting him has become permanent, and I grip the sink, my breath shallow.
What’s wrong with me? It’s not like I’ve never had the attention of a man before.
While he continues, focused on his work, I dump the dregs of his caffeine fix and grab the bag of coffee. I pour grounds into a fresh filter. Is that strong enough? Not knowing for sure, I tip the bag again.
When the coffee maker finally spits out the last few drops, I pour a fresh mug for him.
Even though I shouldn’t flirt with temptation, I bundle up and step outside again.
The chill that bites my cheeks is angrier than it had been a little while ago. But he’s still got his shirt unbuttoned.
He looks up, his smile warm but edged with sexual hunger, and I instinctively respond to the awareness arcing between us.
“I thought…” I hold out the mug. “You might want this. I’m not sure I made it right.”
“Thank you. Means a lot.” He accepts my offering and sets it down on a nearby log without breaking eye contact.