Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
S he was in Case Savage’s home.
She hadn’t imagined it like this—not with her ankle throbbing and mud streaked up her calf, not with the taste of fear still bitter on her tongue. But here she was, seated in the shadowed warmth of the infamous mountain man’s cabin. The very man she’d seen from afar, looming like a grizzly in human form, and occasionally dared to approach—though each time she’d spoken to him, her heart had thudded like a hummingbird in a jar.
Case had responded the same way every time—with a thundercloud of a scowl and his massive arms folded across his chest like twin warnings. He’d loomed, unreadable, and then deflected her questions with a single grunt before sending her off to Luke Vincent or one of the park rangers, like she was nothing more than a stray someone else should deal with.
She should have gotten the hint.
She should have respected his space, his silence. Lord knew she didn’t need to add another bad-tempered, emotionally unavailable man to her list of poor life choices. She had a whole damn resume of those.
Hell, she’d come to Granite Junction because of one.
But Case Savage had a pull she couldn’t resist. He wasn’t sweet—God no—but there was something behind the gruffness, something wild and still noble, like a wolf that hadn’t been fully tamed. She didn’t want to tame him. She just wanted to understand him.
Getting shot at in the process hadn’t exactly been part of the plan.
Case kicked open the cabin’s heavy door, the hinges groaning in protest, and carried her inside like she weighed nothing. The interior was surprisingly neat, all dark wood and practicality, warmed by the low flicker of a fire in the stone hearth. He moved with purpose, placing her on the kitchen counter as if it were an operating table, then knelt with surprising care.
He unlaced her sneaker with blunt fingers, his brows drawn in concentration. The shoe landed with a dull thump, followed by her damp sock. When his callused hands skimmed over her bare skin, she jolted at the heat that leapt up her leg—unexpected and wild, like a spark catching kindling.
“You should’ve worn better footwear,” he grumbled. “Might’ve stayed on your feet.”
She stared down at him, at the thick mess of dark hair falling into his eyes, the rough stubble along his jaw. Should she tell him the truth? About the gunshots chasing her down the slope? About how she’d run like prey, terrified and certain this time the past had finally caught up?
Would he believe her?
No one else had.
Not when they met Don. Not when they looked into his charming eyes, heard the sugar-slick words, and watched him play the gentleman. She had fallen for it, too. And now she was just the crazy ex with wild accusations and a knack for drama.
So she smiled instead, light and brittle. “Didn’t plan to go far. I thought sneakers would be fine.”
“You need to respect the mountain,” he said, the low rumble of his voice deepening. “Nature doesn’t give a damn about your plans. That’s what you’re trying to teach your students, isn’t it? Even eight-year-olds know to wear decent boots.”
His tone was sharp, almost scolding, and for a moment, she bristled. But she bit her tongue. She was in his space, injured, and at his mercy. She didn’t know what might set him off. She needed to play it safe, to avoid poking the bear. Even if that wasn’t really her style.
But oddly enough… she wasn’t afraid.
She should be. Case Savage was nothing soft. Nothing gentle. He was all edges and silence and stormy glares.
Yet somehow, with her ankle throbbing and her heart still racing from the adrenaline of her fall, he felt like the safest thing in the world.
His hands, though rough and blunt, were surprisingly skilled as he examined the swelling, his touch careful despite the gruffness in his voice. She winced when he hit a tender spot, a gasp escaping before she could stop it.
His gaze flicked up to hers. “Sorry.”
He straightened before she could respond, but the apology lingered, warm and strange.
“I don’t think it’s broken,” he said. “But it’s a bad sprain. I’ll get some ice.”
“You have ice?” she asked, blinking in surprise. “I thought you were off the grid.”
That earned her a small smile—barely there, but real. It tugged at his beard, softened the craggy lines of his face. “I’m not completely feral. I’ve got solar.”
She shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course he’d have planned for everything. Of course he’d have a system. He was, without question, the most capable man she’d ever met.
She hissed when he returned and pressed the cold cloth against her ankle, the shock of it cutting through her like lightning. He wrapped it gently, then lifted her again, carrying her to the couch like it was second nature. He arranged pillows under her leg, adjusting them with care before stepping back, standing awkwardly above her like he didn’t know what to do now that she was settled.
“Are you hungry?” he asked gruffly.
Before she could answer, a crack of thunder shook the cabin. Gemma jumped, the sound splitting the air like a gunshot. Rain battered the roof in sudden, violent sheets, the window panes streaking with water. A jagged flash of lightning lit the room in stark white.
She gave a breathless, shaky laugh. “Guess I’m not making it home tonight, am I?”
He followed her gaze to the storm outside and shook his head once. “No. That trail will be slick as hell. You won’t make it to your car, not on that ankle. Probably not even on two good legs.”
Then he looked down at her, something unreadable in his expression.
“You’re stuck with me, Gemma.”
C ase wasn’t accustomed to people in his cabin.
The other men on the mountain stopped by sometimes—brothers-in-arms from another life, the only ones he tolerated for more than a few minutes. They’d served together in the searing heat of the Middle East, faced death shoulder to shoulder, and carried the same ghosts. Like him, they didn’t crave company. They sought silence, the solitude of the wild, where the wind through pine needles and the cry of a hawk overhead muffled the screams echoing in their heads. Out here, the mountain quieted the madness. At least for a little while.
But now she was in his space.
An innocent.
A temptation.
Gemma Van Buren didn’t belong in a place like this, and she sure as hell didn’t belong with a man like him. She was all light—smiles that felt like sunshine and eyes that glittered with hope and curiosity. She was laughter and warmth and untouchable softness. But there was sin in her, too. A sweetness that whispered promises he had no business wanting.
And God help him, he wanted.
He wanted to strip her out of his flannel shirt and gray sweatpants that dwarfed her and bury himself in her body, to hold her in his bed and not let her leave. He wanted to chase the darkness from his soul with the heat of her skin, to lose himself in her until the only thing he knew was her name on his lips and her scent on his sheets.
But right now, he needed something more than pleasure.
He needed the truth.
His voice was low, a gravel-rough rumble in the warm hush of the cabin. “Who’s hunting you, Gemma?”
She jolted as if he’d struck her, her whole body going rigid. Her eyes went wide, pupils dilating, and a small, broken sound slipped from her throat—something between a gasp and a whimper.
He moved closer, squatting in front of her, his presence taking up all the air between them. “Tell me, Gemma. Let me help you.”
She shook her head violently, her hair swinging around her face like a curtain. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He narrowed his eyes, unblinking. “I know what a damn gunshot sounds like.”
“It was hunters.” Her voice was brittle. “I was stupid. Just a city girl who startled herself. It was nothing.”
But he saw the lie plain as day. The way her gaze flitted to the side. The tension bracing her shoulders. The tremble in her fingers as they clenched the edge of the blanket. The taste of her fear was sharp in the air—copper and ozone, like the crack before lightning struck.
She was terrified.
And she was hiding it.
That was fine. He could wait. He had learned patience the hard way—through endless hours watching targets, through long nights keeping his team safe, reading the terrain for traps or threats. As a tracker, he’d learned to see what others missed, to watch and know.
And he knew this: she was in danger.
But she was here. In his cabin. Under his protection. And for now, that was enough.
He rose slowly, letting the tension bleed from his frame. His voice, when it came again, was deceptively calm. “How about something warm? Soup?”
She blinked up at him, surprised. Suspicious, even. Then she nodded, slow and uncertain. “That sounds good.”
He arched a brow. “Excellent. Shot a squirrel this morning. Should be tender.”
Her jaw dropped in horror, and for the first time since she’d fallen, her expression cracked into something lighter. He chuckled low in his throat, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with a touch that lingered just a second too long.
“Relax, Teach. Just kidding. It’s venison.”
She relaxed into the couch with a mock groan. “I’m not sure Bambi’s any better.”
He grinned, teeth flashing white under the wild growth of his beard. “It’s Bambi’s old man. Mean son of a bitch. He had it coming.”
She laughed—really laughed—and it stirred something deep in his chest. A dangerous something.
“Sit back and rest,” he said, turning toward the stove. “Tell me why you were on my mountain.”
“Your mountain?” Her brow lifted with a sass that lit her face.
Good. She was getting her spark back.
He shrugged one massive shoulder. “I licked it. It’s mine.”
She made a face. “That’s disgusting.”
He barked out a laugh, the sound booming in the quiet space. “I manage this stretch for the park service. My brothers and I, we keep tabs on the wildlife, plant bee-friendly shit, and keep idiots from screwing with the balance. If there were hunters out there, I need to know. That’s a problem.”
Her gaze dropped. “I could’ve been mistaken.”
She wasn’t.
He knew it in his bones. The shot had been too close. Too clean. Someone was targeting her, and rage burned slow and deep inside him—molten and lethal. His hands clenched at his sides, muscles tight with the urge to do. To hunt. To destroy.
Whoever had dared to threaten her—to scare this gentle, sweet woman—was going to pay.
He didn’t care if it was some obsessed ex or a full-blown psychopath. Didn’t matter. Either way, Case had plans. And none of them involved mercy. He wanted blood. Wanted to make them suffer. He’d carve them open, feed their pain to the trees, and let the mountain devour what was left. Slowly.
No one terrorized his without consequence.
Because that’s what she was now.
His.
Gemma Van Buren had come to him—bloody, broken, and needing protection. And now she was under his roof, in his bed, under his care.
She was his responsibility.
His to guard.
His to hold.
His to keep.
She just didn’t know it yet.