Maddie
Isee him before he says a word.
The cabin sits exactly where the directions promised it would, tucked into the trees like it belongs there, like it has always been there and always will be.
The road up nearly shakes my Jeep apart, gravel spitting under the tires as I push through the last stretch without slowing, even when the path narrows and the trees close in tighter than I like.
I keep going anyway. Slowing down feels like hesitation, and hesitation feels like fear, and I am not letting that be the first thing he sees when I get here.
The engine cuts, and the silence that follows is immediate and heavy, like the mountain is listening.
I keep my hands on the wheel for a second longer than I need to, staring through the windshield, forcing my breathing to steady.
My pulse is faster than I want it to be, but it is not panic.
It is awareness. It is the same feeling I have had for weeks now, the sense that something is just slightly off, just slightly wrong.
Then I open the door and step out.
Cold air hits my skin, sharp and grounding. I don’t waste time. My gaze sweeps the space automatically, the tree line first, then the cabin, then him.
He is leaning against the porch like he has been there all morning, like he knew exactly when I would arrive.
My eyes lock on his.
He doesn’t look away.
Neither do I.
Good.
If he is expecting someone fragile, someone desperate, someone easy, he is about to be disappointed.
I slam the Jeep door harder than necessary, adjust the strap of my camera bag across my body, and square my shoulders before taking a step forward.
“Ethan Cole?” I call, my voice carrying clean through the trees.
He nods once, pushing off the porch post with an ease that feels deliberate, controlled. “You made good time.”
I let out a short breath. “Road’s worse than you said.”
“I told you thirty.”
“And I made it in twenty-five,” I shoot back, because I need the edge in my voice, I need the reminder that I am still in control of something here.
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, like he expected that answer.
He steps toward me, not rushing, not crowding, just closing the distance one measured step at a time. I feel it before he even gets close, the way the space shifts, the way my body reacts even when I don’t want it to.
“You’re Maddie,” he says.
“Yeah.”
He stops a few feet away, close enough that I can feel his presence, far enough that I don’t have to tilt my head back yet. Up close, it is worse. Stronger. There is something about him that feels…steady. Solid in a way that makes everything else feel a little less so.
“Turn around,” he says.
My brows pull together instantly. “Excuse me?”
“Turn around,” he repeats, like it is nothing, like it is a normal thing to say to someone you just met.
I let out a sharp breath and cross my arms. “I didn’t come here to be ordered around.”
He steps closer.
Now I do have to tilt my head back.
“Then you came to the wrong place,” he says quietly.
Something in my chest tightens, but I hold his gaze. I don’t move. I don’t give him that.
“Why?” I challenge. “So you can check for weapons or something?”
“Because I want to see if you were followed.”
That lands harder than I expect.
I feel it before I can stop it, the slight shift in my posture, the tension that tightens just a fraction too much.
“Happy?” I mutter, even as I turn.
I hear him move behind me, feel it, the awareness of him circling, looking, assessing. It should make me uncomfortable.
It does.
But not in the way I expect.
“Anyone see you leave?” he asks.
“No.”
“Anyone know you came here?”
I hesitate.
Just for a second.
That is all it takes.
He is closer now. I can feel the heat of him at my back, close enough that if I lean even slightly, I will hit him.
“Answer the question, Maddie.”
My breath catches before I can stop it. “No.”
He doesn’t say anything right away, and somehow that is worse.
When I turn back to face him, he is right there again, closer than before, the air between us thick and charged in a way that makes it hard to think clearly.
“You’re being tracked,” he says.
I let out a short, disbelieving breath. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“Based on what?” I snap.
He nods toward my bag. “Show me the photos.”
I hesitate, then yank the strap forward, digging through it with more force than necessary. My fingers close around the print, and I shove it at him.
He takes it, glancing down, and something in his expression shifts. Tightens.
“This wasn’t taken by accident,” he says.
“I figured that much,” I bite out.
His eyes lift to mine.
“Who is he?”
The question hits harder than everything else.
My instinct is immediate. Deflect. Deny.
“I don’t know.”
He steps closer.
“Try again.”
“I don’t know,” I repeat, sharper this time.
Silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable. He is watching me like he already knows the answer, like he is waiting for me to catch up to it.
“You do,” he says.
My eyes flare. “You don’t get to—”
“I get to because you came here,” he cuts in, his voice dropping just enough to make the words feel heavier.
That stops me.
I step forward without thinking, closing the last bit of space between us, lifting my chin. “I came here for help, not an interrogation.”
“And I’m helping,” he says evenly. “You just don’t like how.”
My breath brushes his jaw now. I can feel it. I can feel him.
“Maybe I don’t like you,” I fire back.
His smile is slow and dangerous. “That’s not the problem.”
My lips part before I can stop them.
“Then what is?” I ask.
He leans in just enough that I feel it, the shift, the pull, without quite touching me.
“That you’re already here,” he murmurs. “On my land. Asking me to keep you safe.”
My pulse jumps hard enough that I know he sees it.
“And you think that gives you control?” I ask, but my voice is thinner now.
He studies me for a second before answering.
“It gives me responsibility,” he says. “And I take that seriously.”
I swallow, my throat suddenly too tight. “And what does that mean for me?”
He glances toward the trees, then back at me.
“It means you don’t leave this property without me.”
My eyes flash. “That’s not happening.”
“It is.”
“No,” I snap, stepping back, putting space between us because I need it. “I didn’t come here to trade one problem for another.”
“Then you shouldn’t have come at all,” he says.
Silence crashes down between us.
I stare at him, my chest rising and falling too fast, something twisting inside me that feels a lot like fear and a lot like something else I do not want to name.
“Say I stay,” I say slowly. “What then?”
He closes the distance again like I never stepped back.
“We get married,” he says. “And I find him.”
I blink. “And if you don’t?”
“I will.”
He says it like it is a fact.
Like there is no version of reality where that is not true.
“Why do you care?” I ask.
He does not answer right away.
And that is the part that unsettles me the most.
Finally, he steps closer again, until there is no space left to pretend there is distance between us.
“You showed up on my land scared and alone, willing to be my bride in exchange for protection,” he says quietly. “That makes you my problem.”
My breath catches.
“And you always this intense?” I murmur.
His gaze drops, just for a second, to my mouth, then back up.
“Only when it matters.”
Something in my chest tightens, something I do not understand yet.
“Where do I stay?” I ask finally.
He turns toward the cabin. “With me.”
My brows shoot up. “Absolutely not.”
He glances back over his shoulder. “Then you can go.”
I stiffen. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re still here,” he says.
That lands.
Hard.
Because he is right.
Because I have not left.
“Fine,” I snap. “Temporary.”
“Everything is,” he says.
He starts toward the cabin without checking if I follow.
And I hate that I do.
I hate it more that he knows I will.
The door creaks as he pushes it open, stepping inside. I follow, my boots sharp against the wood floor, the space smaller than I expected, warmer too.
“Rules,” he says, turning to face me.
I fold my arms. “Of course there are.”
He steps closer again, and this time I feel it immediately, the shift, the way the air changes.
“You don’t leave without me.”
My jaw tightens.
“You don’t open that door unless I tell you to.”
My fingers curl against my arms.
“And you don’t lie to me again.”
That one hits.
“You don’t get to—”
“I do,” he cuts in, his voice low. “Because you’ll be my wife, and if I don’t have the full picture, I can’t protect you.”
Silence settles between us, thick and heavy.
“Fine,” I say finally. “But this goes both ways.”
His brow lifts slightly. “Oh?”
“You don’t get to hover,” I say. “Or bark orders. Or whatever this is.” I gesture between us. “You don’t get to control me.”
He steps closer again, and my breath stutters before I can stop it.
“Then stop giving me reasons to.”
For the first time since I got here, I don’t have a response.
And that is what scares me the most.