Ethan
She’s loud, loud enough that anyone watching from the tree line would pick her up in seconds.
I stop mid-step and lift my hand, but she walks straight into me before she notices, her body colliding with mine, soft and warm and completely unprepared, her breath punching out in a sharp exhale as her hands come up to brace against my chest.
“Jesus,” she snaps, looking up at me with irritation already sparking in her eyes. “You could warn me.”
“You could pay attention.”
Her gaze flashes, her chin tipping up as she pushes off me, creating space that doesn’t quite stick. “I am paying attention.”
“No,” I say, turning fully toward her and holding her there with my gaze. “You’re reacting. That’s different.”
Her arms cross immediately, defensive and stubborn. “And what, you’re just naturally silent like some kind of mountain ninja?”
I step closer, closing the distance just enough that she has to tilt her head back again to keep eye contact, and I let the moment sit before I answer. “Watch.”
I move again, slower this time, deliberate in a way that forces her to focus. Each step is intentional, heel to toe, my weight shifting carefully so nothing snaps, nothing shifts, nothing gives me away. The forest stays quiet around me, untouched.
I glance back at her. “Your turn.”
She exhales, clearly annoyed, but steps forward anyway, trying to mirror what I just did. Her first step lands, and the instant her boot hits the ground a branch snaps beneath it, the sound sharp in the stillness.
I don’t say anything. I just watch.
She freezes, her eyes flicking up to mine.
“Don’t,” I say quietly.
“Don’t what?” she asks, already bracing.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re waiting for approval.”
Her jaw tightens. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
I step closer again, closing the space until I can reach her, until I can feel the shift in her breathing even before I touch her. It’s subtle, but it’s there, and I don’t miss it.
“Relax your stance,” I tell her.
“I am relaxed.”
“No, you’re not.”
She glares. “I’m standing.”
“Wrong.”
I reach for her, pausing for just half a second before I follow through, my hands settling on her hips. My grip is firm enough to guide her, not enough to trap her, but the contact still pulls a reaction from her, her breath catching just slightly.
There it is.
“Shift your weight,” I murmur.
Her hands hover uncertainly at her sides, like she doesn’t know what to do with them. “Ethan—”
“Focus,” I cut in, adjusting her stance, angling her body slightly, grounding her where she needs to be.
She responds instinctively, her balance shifting under my hands.
Good.
“Feel that?” I ask.
She nods once, tight and controlled. “Yeah.”
“Less pressure on your front foot,” I continue, keeping my voice low. “You’re pushing into the ground like you’re about to run.”
“I might need to.”
“Not like this.”
I slide one hand lower, guiding her leg back just enough to correct her balance, and her breath stutters again, sharper this time.
“You hesitate like that,” I say, my voice dropping further, “you lose.”
Her head tilts slightly, her eyes lifting to meet mine. “You always this intense?”
I hold her gaze. “Only when it matters.”
The silence stretches between us, thick and charged in a way that has nothing to do with the forest around us. She swallows, then looks forward again, trying to regain control.
“And this matters?” she asks.
My grip tightens just slightly before I can stop it. “You do.”
The words land between us before I can pull them back, honest in a way I didn’t plan for.
She stills.
Then she mutters, quieter now, “Don’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t mean them.”
I lean in closer, just enough that my breath brushes near her ear, my mouth close to her hair without quite touching. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
Her breath hitches again.
“Then maybe you should start,” she murmurs.
I almost smile, but I don’t let it show. “Move.”
I step back, releasing her, and the loss of contact hits harder than it should. She steps forward again, more careful this time, her movements quieter, more controlled.
Better.
“Again,” I say.
She goes again, slower now, more aware. Step. Pause. Shift. No snap. No crunch.
I nod once. “Better.”
She glances back over her shoulder, a hint of challenge in her expression. “You going to compliment me now or keep pretending you’re not impressed?”
“I don’t hand out compliments for basic survival.”
Her mouth curves slightly. “So you are impressed.”
I step forward again, closing the space she just created. “You’re improving.”
“Wow,” she deadpans. “High praise.”
“You want praise?” I ask quietly.
Her eyes flick up to mine. “Maybe.”
I lean in, close enough that the space between us disappears again. “You earn it.”
Her lips part slightly before she catches herself, clearing her throat and stepping back like she needs the distance.
Good.
Because if she doesn’t, I’m not sure I’d stop at just teaching her how to walk.
“Listening next,” I say.
She exhales slowly, rolling her shoulders as she tries to reset. “This should be interesting.”
I gesture toward the trees. “Close your eyes.”
Her brows shoot up immediately. “Absolutely not.”
“Do it.”
“No.”
I step closer again, and this time she doesn’t move away.
“Trust me.”
Her laugh is sharp. “That’s not happening.”
“Then keep dying out here,” I say evenly.
Her jaw tightens, but after a beat she closes her eyes, slow and reluctant. “Happy?” she mutters.
“Not yet.”
I circle her, quiet, controlled, watching the way her body reacts even without sight, the tension in her shoulders, the rhythm of her breathing.
“Tell me what you hear,” I say.
“Wind.”
“Be specific.”
She frowns slightly, focusing harder. “Branches moving.”
“Where?”
She tilts her head. “Left.”
“Good.”
I shift my position, changing angles without making a sound.
“What else?”
The silence stretches before she answers again. “Your boots.”
I glance down. I didn’t make a sound.
Interesting.
“How?” I ask.
“You breathe heavier when you move,” she says, still with her eyes closed.
A slow grin pulls at my mouth. “You’re paying attention now.”
“I told you I was.”
“Not like this.”
She opens her eyes and turns toward me. “You always this demanding?”
“Only when I know what you’re capable of.”
Her gaze sharpens. “Which is?”
I step closer again, closing the distance until there’s nothing left between us. “More than you’re giving me.”
Her breath catches again.
“Careful,” she murmurs. “You’re starting to sound like you believe in me.”
“I don’t believe,” I say quietly. “I know.”
The silence that follows is heavy, loaded with something neither of us is naming.
Then a branch snaps in the distance.
Both of us turn instantly, the shift immediate, tension snapping into alert.
“Did you hear that?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
Her stance changes without me having to say anything, sharper, more controlled.
Better.
“Where?” she asks.
“East.”
She scans the tree line, her focus tighter now. “Could be an animal.”
“Could be.”
“But you don’t think it is.”
“No.”
The forest stills again, too still this time.
She steps closer to me without thinking, instinct overriding everything else, her arm brushing mine, warm and solid. I don’t move, don’t break the contact.
“You said he’s tracking me,” she says quietly.
“Yeah.”
“Then what are we doing?”
I glance down at her, then back at the trees. “We’re letting him think he’s still in control.”
Her fingers curl slightly at her sides. “Is he?”
I shake my head once. “No.”
She looks up at me, searching my face. “Why are you so sure?”
I turn fully toward her, backing her just slightly toward the tree behind her, close enough that the space between us disappears again. “Because he doesn’t know me.”
Her breath catches.
“And you,” I add, “you’re starting to.”
The words hang between us, thick and dangerous.
She swallows. “And what does that mean?”
I let my gaze drop, slow, to her mouth, then lift it back to her eyes. “It means he picked the wrong woman.”
Her pulse jumps, visible, undeniable.
“And why’s that?” she asks, quieter now.
I step closer, just enough to feel the shift in her breathing. “Because now,” I murmur, leaning in, my hand gliding against her throat and bringing her ear close to my lips to whisper: “you’re mine to protect now.”
Her breath hitches, and the space between us tightens until it feels like something could snap.
For a moment, I forget about the forest, the threat, the hunt, everything except her.
I want to kiss her, my muscles are strung tight, the urge to press my lips to hers is overwhelming.
And the worst part? She wants me to—I can feel it in the way her eyes are hooded, hanging on mine, practically begging me to take her.
Then another branch snaps, closer this time, and the moment breaks.
The tension doesn’t. Not even close.