Chapter 8
Penny
By the third morning, the storm finally eases into silence. Snow still presses against the windows in thick drifts, but inside the cabin, it feels almost… domestic.
Edward sits across from me at the table, scowling down at a battered chessboard he probably hasn’t touched in years, while I grin behind my mug of tea.
I'm winning, of course.
But don't tell Edward that, he gets grumpy when he loses.
Most importantly, my toes are finally warm. They're currently tucked under Edward's leg for extra heat, and for the first time since I crashed into this cabin, life feels less like survival and more like… living.
The fire is still blazing, fat logs hissing as the flames lick them down to glowing embers. We went outside yesterday to gather more wood, but I've been told I'm not allowed back out because 'the woodshed isn't an appropriate place for sex'.
He could be onto something. I do still have a splinter in my ass.
“You know, Edward,” I say sweetly, “the whole point of chess is strategy. You can’t just glare at the pieces until they surrender.”
His blue eyes flick up, narrowing at me like he’s trying to decide if I’m worth responding to. Finally, he growls, “I don’t play games.”
“Mm.” I tap my pawn against the board, sliding it forward with an obnoxious little click. “That explains why you’ve already walked your queen into a death trap.”
He stiffens and looks down. Then he swears under his breath when he realizes I’m right.
“Oh, come on,” I tease, leaning forward, my blonde hair spilling over my shoulder. “Are you seriously telling me a man who survived combat can’t handle a twenty-four-year-old with a pawn?”
His lips twitch, just the barest flicker.
“Maybe I let you think you’re winning,” he mutters.
I laugh, the sound bouncing around the log walls. “Of course. The great Edward Rogers, martyr of the chessboard. What a noble sacrifice.”
He snorts and takes a long swallow of tea, but I don’t miss the way his eyes linger on me as I settle back in my chair. That heavy, searching stare of his… it does things to me. Things that have certainly helped pass the time these past few days.
We play two more rounds and he loses both. Though he insists the board is 'rigged', so we move on to sketching side by side.
His drawings are still dark and filled with violent shadows that make my chest ache, but at least he doesn’t hide them anymore. Not from me.
At some point, I end up perched on the rug with a blanket around my shoulders, doodling his profile as he opens a can of vegetable soup.
I like watching him move around the cabin. For someone his size, he's so quiet and capable. It feels… weirdly intimate. Like we’ve been doing this for years. Like this isn’t just survival. It’s a lifestyle we've both chosen.
By late afternoon, the snow has thinned to lazy snowflakes, the kind that glitter when they catch the ever so subtle hint of light.
Edward sits back in his armchair, boots crossed at the ankles, while I flop dramatically onto the foldout bed, sketchbook balanced on my knees.
“So I was thinking,” I announce, stretching like a cat.
“God help me,” he rumbles without opening his eyes.
“Rude.” I toss a pillow at him, which he catches one-handed despite not even seeing me throw it.
“No, listen. When this storm finally lets us out, I’m going to open that studio.
I can see it now… Penny Kaye’s Gallery of Wild and Wonderful Things.
The townsfolk will sip cheap wine out of plastic cups and nod like they know what ‘expressionist abstraction’ means. ”
Now he cracks one eye open. “Expressionist what?”
I wave a hand. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is I want you to be there. Front row. Brooding in the corner, looking rugged and mysterious, driving up my sales with sheer intimidation.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.” I point at him with my pencil. “Tall, glowering mountain man with a tortured past? Do you have any idea how much money people would drop on your sketches if you showed them?”
His mouth tightens, that familiar resistance sliding back into place. “They’re not for sale.”
“Edward—”
“I told you. They’re not for anyone,” he cuts me off, voice low and firm.
I study him for a moment, then close my sketchbook with a sigh. “You know, for someone who claims he doesn’t play games, you sure do love hiding behind rules.”
His gaze sharpens. “Rules keep people alive, Penny.”
“Or they keep them locked up in a cabin, pretending they’re already dead.”
The silence that follows is thick. His jaw works, his hand flexes against the arm of the chair, and for a second I wonder if I pushed too far.
But then his voice comes, rough and raw.
“Okay. You want to play games? Answer me this." He glares across the room at me. "What happens when the storm ends? To you. To your little gallery dream. What do you actually want, Penny?”
I swallow and sitting up straighter. “I want… more. To make something that matters. To prove I can stand on my own two feet, not just live under my parents’ roof listening to them harp about responsibility. I want—” I break off, biting my lip. “I want people to see me. Really see me.”
His eyes soften enough to make my heart stutter.
“And you?” I shoot back, because I’m not about to let him get away with deflecting. “What happens when the storm ends, Edward Rogers? You just go back to hiding again? To sketching soldiers in the shadows and pretending you’re not still alive?”
His throat works a large swallow, but he doesn’t answer.
So I push harder. “See. I'm right. You should come with me. To Scottsdale. The gallery. You could even wear that new flannel shirt we found yesterday so you don’t scare the customers too much. Trust me, people will eat it up. Tortured veteran with talent? You’d sell out opening night.”
A laugh huffs out of him and he shakes his head. “You’re insane.”
“Insanely right,” I counter, grinning. “And don’t even try to argue, because we both know I’m stubborn enough to drag you there myself.”
His gaze pins me, a question forming on his brow. “Why?”
The question hangs between us, heavy with an underlying meaning that we both fully understand.
"Because… you’re more than what you think you are. And I—” My voice cracks. “I don’t want this to be temporary. Us. You and me, stuck in a storm. It doesn’t feel temporary, Edward. Does it?”
For a moment, the only sound is the fire crackling and the whisper of snow against the window. Then he rises, crossing the room with heavy boots until he’s standing right in front of me.
He crouches, his massive frame folding down until his eyes are level with mine.
“Penny,” he says, my name rough on his lips. “I don’t know what the hell you’ve done to me. But I know nothing about this feels temporary.”
His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing my skin with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.
"Wh-what does that mean then?" I ask. "For us?"
He shrugs and holds his hand steady. “It means, I love you. I never thought I’d say those words again, but… fuck, I do. I love you.”
The dam breaks and tears sting my eyes, hot and absolutely unashamed.
I melt into him, every piece of me fitting against his solid frame. His scent, his heat, the rasp of his stubble against my skin—it’s everything I didn’t know I needed until now.
“I love you too, Edward Rogers,” I whisper, my voice shaking with joy. “You grumpy, stubborn, impossible man. I love you.”
He smiles. "This is a bit crazy, right?"
I nod and laugh and cry… all at the same time. "Of course it is! We barely know each other. But maybe that doesn't matter? What matters is this… Us."
"You're right. You're always fucking right."
And then his mouth is on mine.
It’s not frantic this time. Not desperate, like the storm might steal us apart the moment this all ends.
It’s slow. Intentional.
A kiss that lingers, savors, and promises. His lips are warm, his hand steady against my jaw, anchoring me in place.
When he pulls back, just enough to press his forehead to mine, his voice is low, fierce. “You’re mine, Penny. And I’m not letting you go.”
“Good,” I murmur, tugging him down again. “Because I’m not letting you go either.”
He lifts me easily, carrying me toward the bedroom like I weigh nothing at all. My arms loop around his neck, my laughter mixing with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under my ear.
This time, there’s no storm to drown out the sound of our love.
Just the quiet promise of forever.