Chapter 10
The storm is still raging outside, but inside the cabin, the world feels muted. The only sounds are the fire crackling low, the rain pounding against the roof, and the ragged sound of our breathing tangled together.
Luke’s weight is heavy over me, his body still trembling, his chest pressed hard to mine. His heart hammers against mine, wild and uneven, and every beat seems to echo in my own ribs.
God help me, I don’t want him to move.
Heat still pulses between my thighs, my body humming from the way he’s taken me apart—from his mouth, his hands, his relentless rhythm inside me.
My skin is damp with sweat, my hair sticking to my temples, but all I can think about is the way he felt.
Familiar. Overwhelming. Like something I swore I’d never touch again, and yet couldn’t resist if my life depended on it.
He shifts, just enough to look down at me, and the firelight catches in his eyes. There’s so much there—relief, hunger, something dangerously close to tenderness. My breath catches, because it’s too much. It’s everything I’ve craved and everything I promised myself I’d never fall for again.
I turn my face away before I drown in it. My hand presses against his chest, weak, not really pushing, just needing space. He doesn’t fight me. He eases back slowly, though his hand lingers at my hip, as if he’s not ready to let go either.
The room feels colder the second he pulls out of me. A shiver climbs up my spine. My gaze snags on the throw blanket draped over the back of the sofa, but before I can even think to ask, Luke pushes up onto his knees, grabs it, and covers me gently.
The fire pops. Thunder shakes the windows. My pulse hasn’t steadied.
I close my eyes, dragging in a shaky breath. What have I done?
Every nerve is still singing with him, with us, with the storm we just unleashed. My body is sated, but my heart is thrashing, caught between the way he makes me feel alive and the jagged memory of why I left. Why I had to leave.
I should say something. Draw a line. Tell him this changes nothing. But when his fingers brush mine, tentative but steady, I can’t bring myself to pull away.
Instead, I lie there in the firelight, my body still aching from him, my mind screaming warnings I’m not sure I’ll listen to this time.
Because if I’m honest with myself—for one dangerous, fleeting moment—lying here beside him feels terrifyingly close to where I belong.
Luke shifts beside me, then slips an arm under my shoulders, pulling me against his chest. His warmth seeps into me instantly, steadying me even as my pulse stutters all over again.
For a while, we just lie there under the blanket, listening to the storm pound the roof. Then his voice breaks the silence, low and thoughtful. “Now I get it,” he murmurs. “Why you always said you wanted a fireplace.”
The words tug a laugh out of me, soft and unexpected. I swat lightly at his chest. “That is not why.”
He chuckles, the vibration rumbling through me. “Well, maybe not back then. But now?” His lips brush the top of my hair, warm and teasing. “Now I like fireplaces for this reason.”
My laugh lingers, light and breathless, easing the tension in the room. For a moment, it feels like we’ve slipped back into something easy—like the years between us didn’t exist.
Silence settles again, heavier this time. The fire pops, rain lashes the windows. My voice feels too loud when I finally ask, “When did you get your family’s properties back?”
I feel his chest expand under my cheek as he exhales. “Two months after you left. I won the court case.”
I tilt my head slightly, watching the firelight flicker across his face. “And your uncle?”
“He was fined.” His voice hardens, clipped. “Did three years in prison. That was it.”
Three years. That’s all. My stomach twists.
“And the main house?” The question leaves me before I can stop it.
Every muscle beneath me goes rigid. The shift is immediate, like the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. Guilt floods me. “You don’t have to talk about it,” I whisper quickly.
His arms tighten around me, almost crushing. His voice is low, rough, torn from somewhere deep. “If I don’t talk to you about this, who the hell am I supposed to talk to?”
The words hit hard, cracking something inside me.
His chin dips, brushing the top of my head. “I’ve never mentioned that house to anyone. Not once.”
I stay still, heart pounding, waiting.
He swallows, the sound loud in the quiet.
“It’s exactly the same. We rebuilt the walls, patched the roof, replaced the windows.
But it doesn’t matter. It still smells like smoke when I walk through.
The floors creak in the same places. Sometimes I swear I can hear her voice—my mom calling me down for dinner.
” His breath stutters, and I feel it all the way through my ribs. “It’s like walking through a grave.”
My heart clenches painfully. I slide my hand over his, squeezing, wishing I could absorb even a fraction of that weight.
“I stayed away for years,” he continues, voice low and unsteady.
“Couldn’t set foot on the property without wanting to burn it to the ground myself.
But it was mine. And it was all I had left of them.
So I rebuilt it. Room by room. Window by window.
I thought maybe if I fixed it, I could… fix me.
” His throat works around the words. “Didn’t work. ”
Tears burn my eyes before I can stop them.
His arm tightens again, like he knows I’m breaking for him. “This—” he gestures faintly toward the walls around us, the fire, the rug beneath us “—this cabin was the only thing I could build that didn’t feel haunted.”
I don’t trust my voice, so I just press closer, resting my cheek against his chest. His heartbeat thunders beneath my ear, steadying, anchoring me.
For the first time, I realize he’s not the only one haunted. I am too—by the past, by my choices, by this man I left behind. And lying here in his arms, wrapped in firelight and storm, I know neither of us has ever really outrun it.
* * *
The storm rages on outside, rain lashing against the windows with increasing fury.
I’ve somehow found myself in Luke’s kitchen, barefoot and wearing nothing but his oversized flannel shirt and my underwear, stirring a pot of butternut squash soup that fills the air with the warm scents of sage, nutmeg, and caramelized onions.
The dogs are sleeping in front of the fire now.
I don’t know where they appeared from, but they’re piled up on each other, snoring gently.
This is dangerous territory—this easy domesticity, this feeling of rightness that settles in my bones like I belong here. Because I don’t belong here. I can’t. Not permanently.
But for now, with the storm keeping us trapped and the warmth from the fireplace chasing away the chill, I let myself pretend.
The soup is almost ready—I found butternut squash, onions, and fresh herbs in Luke’s surprisingly well-stocked pantry. I’m spooning cookie dough onto a baking sheet when I hear the washing machine cycle finish in the next room, followed by Luke’s footsteps moving around.
“Laundry’s in the dryer,” Luke says, appearing in the kitchen doorway.
I glance up and immediately regret it.
He’s still shirtless, his jeans hanging low on his hips, and the firelight from the living room casts golden shadows across his chest and shoulders. My mouth goes dry as I take in the sight of him—broad, solid, unfairly attractive.
He catches me staring, and his lips curve into that slow, dangerous smile I remember too well.
“See something you like?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe.
Heat floods my cheeks. “Get over yourself.”
“You’re the one staring.”
“I was not staring.” I check the cookies in the oven, trying to ignore the way my pulse quickens. “I was just... noticing that you’re using the laundry situation as an excuse to parade around shirtless.”
“Does it bother you?”
I keep my eyes firmly fixed on cleaning up the counter and repeat the words I said to him when I found him shirtless the first time Max escaped. “I don’t care what you do or don’t wear.”
“Uh-huh.” I can hear the amusement in his voice as he moves closer. “Sure about that?”
“Positive.”
Luke steps up beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. He peers over my shoulder at the soup pot, and I catch his scent—clean and masculine with that hint of the pine that’s purely him.
“Smells incredible. What kind of soup?”
“Butternut squash with sage. And maple oatmeal cookies.” I try to keep my voice steady. “One batch of the cookies is already in the oven.”
Something shifts in his expression, becomes softer. “You’re spoiling me.”
“Don’t read too much into it.”
But he’s standing so close now I can feel his breath on my neck, and every nerve ending in my body is hyperaware of his proximity. The shirt I’m wearing—his shirt—suddenly feels too thin, too revealing.
“Luke.”
“Hmm?”
“You’re bothering me.”
His laugh is low, rough. “Good. That was my plan.”
Before I can protest, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to my neck. The contact is brief, innocent, but it sends electricity shooting straight through my veins.
I drop my spoon with a clatter and turn to face him, which is a mistake because now we’re standing inches apart, and I can see the mischief dancing in his blue eyes.
“That’s not fair,” I whisper.
“What isn’t?”
“Using your... your shirtlessness as a weapon against me.”
Luke’s grin widens. “Is it working?”
I look at him—really look—taking in the way the firelight plays across his skin, the way his muscles shift when he moves, the heat in his eyes that makes me feel like I’m burning from the inside out.
“Maybe,” I admit reluctantly.
His eyes flare with something dark and hungry. “Hazel—”
The timer for the oven goes off, shattering the moment.
I practically leap away from him, grabbing oven mitts with shaking hands. “Cookies,” I announce unnecessarily, my voice too bright. “They’re done.”