Chapter 2 Gavin
TWO
GAVIN
There’s something about her.
I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the way she held that baby like her life depended on it.
Maybe it’s the fear in her eyes she tried to hide with sarcasm.
Or maybe it’s the fact that, despite being soaked, shaking, and clearly running on fumes, she cracked a joke about serial killers like she was on a first date instead of stumbling into a high-security mountain compound during a blizzard.
But something deep in my chest tightens. And I don’t like it.
I’ve spent most of my life learning how to compartmentalize—pack emotions into tight little boxes and store them where they can’t get in the way. War taught me that. Loss drove it home. And Haven 7? This place demands it.
And yet, the second I opened that gate and saw her?
Box. Shattered.
“Vitals are steadying,” Eli says behind me, snapping off his gloves as he checks Aidan’s tiny arm. “Fever’s breaking.”
Relief pulses through me like a warm current. I glance at the kid—still red-cheeked and weak, but breathing easier. He’s curled on Eli’s chest now, swaddled in one of Rafe’s old flannel shirts like a burrito. He’s probably only six, maybe seven months old.
“Kid’s a fighter,” Boyd mutters from the corner, arms crossed, a rare softness in his voice.
“Yeah,” I say, voice gruffer than I mean it. “So’s she.”
Kayley’s curled up in the oversized armchair, drowning in a fleece blanket, eyes fluttering shut as the heat finally starts thawing her out. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips pale. She’s got a split in her jeans, snow in her hair, and a look that says she hasn’t slept in at least forty-eight hours.
She’s also beautiful.
Not the flashy kind. Not the runway kind.
She’s the kind of beautiful that sneaks up on you. That lives in the curve of her jaw when she smirks, the tremble in her voice when she tries not to cry, the fire in her eyes when she says she’s fine—but you know damn well she’s not.
I rub the back of my neck and clear my throat. “I’m taking them to my cabin.”
Rafe looks up from where he’s tossing logs on the fire. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” I glance back at Kayley. “She needs quiet. The kid needs rest. My place is stocked and close enough if anything changes.”
Chase whistles low. “Breaking protocol already, Commander?”
I shoot him a look. “Protocol can take a back seat. She’s not a threat.”
“She might be a target,” Rhett points out, tone calm but firm. “If someone’s after her—or the baby—we need to know who and why.”
“And we’ll figure it out.” I nod to Rafe. “Start a file. Run facial rec on Kayley’s plates and get eyes on traffic cams near Timber Creek. See who could’ve followed her this far.”
“Copy,” Rafe says, already moving toward the tech setup in the side office. Rafe used to run point on everything, but ever since Harper, he’s taken a step back. Doesn’t mean he’s out—not even close. Just means Haven 7’s fallen to me now.
Commander Gavin Messer. Has a ring to it, I guess.
Boyd lifts the baby with surprising gentleness and tucks him back into the portable bassinet we keep around for emergencies. “Kid’s good to move.”
Eli hands me a thermometer and a small bag of meds. “Watch his fever. If it spikes again, radio me.”
I nod, already scooping up the bassinet in one hand and tugging on my jacket with the other. Then I turn back to Kayley.
She blinks awake like she forgot where she was. Her voice is rough. “Did I pass out?”
“Almost.” I offer a hand. “Come on. You and Aidan are coming with me.”
She sits up fast. “Where?”
“My cabin. It’s warmer. Quieter. And has better coffee.”
Her brow furrows. “Why are you being so… nice?”
Because I don’t like the idea of her sleeping under anyone else’s roof.
I also want to know why she ran. Because something about her makes the part of me I buried in the sandboxes of war want to stand up and fight again.
Instead, I just say, “Because I can.”
She stares at me for a long beat before sliding her hand into mine.
It’s small. Cold. But strong.
I wrap my fingers around hers like it’s instinct.
The walk to my cabin only takes a couple of minutes, but the wind’s picking up and the snow is coming down hard. I carry the baby, shielding him with my jacket, while Kayley walks beside me clutching the blanket around her shoulders like a cape.
The compound is quiet this time of night. Ten cabins dot the property, all strategically placed around the main hall like a starburst. We designed it that way. Each man gets space. A place to breathe. A place to recover.
Silas, Wyatt, Harlan, and Thorne are off duty tonight, but if things pick up we’ll be sure to wake them up.
My cabin’s farthest back.
On purpose.
I unlock the door and shove it open with my shoulder. Heat blasts out, and Kayley lets out a soft moan of relief.
“That’s borderline erotic,” she says, stepping inside. “Do you keep it this warm all the time or is this just for guests escaping potential kidnappers?”
I smirk. “Just for you.”
She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “You don’t even know me.”
“Not yet.”
She swallows hard, and I feel her silence settle over the room like a weight.
The cabin’s one big open layout—bed in the back, living space up front, a fireplace I keep going this time of year, even when I’m out on patrol.
Old habits. The kitchen’s fully stocked.
The bathroom’s clean. There’s an extra blanket on the couch and a rifle mounted above the fireplace, just in case.
I set the baby down gently on the couch and nod toward the bedroom. “Go change. There’s dry clothes in the chest at the foot of the bed. Closet has flannel. Bathroom’s stocked.”
She hesitates. “You’re not gonna peek, are you?”
“Not unless invited.”
She snorts. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She disappears down the hall, and I stare after her for a beat too long.
There’s a pull in my chest I can’t explain. Something hot and visceral. Something I haven’t felt in a long time—not since before the missions, before the ghosts. Before the line between right and wrong got muddy.
And I don’t like that it’s making me feel like a man again.
Because men make mistakes. Men feel.
Commanders protect.
And I’ve got a bad feeling I’m going to do both.
By the time she comes back out—drowned in one of my long-sleeve shirts and leggings that cling to her curves in a way that makes me want to commit sins—the baby’s asleep, and the snow is falling harder outside.
She looks softer now. Pink in the cheeks. Her hair down. Tired, but glowing.
“How’s he doing?” she asks, kneeling beside Aidan.
“Better. Fever’s stable.”
She brushes his tiny head, eyes misting.
“You’re good with him,” I say.
Her smile’s sad. “He’s all I’ve got left.”
I sit down in the chair across from her. “You want to tell me what happened?”
She nods, slowly. “But not tonight.”
I tilt my head. “Why not?”
“Because I haven’t felt safe in weeks. And tonight—for the first time—I do. And if I have to relive it all now, I’ll shatter.”
That does something to me. Something dangerous.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Then don’t. Sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
She studies me. “You always this kind to strangers?”
“No.”
“Why me?”
I don’t blink. “Still figuring that out.”
She exhales, like maybe she believes me. Then she curls up beside the baby, using one of my throw pillows and blankets like she’s done it a hundred times before.
I watch her. Watch the slow rise and fall of her chest.
I pay attention to the way her hand stays curled around Aidan’s leg, even in sleep.
Something in me settles when I know she’s safe. And I know it in my bones—whatever she’s running from? It just became my problem. And God help anyone who tries to take her from me.