12. Cala
Not knowing if my parents are okay makes my skin crawl.
I have no idea what’s going on outside—if the animals made it, if there’s even a house left standing.
For all I know, Oliver’s mansion could be scattered across the field like matchsticks.
“Hey,” Oliver murmurs beside me, his voice low and rough. “You’re okay. Don’t let your mind take over.”
He’s sitting next to me on the straw.
The same straw where, moments ago, I completely lost it—and let him take control of every last piece of me.
Why?
Hell if I know.
Maybe nerves, maybe relief, maybe that desperate need to feel alive after thinking we were both about to die.
I still feel the heat of his body against mine, the echo of that chaos in my pulse.
“How can you be sure?” I ask, my voice barely holding steady. “Everything out there could be gone.”
“The shelter’s reinforced steel,” he says calmly. “That’s why I put them there. Even if the house didn’t make it, they did.”
Our eyes meet for a second, and for the first time all night, there’s peace in his.
That calm, steady tone—the one everyone else hears from him—is finally here with me.
And it works. It anchors me.
“What about the animals?”
He exhales slowly. “We have to trust their instincts.”
Easy for him to say.
Farm animals aren’t exactly known for survival skills. Their greatest instinct is waking up hungry.
He reaches out, his hand landing gently on my leg.
I realize I’ve been shaking it without noticing. His touch stills me instantly.
“Trust me,” he says.
I let out a long breath through my nose and nod.
“I need a distraction,” I whisper. “Talk to me.”
He’s quiet for a few seconds. The air between us feels thick again, like the storm never left.
“I don’t know what to say,” he admits finally—cool, clipped, and controlled, just like always.
This man is a damn paradox: either he’s scolding me or he’s kissing me like the world’s ending.
There’s no middle ground.
“Then tell me,” I say softly, “the best memory you’ve got.”
His green eyes drop to the floor, searching as if the answer might be hiding in some far corner of his mind.
After a long silence, he starts speaking, words slow and uncertain.
“I think it was a Christmas… We were kids—my brothers and me—and my parents got us a Nintendo.”
I smile, watching him walk down that memory lane, a small curve forming at the corner of his mouth.
“All my classmates used to beg for one,” I say. “I get it—that’s a solid memory.”
“Oh, no. That’s not the good part.”
He looks up at me then, eyes soft and faraway.
“It was the first Christmas we all spent together. My parents usually traveled for the holidays.”
“For work?”
“No,” he says quietly. “For pleasure.”
Oh, hell.
Is this that movie moment where you realize the rich kid was actually the loneliest one all along?
I reach out and rest my hand on his shoulder, and he goes tense—instantly.
I pull back like I’ve touched fire.
“Sorry,” I murmur, unsure what line I just crossed. I just know I made him uncomfortable—and I hate that feeling.
Oliver takes a deep breath and shakes his head slowly. His eyes sharpen again, focused but vulnerable.
“I usually don’t like being touched,” he admits.
“I understand. I’m sorry—”
“But your hands,” he interrupts softly, surprising even himself. “They don’t bother me as much. I don’t know why.”
He sounds like a man discovering something rare—something he doesn’t quite believe is real.
He shakes it off, grounding himself again.
“What about you? What’s your happiest memory?”
I cross my legs, lounging back against the straw, bracing my palms behind me.
“I’ve got a few,” I say, thinking. “But maybe… starting college. In school, being a good student was basically social suicide. So when I finally found a place where being smart was a good thing? I felt at home.”
The memories hit me like sunlight through a dusty window—bright, distant, a little painful.
“It’s unfair you’re here,” he mutters. “You shouldn’t be taking care of a ranch. You should be finishing your degree. I never should’ve promised your father anything.”
He sounds angry—at himself, at the universe.
“It’s not that bad,” I say gently. “I like taking care of the animals.”
Oliver mirrors my position, leaning back with that half-smile I’ve learned means he’s listening.
There’s pride there too, and curiosity—like he’s glad someone finally gets it.
“If it were up to me,” he says, “I’d stay outside all day.”
“Why?”
“There’s a freedom out here you can’t find under a roof.”
“Is that why you go out to the balcony to breathe?”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
And just like that—I ruin a perfectly normal conversation.
He turns his back to me, silent for a moment. Then, quietly:
“Yeah. Panic attacks. Being outside helps me breathe. Helps me sleep sometimes.”
“How long have you had them?”
“As long as I can remember.”
He exhales deeply and lies down beside me, the straw crackling under his weight.
“Think you can sleep here?”
“I can sleep anywhere,” I chuckle. “It’s kind of my superpower.”
He laughs—really laughs this time—and it’s like the air shifts.
His smile is devastating, warm and genuine, and for a second I forget to breathe.
A little joy.
A little love.
…Did I just say love? No. I meant fondness. Definitely fondness.
“Then sleep,” he says, voice softer now. “We’ll probably be stuck here till morning. God knows what kind of work’s waiting for us out there.”
I want to tell him no—that I’m fine—but the fear, the exhaustion, and the unexpected warmth between us pull me under.
I close my eyes.
And let go.
Oliver Walker’s heavy hand rests on my stomach.
It’s still dark; the stable’s without light.
But I can see his face—just enough.
The faint glow through the cracks in the wood traces the lines of his jaw, rough with a few days’ beard.
His nose, strong and straight, the kind they’d carve into marble.
And those lips… perfectly balanced, full but not soft.
He looks peaceful—something I’ve never seen on him before.
The storm’s gone, and so is the constant tension he carries.
A strand of straw is tangled in his dark hair.
Without thinking, I reach out and brush it away.
His eyes open.
Sharp. Focused.
On me—and only me.
Right. The man who said he doesn’t like to be touched.
And here I am. Doing exactly that.
Nice one, Cala.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “There was… straw in your hair.”
“What is it about your hands, Cala Saint-Clair?” he murmurs, voice low and rough from sleep.
“Calluses?” I say, half a smile tugging at my lips.
He lets out a quiet laugh, deep and soft, and then his mouth is on mine again.
No warning. No hesitation.
This time it’s slower—hungrier.
His lips move against mine like he knows exactly what he’s doing, confident and sure, tasting me like I’m something he’s been denying himself for too long.
Every muscle in my body wakes up at once.
My hands stay frozen at first, trying to remember how to breathe, how to think, how to not melt completely.
But his shoulders—God, his shoulders—broad and solid under my fingertips.
And his mouth…
His mouth moves like sin and salvation rolled into one.
I’ve been kissed before.
But nothing like this.
This feels like being consumed.
My body remembers the chaos, the fear, the storm—and twists it into something else entirely.
Heat.
Need.
A pull I can’t resist.
And all I can think is—
I want more.
Of him.
Of Oliver Walker.
The bulge in his jeans presses against my leg. I want to touch it, but I’m afraid he won’t like it, so I beg him to do it himself.
“Touch me,” I whisper, opening the doors to this new moment completely.
Oliver doesn’t think twice. His left hand massages my breast while his tongue explores my mouth almost pornographically.
“Do you want me to take you again?” he murmurs as he positions himself between my legs, pushing his bulge into my center and sending adrenaline rushing from my spine to my toes.
“Yes...yes...” I beg.
He unbuttons my jeans and as soon as he has access to my body, he sinks into me again.
“I could live in here,” his movements slow, spaced out, overwhelming. “I want to live in here.”
He doesn’t seem to be talking to me.
“Is it okay if I put my hands here?” I ask, showing him where I want to place them, just above his shoulders.
He blinks those thick, dark lashes a couple of times before answering, then nods fearfully. He feels too vulnerable, and Mr. Walker is nowhere to be found, brooding melancholically as I’ve seen him do so often in recent months. This man is hungry, and it seems I’m the only candy at hand.
“You’ve done it before, and I want you to do it again.” In a second, he turns me around, leaving me sitting on top of him. “Ride me, Cala.”
Oh God.
What did I do to deserve this Adonis lying on the straw-covered floor, his cock inside me and eyes like those?
I follow his instructions, my hands resting on his shoulders as I move on top of him. He grabs my hips and throws his head back, growling and moaning with pleasure.
My orgasm builds slowly, raising my body temperature. Even though it’s very cold in this place, I feel like I’m boiling.
“Damn...” he says through clenched teeth. “Damn, how am I going to let you go once we open that door?”
I stop completely and he raises his head, confused.
When he sees that I’m hesitating about whether or not to lead this conversation, he throws me down on the straw and sinks into me until I scream.
“Don’t distract me with thrusts!” I complain.
“Let’s not kid ourselves, your father is on the other side of that door, and if he knew what I was doing to your body, he would kill me.”
“That won’t stop him.”
“Give me that orgasm, Cala, I deserve it.”
If he used that tone outside of this context, I would kill him. Here, now, it makes me soak and lose the thread of my mind.
Just as he asked, I come with an intensity I’ve never felt before.
A tsunami sweeps over my body.
He gives one last push, biting his lips silently, as he leaves everything inside me, experiencing his orgasm with his eyes closed. When he comes back to himself, he stares at me.
“It’s not what I meant,” he blurts out quickly, voice tight, body tense. “I just—”
“Is someone in there?!” a voice shouts from outside the barn.
We both freeze.
Half-dressed. Straw in our hair.
And the same look of absolute panic on our faces.
Without a word, we start throwing on clothes at superhuman speed.
Adrenaline takes over whatever tenderness was left.
“Yes!” Oliver shouts, his deep voice echoing off the walls. “We’re in here! There’s something blocking the door!”
“We’ve got a crew clearing the debris, just a second!” the voice answers.
“Thanks, officer,” Oliver says, composed as ever.
“Officer?” I whisper, hopping on one foot to get my boot on.
“Eliza probably called the fire department.” His eyes scan my hair, amused. “Come here—let me get that.”
With a half-smile, he reaches out and plucks the bits of straw tangled in my hair. The gesture is so gentle it steals my breath.
Before the door opens, he leans in and kisses me.
Not like before.
Not rushed or hungry.
But soft. Tender.
And real.
I can’t help smiling, a knot tightening in my chest. There’s something in his eyes—something like affection—that I’ve never seen before.
And then—
The door bursts open.
“Cala!” a voice shouts.
My smile freezes midair.
That voice.
No way.
Roger.