Chapter 8
HARLOW
We wake as afternoon fades to dusk, still tangled together on the floor in front of the wood stove.
The fire has burned down to embers. Rhys stirs first, his hand tightening on my waist before he eases away to add logs. I watch him move through the cabin, naked and unselfconscious, tending to practical needs. Wood. Water. The satellite phone charging on the counter.
"Hungry?" he asks, glancing back at me.
"Starving."
We eat wrapped in blankets, sitting close enough that our shoulders touch. Simple food—canned soup heated over the propane burner, bread with butter. It tastes better than it should, or maybe I'm just seeing everything through the lens of what we just shared.
After, we don't go back to separate spaces. We stay by the fire, talking quietly about Emma's case, about my time in hostage negotiation, about nothing and everything. His fingers trace patterns on my shoulder. Mine rest on his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath my palm.
When exhaustion finally pulls us under again, he spreads the blanket from the couch over us both. We shift closer, seeking warmth and each other, and sleep comes easier than it has in years.
I wake to weak sunlight filtering through the windows and the weight of Rhys's arm across my waist.
We're still on the floor in front of the wood stove. The blanket has slipped down to our hips. His chest rises and falls against my back, steady and warm. The fire has burned down to embers, but the cabin isn't cold yet.
The storm has passed.
I can tell by the quality of light, the absence of wind battering the walls. We'll be able to leave today. Get back to the real world. Back to the assault planning and the trafficking investigation and all the reasons this thing between us is complicated.
But right now, with his arm holding me close and his breath warm on my neck, complicated doesn't matter.
"You're awake," he murmurs against my shoulder.
"How long have you been up?"
"Few minutes. Didn't want to move." His hand spreads across my stomach, pulling me closer. "Didn't want this to end."
I turn in his arms to face him. His hair is shorter now, still touching his collar but no longer wild. The beard is trimmed close, revealing more of his face. He looks younger. Less haunted. The transformation is striking.
"Hi," I say.
"Hi." He brushes hair back from my face. "Any regrets yet?"
"No. You?"
"Not a single one." He kisses me. Slow and thorough. His mouth tastes like sleep and last night and promises neither of us has made yet.
When we break apart, the satellite phone on the table catches my eye. The files about Emma spread across the surface. The assault we're supposed to be preparing for.
"We should check in with Zeke," I say.
"Probably." But he doesn't move. Just traces patterns on my bare shoulder with his fingers. "Give me five more minutes of pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist."
I settle back against his chest. "Five minutes."
We lie there in the growing light. The fire crackles softly. Outside, I can hear snow sliding off the roof in wet chunks. The world coming back whether we want it to or not.
Eventually, we can't put it off any longer. We get up, hunt for our clothes scattered around the floor. I find everything except my shirt. Rhys locates his jeans and pulls them on, then hands me his flannel shirt from yesterday.
"Here. It's warmer than yours anyway."
I slip it on. The fabric is soft from washing, and it smells like him. Cedar and smoke and man. The sleeves hang past my hands. The hem falls to mid-thigh. When I look up, Rhys has stopped moving. His eyes track over me, dark and intent, his jaw tightening under the trimmed beard.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing. Just..." He shakes his head, but his gaze doesn't leave me. "You look good in my clothes."
The roughness in his voice makes my skin warm. He's looking at me like he wants to strip the shirt right back off. Like seeing me wear it satisfies something fundamental in him.
"Down, Sheriff. We have work to do."
"Yeah." He moves to the wood stove, starts building up the fire again. "Doesn't mean I can't appreciate the view."
I head to the kitchen to start coffee. The flannel shirt brushes my thighs. The pleasant ache in my muscles reminds me of last night. The man building a fire ten feet away will be planning an assault with me in less than two hours.ht
Two weeks ago I was patrolling a mining facility at night, counting down hours until I could sleep. Now I'm making coffee in his cabin, wearing his shirt, preparing for a fight that might kill us both.
I should be terrified.
I'm not.
The propane burner lights. I measure grounds and pump water. Rhys feeds the fire, then joins me in the kitchen. We move around each other easily, no awkwardness despite being half-dressed and sleep-rumpled.
"Storm broke," he says, looking out the window. "Roads will be passable by this afternoon."
"Back to reality."
"Yeah." He accepts the coffee I hand him. "But we need to talk about what happens after. After the assault, after we take down the trafficking network. What this is between us."
"We do." I lean against the counter. "But maybe we survive the assault first, then figure out the rest."
"That's not an answer, Harlow."
"I don't have one yet." The coffee is hot enough to burn. "I came to Alaska to hide. To take a job where I'd never be responsible for anyone's life again. Then you happened. This case happened. And suddenly I'm not hiding anymore."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"No. It's terrifying, but it's not bad." I meet his eyes. "I haven't thought about 'after' in two years. Haven't let myself imagine a future beyond just getting through each day. But last night, with you, I started thinking about it."
"What did you think?"
"That I want an after. With you." The words feel huge. Vulnerable. "If we survive what's coming."
He sets his coffee down and crosses to me. Cups my face in his hands. "We'll survive. Both of us. Then we'll figure out the rest."
"You mean that?"
"Every word." He kisses me. Brief but certain. "Now let's check in with Zeke and figure out how to end this thing."
The satellite phone takes a minute to acquire signal. When it finally connects, Zeke answers on the first ring.
"About damn time. Was starting to worry you two froze to death up there."
"Storm just broke," Rhys says, putting it on speaker. "What's the status?"
"Recon is complete. Nate, Caleb, and I spent the last thirty-six hours watching that camp. Everything Irina told us checks out. Eight captives confirmed. Four guards on rotating shifts. Main building for the women, smaller structure for guards. Single access road from the south."
I lean over the phone. "Security measures?"
"Basic. Motion sensors on the perimeter, but they're old and half don't work. Guards do walking patrols every two hours. No dogs. No thermal imaging. They're relying on isolation more than security."
"That's overconfident," I say.
"Or they've never been hit before," Rhys adds. "How many years has this operation been running without interference?"
"Too many." Zeke's voice hardens. "We move soon as possible. Tomorrow at zero-two-hundred hours. Extraction team is assembling now. State police tactical unit, plus federal support since this crosses state lines."
"Federal?" Rhys tenses. "We don't know who we can trust at the federal level."
"That's why I only brought in people I trust personally. Chris Calder is coordinating the federal angle. He's got contacts who are clean."
I don't know who Chris Calder is, but if Zeke trusts him, that's good enough.
"What do you need from us?" I ask.
"Harlow, we need you on-site. Your crisis negotiation background makes you the best person to handle the captives once we secure them. They're going to be terrified, potentially violent from trauma. You can talk them down, keep them calm during extraction."
My pulse kicks up. Back in the field. Back doing what I was trained for. "I can do that."
"Rhys, you're with me on the assault team. Your knowledge of Emma's case gives you insight into how this network operates. Plus you're the local sheriff. Your jurisdiction, your operation."
"Copy that." Rhys is already mentally shifting into tactical mode. "Equipment?"
"Being staged at the rally point. Meet us at the old forestry station, fifteen hundred hours today. That gives us time for final briefing and equipment check before we move."
"We'll be there."
"One more thing." Zeke pauses. "Intel came through this morning. Jason Merrick, the assistant manager at the mining site, is confirmed as the inside man. He's been creating fake employee records, manipulating shift schedules, everything you suspected. But he's not working alone."
I exchange glances with Rhys. "Who else?"
"We don't know yet. But the mining operation is bigger than we thought. It's not just a front, it's a major hub. They're moving people through there from multiple states, then distributing them to camps like the one we're hitting tomorrow."
"Multi-state operation." My mind races through implications. "That requires serious infrastructure. Money. Connections."
"And federal corruption," Zeke says grimly. "Chris is running down leads, but whoever's protecting this network has reach. High-level reach."
Rhys's jaw tightens. "The people who killed Emma."
"Probably. Which is why we need to take this camp clean. Get the captives out, secure evidence, and start rolling up the network from the bottom. Someone will talk eventually."
We finish coordinating details. Equipment lists. Communication protocols. Extraction routes. By the time we disconnect, the sun is fully up and the cabin feels too small for the tension building between us.
"Less than twenty-four hours," I say.
"Tonight, we end this." Rhys moves to the bedroom, starts pulling clean clothes from the closet. "We should get ready to move."
I'm about to follow him when the satellite phone chirps. Incoming data. I check the screen and ice floods my veins.