4. Chapter 4
McKenna
Grim’s cabin sits at the end of a road the forest has nearly reclaimed.
Rain follows us up the mountain, drumming against the SUV Striker insisted we take instead of the motorcycle.
Pines crowd the narrow track until the rest of the world disappears behind branches and mist. By the time the cabin emerges between the trees in the SUV’s headlights, I understand why Grim believes nobody will find us here.
What I do not understand is why a man who looks carved from violence owns a cabin with flower boxes beneath the windows.
“You have flowers.”
Grim follows my gaze to the wilted purple blooms. “My mother used to love them.”
“Who waters them?”
“I do.”
The answer catches me somewhere beneath the ribs.
One corner of his mouth lifts as he studies the plants. The smile is brief, rough around the edges, and devastating enough to make me forget that we are hiding from men who were paid to deliver me to a stranger.
“They’re still alive,” I say.
“They know better than to give up on me.”
I cannot tell whether he is joking.
He carries my suitcase onto the porch, unlocks the door, and disarms the security system. After letting me inside, he sets the case beside the entrance, locks the door, and arms the alarm again. Then he moves through the cabin, testing the windows and the lock on the back door.
The protective ritual should make me more nervous.
Instead, I feel the tension ease from my shoulders.
We remove our wet shoes near the entrance. Grim points out the bathroom, bedroom, and rear exit.
Warm timber covers the walls. A worn leather couch faces a stone hearth, with split firewood stacked beside it.
Shelves crowded with books occupy the wall near the kitchen, and a heavy wooden table bears the scratches of years of use.
The place feels rugged without being careless, masculine without trying to prove anything.
There are no motorcycle parts in the sink or weapons mounted on the walls like trophies.
A framed photograph rests on the mantel. A dark-haired boy stands beside an elegant woman whose silver eyes resemble Grim’s. The man on her other side has been folded out of the picture.
Grim notices where I am looking and turns the frame facedown.
I pretend not to notice.
“I didn’t expect it to be this clean,” I say.
He looks around. “Expected blood on the walls?”
“At least one motorcycle engine on the kitchen table.”
“The military taught me to keep my quarters squared away.”
“And the motorcycle engines?”
“Garage.”
I glance toward the door beside the kitchen. “There’s a garage?”
“Two bays.”
“You keep a two-bay garage hidden in the mountain but put flowers beneath the windows.”
“My priorities are complicated.”
“So I’m learning.”
He carries my suitcase into the bedroom.
The room contains a wide bed, one heavy dresser, and another stone fireplace. A faded quilt covers the mattress, and thick curtains frame the windows.
The humor leaves me when I notice there is only one bed.
“Where will you sleep?”
“Couch.”
“Your shoulder needs support.”
“I’ve slept in worse places.”
“That isn’t the medical triumph you think it is.”
He opens a dresser drawer and takes out a change of clothes. “The bed is yours. The door locks from the inside. There’s another gun in the nightstand, but you don’t touch it until I show you how to use it without ventilating me.”
Embarrassment burns through my face. “I said I was sorry.”
“I know.”
“You keep mentioning it.”
“Your guilty face is adorable.”
Adorable.
Nobody has ever made the word sound indecent before.
Grim leaves me alone to change.
I open my suitcase and find the pale-blue pajamas I packed for my wedding night with a stranger. The soft camisole and matching shorts had seemed modest in my bedroom. Here, the top stretches more tightly across my breasts than I remember, and the shorts leave most of my thighs bare.
I add a thin robe and tie it loosely around my waist before spending several minutes lecturing my reflection about common sense.
The woman in the mirror has flushed cheeks, wide hazel eyes, and no interest in listening.
When I return to the main room, a fire burns in the stone hearth. Grim has changed into a black T-shirt and gray sweats.
Without his cut, he should appear less dangerous.
The black cotton stretches across shoulders powerful enough to carry violence without effort, while the sleeves strain around his arms. Ink winds over his skin, and his bare feet make the room feel unexpectedly intimate.
My attention drifts lower.
The gray sweats are a terrible contribution to my decision-making process.
Grim looks up from the stove and catches me staring.
Heat rushes into my face.
He says nothing, which is somehow worse.
He has made grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup.
“This is your secret mountain cuisine?”
“I can burn something more complicated if you’re disappointed.”
“No. This is perfect.”
The word escapes before I can protect it with humor.
Something in his expression softens. He pulls out my chair and waits until I sit before taking the one across from me.
We eat while rain strikes the windows and the fire crackles behind us.
I ask how the shelter started, and Grim tells me it began with three rooms above a closed mechanic’s shop.
The club bought the property after a woman arrived at their gates with two children, a fractured wrist, and nowhere safe to sleep.
The shelter grew from three rooms to six, then into an entire building because too many women needed it.
I tell him I chose nursing after watching my grandmother struggle through a hospital stay where everyone spoke around her instead of to her. She had been frightened, but the doctors treated fear as an inconvenience rather than another symptom.
“You make frightened people feel less powerless,” Grim says.
“I try.”
“You did it for me at the station.”
“You were having a flashback. I could tell.”
His spoon stills.
“I won’t ask what happened,” I say. “I only want to know what helps if it happens again.”
For a long moment, he studies me.
“Use the name I know. Tell me where I am.” He puts the spoon down. “Don’t touch me unless I see you first.”
“Grim?”
His gaze lifts to mine.
“That works.”
The air between us shifts.
Thunder cracks above the cabin.
Grim’s hand closes around the edge of the table. His shoulders lock, and his pupils widen until the silver nearly disappears beneath black.
This time, I recognize what is happening before fear can interfere.
I keep my hands on the table where he can see them.
“Grim, you’re in your cabin. It’s raining in Roseburn Falls, and I’m sitting across from you in criminally comfortable blue pajamas.”
His focus returns in pieces.
“Blue,” he says hoarsely.
“What?”
“The pajamas are blue.”
Relief leaves me in a shaky breath. “Excellent observational skills.”
His fingers loosen from the table.
“Come here, Angel.”
I stand.
Grim pushes his chair back and waits while I move between his knees. Even seated, he fills the space around me.
“May I touch you?”
The question sounds different now. He is the one finding his way back, yet he gives me control.
“Yes.”
I place my palms against his jaw. Dark stubble rasps beneath my skin. His eyes close for one heartbeat, and the trust in that small surrender feels more intimate than a kiss.
“You came back quickly,” I whisper.
“You gave me something worth coming back to.”
My heart presses painfully against my ribs.
His hands settle at my hips, warm and heavy through the thin robe.
“You know I’m twenty-three.”
“The assignment included your age.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-eight.”
Fifteen years of experience separate us, and I have almost none in the place his hands are warming.
“Is that another reason you should stop?” I ask.
“I stop the moment you ask me to.” His thumbs move against my hips. “Your age means I know better than to play with what you feel.”
“Are you playing?”
His grip firms. “Nothing about wanting you feels like a game.”
“Grim.”
“Tell me to stop before I kiss you.”
“What if I don’t want you to stop?”
His gaze drops to my mouth. “Then tell me what you want.”
I have spent my life waiting for other people to tell me what I should give. Asking for something feels more frightening than refusing it.
“Kiss me.”
Grim rises.
One hand slides into my hair while the other settles against my lower back. His mouth hovers close enough that his breath warms my lips, but he leaves the final inch between us.
“There is no contract in this house,” he says. “Nothing happens because somebody paid for it, expects it, or taught you that love has to be earned.”
“What happens, then?”
“Whatever you ask me for.”
“I choose this.” I curl my fingers into his shirt. “I choose you.”
His mouth takes mine.
He begins with restraint, but it fractures when I pull him closer. His tongue strokes across mine, coaxing my lips apart before the kiss deepens into something dark and consuming.
The sound he makes travels through me.
His hand tightens in my hair while the other draws my body against his. I feel every hard line of him, including the thick ridge pressing against my stomach.
Heat gathers low in my belly.
Grim turns us without breaking the kiss and guides me backward until I sit on the edge of the kitchen table. The loose knot of my robe gives way, allowing the fabric to fall open.
His gaze moves over the blue camisole, my bare thighs, and every curve I usually try to disguise.
Instinct makes me reach for the edges of the robe.
Grim catches them without pulling them apart.
“What are you hiding from me?”
“Nothing you haven’t seen in the photograph.”
“That photograph showed me an asset.” His silver eyes hold mine. “I’m looking at my Angel.”
The possessive words should frighten me. From him, they sound like reverence instead of ownership.
“You barely know me.”
“I know you’re brave while you’re scared. I know you use humor when you want to cry. I know your family taught you to apologize for existing.” His thumbs brush the edges of my robe. “Every time you try to make yourself smaller, I want to show you how much of you I can worship.”