Chapter 5
The cabin was silent save for the crackle of pine knots settling in the hearth and the muffled roar of the gale outside.
Marc didn’t move for several seconds. He stood towering over the edge of the mattress, every muscle in his frame rigid, his eyes pinned to the slender hand tugging at his shirt. His pulse pounded in his temples, a heavy, jagged rhythm that shattered every ounce of tactical discipline he possessed.
“Emma,” he warned, his voice low and raspy. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I’m not in shock anymore, Colt,” she said, her voice soft but unyielding. She didn’t pull her hand back; instead, her fingers slid upward, grazing the warm, hard plane of his stomach. “And I’m not asking for a protector right now.”
The fragile tether snapped.
Marc sank onto the edge of the mattress.
His large hand rose, cupping the side of her jaw.
His calloused thumb brushed the sensitive hollow beneath her cheekbone, his touch startlingly tender for a man whose hands were built for war.
Emma leaned into the warmth of his palm, her eyelashes fluttering shut as a shiver rippled through her.
“Look at me,” Marc murmured.
She opened her eyes, meeting the burning intensity of his gray gaze.
“You’re sure?” he asked, giving her the exit he knew he couldn’t offer himself again.
Emma didn’t answer with words. She reached up, tangled her fingers into the thick, dark hair at the nape of his neck, and pulled him down to her.
Their lips collided with a desperate, pent-up force that stole the air from the room.
It wasn’t tentative. It was a collision of relief, fear, and an attraction neither of them could afford.
Marc groaned against her mouth, shifting his weight over her on the narrow bed.
His hands framed her face, deepening the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips until she parted them with a soft, ragged sigh.
Emma’s hands mapped the contours of his back—the ridged muscle, the hard cord of his spine, and the raised, puckered lines of old shrapnel scars. She didn’t flinch. Her touch was reverent, grounding, peeling away the armor he had worn like a second skin for over a decade.
He pulled back just an inch, his breathing ragged, forehead resting against hers. “You take my breath away, Emma.”
“Then don’t stop,” she whispered.
Marc reached down, his fingers catching the hem of her oversized knit sweater, but stopped before lifting it. “One more question. Is this what you want—or is it what the danger wants?”
Emma held his gaze. “The danger made me stop lying to myself. It didn’t make this choice for me.” She drew the sweater over her head and let it fall beside the bed. “I want you. I’ll still want you when the sun comes up.”
The amber glow of the embers washed over her pale skin, illuminating the curve of her collarbones and the delicate lace of her bralette. Marc’s gaze darkened, his throat working as he looked at her like she was the only real thing left in a broken world.
With reverent slowness, he discarded his henley, tossing it onto the floorboards. The contrast between them was striking—his bronze, heavily scarred, muscle-corded frame looming over her pale, soft curves.
When his bare chest pressed against hers, Emma gasped at the heat. His skin was fire against the mountain chill. His mouth trailed down her jawline, lingering against the hollow of her throat where her pulse hammered like a trapped bird.
“Colt…” she breathed, her fingers digging into the solid muscle of his shoulders.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered against her skin, his mouth descending lower, tracing the line between her breasts, sending waves of electric heat pooling low in her belly. “Right here. Nobody touches you.”
His hands were deliberate, careful despite their size.
He unfastened her bra and tossed it aside, his mouth capturing one taut peak, coaxing a choked moan from her lips.
Emma arched off the mattress, her hips instinctively seeking his.
She felt the heavy, unyielding ridge of his desire pressed against her thigh through the denim of their jeans.
He reached down to undo her belt, his knuckles brushing the sensitive skin of her stomach. She helped him, shedding the denim until there was nothing between them but the heat radiating from their bare skin.
Marc pulled back to strip off his jeans, his gaze never leaving hers. In the dim light, he looked like a bronze statue—powerful, lethal, and entirely focused on her.
He settled between her thighs, then stopped and reached into the medical kit beside the bed.
When he returned with a condom, Emma’s nervous smile softened something in his face.
He protected them both before bracing his weight on his forearms, his gaze searching hers one last time for hesitation.
Emma wrapped her hand around his wrist and guided him closer.
“Now, Marc,” she whispered, using his real name for the first time.
He pushed forward, entering her in one slow, agonizingly deep slide.
Emma gasped, her head falling back against the down pillow, her nails biting into his back. The fullness took her breath away, stretching her completely, anchoring her to the present with a fierce, burning clarity.
Marc froze, jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped, waiting for her body to adapt to him. “Look at me, sweetheart.”
She opened her eyes, her vision slightly blurred by tears of raw sensation. She looked into his fierce, protective face and wrapped her legs around his waist, locking him tight against her.
“Don’t hold back,” she urged, her voice trembling.
He began to move.
Slow strokes at first, deep and rhythmic, pulling her into an intoxicating cadence.
The creak of the old wooden bed frame blended with the howling wind outside, but inside their circle of warmth, the world ceased to exist. Emma met every thrust, her hands sliding over the sweat-slicked planes of his shoulders, pulling him down until their mouths crashed together again.
The pace quickened, driven by the frantic need to prove they were both still alive. Marc’s control frayed. His hands slid beneath her hips, lifting her slightly, driving deeper with a raw, possessive rhythm that drove Emma to the edge of delirium.
She felt the coil in her abdomen tighten into a knot of unbearable tension. Her breath came in short, fractured sobs against his shoulder.
“Marc… please—”
“I’m right here,” he growled against her ear, his rhythm relentless, powerful. “Let go, Emma. I’ve got you.”
With a shattered cry, Emma broke apart. The climax ripped through her in shuddering, violent waves, her inner muscles clamping down tight around him.
The sensation shattered the last of Marc’s restraint. With a muffled groan buried in the curve of her neck, he drove into her one final time, his entire body going rigid as release tore through him.
Hours later, the cabin was still.
The fire had died to a faint orange bed of ash, but the narrow bed was swathed in heat beneath the heavy wool blankets.
Emma lay tucked tightly against Marc’s side, her head pillowed on his bare chest. His uninjured arm was wrapped securely around her waist, anchoring her against his ribs, while his thumb stroked lazy, absentminded circles across her bare hip.
For the first time in four days, Emma felt safe. The rhythmic, steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek was the only sound in the dark room.
“What happens when this is over?” she asked quietly, her voice husky from sleep.
Marc’s fingers stilled on her hip. In the dim light, his gaze was fixed on the timber ceiling above them.
“When we finish Radek and root out whoever sold us out at Blackridge,” he said, his voice flat, gravelly, and deadly serious, “you testify. You clear your name. The DOJ gives you your life back.”
Emma shifted, lifting her chin to look up at him. “And you?”
Marc turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a possessiveness that made her chest ache.
“I don’t return to field duty until Blackridge is clean,” Marc said softly, his thumb rising to trace her lower lip. “After that, I don’t know. But I’d like the chance to find out what this is when neither of us is running for our life.”
Emma was about to answer—to tell him she didn’t want him to leave—when a sharp, percussive vibration traveled through the floorboards.
It wasn’t the wind.
Marc was awake and moving before Emma could register the change.
He slid from the bed like smoke, completely silent, snatching his tactical pants and pulling them on in a single fluid motion.
He scooped up his SIG Sauer from the nightstand, gliding across the frigid floorboards toward the high observation slit near the chimney.
Emma sat up, clutching the wool quilt to her chest, her pulse instantly spiking back into survival mode. “What is it?”
Marc pressed his eye to the glass slit, staring down through the thinning dawn snow toward the logging trail below the ridge.
His voice cut through the cold room like a blade.
“Snowmobiles,” Marc said, chambering a round with a dry, metallic snap. “Four riders. Heavy tactical gear. They found the cabin.”