Chapter Five
Boone
My cabin is me, down to the bones. Solid. Silent. Built to keep people out. Ugly if you catch it at the wrong angle, but nobody’s ever called these walls welcoming. They’re just here to hold back the world.
She waits at the bottom of my porch steps, knuckles white around her duffel like she’s drowning and it’s the only thing keeping her afloat.
I should leave her out there, let her sweat, but I’m not that cruel.
My place sits on the edge of everything, half-swallowed by trees, firewood stacked with military precision, two chairs lined up like sentries.
No flowers. No wind chimes. No welcome mat.
Nothing soft. Nothing that says home, just four walls and a roof to keep the rain off and somewhere to drop your boots when you’re too tired to care.
I unlock the door, and she breaks the silence. “This is bleak.”
I grunt. “It’s a cabin.”
She studies me, eyes sharp. “It’s a masculine cave with windows.”
I shrug. “It has electricity.”
She snorts. “High praise.”
“And running water.”
“Be still, my heart.”
She never stops talking. “You complain a lot for someone getting free lodging.”
Her smile is pure trouble. “I process fear through commentary.”
That hits harder than I want to admit. I hate the way she laughs about fear, like it’s something you can joke away. Or maybe I hate that she’s not joking at all.
She glances at the porch chairs. “Are those measured to be exactly six inches apart?”
“No.” I don’t give her the satisfaction.
“Seven?”
“Inside.” I hold the door, and she slips past me, careful, like I might bite. I won’t. Not with her this close, not with her scent curling around me—wild, stubborn, and sharp enough to make me forget my own name.
She looks around, and I know what she sees, clean lines, dark wood, the fireplace, everything in its place. The couch, the shelves, the knives. Yeah, actual knives. Sue me.
She points. “Decorative murder wall?”
I grunt. “Tools.”
“For murder?”
“For hunting. Utility. Defense.”
“So murder-adjacent.”
It shouldn’t be funny. Maybe it is. I reach for her duffel, but she clings to it like I’m about to rip away her last lifeline. My eyes catch on her hand, tight on the strap, then drag up to her face.
“Sorry.”
I fucking hate that word. “Don’t apologize for surviving.”
I watch her throat tighten, see the apology stick in her throat. I feel it, too, an ache I can’t shake loose. It tightens, and I look away, focus on the room, not her. She’s still talking.
“Your house has too many weapons and not enough cushions.”
“I have cushions,” I say, gesturing at the couch. There are two. That’s enough for anyone with a spine. “How many do you need?”
She grins. “For emotional security? At least seven.”
I stare her down. She doesn’t flinch, just meets me head-on, daring me to break. I almost laugh. Almost. It feels reckless. Dangerous. She’s too good at poking the wolf.
I turn and head for the hallway, her bag in my fist. “Bedroom’s this way.”
She goes still. I hear it, the way the word hits her. Bedroom. Just one. Of course. Fuck. I drop her bag at the foot of the bed, eyes fixed anywhere but her. If I look, I’ll stare. If I stare, I’ll want.
The bedroom is too neat, and I know she’s judging—one bed, big enough for two. I toss the bag down.
“You sleep here,” I say, and my voice comes out rough.
She looks at me. “Where do you sleep?”
“Couch.”
She points out the obvious. “The couch isn’t big enough for you.”
“I’ll manage.” I always do.
She mutters about suspicious mountains, and I almost crack a smile. I hate that she gets to me like this. I hate that she’s funny.
She says, “This is your home.”
I shake my head. “And now it’s yours until Caine sorts out Ashstone.”
I mean it, even if it feels like I’m handing her a loaded gun. Her home isn’t safe, but my home is a weapon, and now she’s holding it.
“I’ll take the couch,” she offers.
I shut that down fast. “No.”
“Boone...”
“No.” It’s my favorite word.
She pushes back with more banter. “You can’t just ‘no’ every conversation into submission.”
“I can try.”
She’s still smiling, and it’s killing me. I catch myself looking at her mouth, and the air goes razor-sharp. Too much. Don’t stare. Don’t even let yourself want.
She groans and sprawls across the bed like she owns it, and I freeze. She’s on my bed. My bed. Her scent hits me, wild, sharp, and tempting as sin. Fuck.
“You’re on my bed.”
She smirks. “You told me I sleep here.”
“Didn’t mean you had to test it immediately.”
“I’m assessing the accommodations.”
“Get up.”
“Why?”
Because every second she’s there, my brain gets more useless. “Because I need to think.”
“And my lying on a bed prevents thought?”
Yes. Hell, yes. She pushes herself off my bed, all slow and smug, and the mattress creaks in protest. I jerk my gaze off her legs, fists tight at my sides.
Out in the main room, I stalk to the kitchen, yanking open cupboards that don’t need checking and setting a mug down harder than I mean to.
Her boots scuff the floor. She hovers near the couch, fingers twitching like she might grab for her bag again.
Her eyes—sharp and restless, heavy on my back—prickle under my skin.
I turn the kettle on and lean against the counter, arms crossed and jaw tight.
The walls feel smaller, the air thicker.
Every time she moves, it’s like the room tilts.
I focus on the hiss of water, the scrape of ceramic, anything but the fact that she’s here, her scent flooding my space, everything off kilter.
The silence drags out. I want to fill it, but she beats me to it.
“So, do you often rescue females from terrible decisions, or am I your first?”
I set the kettle on the stove. “You’re not rescued yet.”
She’s a smartass. I like it, and I hate that I like it. The banter keeps coming, and I throw it back—blunt, not heroic, just honest. She drifts to my maps, fingers tracing the lines, poking at every boundary.
“Are all Katu males this literal?”
“No.” I cross my arms.
I do it too much around her, maybe to keep my hands in check. Or maybe I want her to notice. Fuck. Get it together.
I change the subject. “Why me? At the gate. Why did you pick me?”
She won’t meet my eyes, so I stare until she cracks.
Her answer is bullshit. “You were closest.”
She’s lying. I know it. I don’t know why it matters so much, but it does. I want to know what she sees when she looks at me. I want her to say it. Out loud. No more hiding.
“I was across the damn clearing,” I remind her.
She shrugs. “Spiritually, you were closer.”
I snort. “Bullshit.”
Her mouth opens, then closes, like she almost says something real. Instead, she covers with a joke. “I figured you’d be hard to murder.”
I almost smile, but it pisses me off that she won’t just say what she means.
“It’s a useful trait in a fake mate,” she says.
I roll my eyes. “Glad my murder resistance appealed.”
“It was your strongest quality at the time.”
“And now?” I shouldn’t ask, but I do. I want her to say it’s my hands, my voice, anything but this endless, awkward banter.
She dodges again. “The cabin has running water.”
Christ. I almost laugh. I need to get a grip. My chest twists, stupid and sharp.
The kettle starts to hiss. I turn away first, and I can breathe again. I make tea. Not coffee. Tea. Something herbal and earthy. I place a mug on the small kitchen table, then set honey beside it.
She glances at me. “For me?”
“You look like you’re about to vibrate out of your skin.”
She snorts. “That’s just my personality.”
“It’s chamomile,” I say.
She picks up the mug and sniffs it. “Are you drugging me?”
“If I wanted you unconscious, I would’ve left you with Peyton. She has mothering instincts and soup.”
She takes a cautious sip, closes her eyes for a second. “Thank you.”