Chapter 2 – Jason
I watch her from the kitchen, hands braced on the counter, giving her space while the fire does its work. She's curled in the chair I pointed her to, blanket pulled tight around her shoulders, bare feet tucked under her body, and still shaking.
Her eyes track my movements even when she thinks I'm not looking, furtive glances that dart away the second I turn my head.
The kettle's still hot. I refill her mug, adding more honey this time, and bring it over slowly. Telegraphing every step. When I set it on the table beside her, she startles anyway—just a slight jerk, quickly controlled—but I see it.
"Drink," I say, keeping my voice low. Steady. The tone I'd use with a spooked animal, calm and certain.
She reaches for the mug with her good hand, cradling it against her chest. Her fingers are still pale, bloodless at the tips from the cold.
I should've gotten her out of those wet clothes immediately, but pushing too fast would've made things worse.
She needed the blanket first. The warmth. The illusion of choice.
Now, though—
"You need dry clothes." I nod toward the hallway. "Bathroom's through there. I'll find you something."
Her eyes widen slightly. Not quite panic, but close. "I'm fine."
"You're not." I keep my tone matter-of-fact, not arguing, just stating reality. "You're soaked through. Hypothermia doesn't care how tough you are."
She looks down at herself, seeming to register for the first time that her jeans are plastered to her thighs, still dripping onto the rug. Her boots left puddles by the door. Even her hair is damp, strands clinging to her neck.
"Okay," she says quietly. Small voice. Compliant.
That compliance bothers me more than the fear. Like she's been trained to agree, to not make waves, to do what she's told without question.
I head to my bedroom, pulling open the dresser. I grab sweatpants with a drawstring, a thermal shirt, thick wool socks. Hesitate over the flannel, then add it to the pile. She'll need layers.
When I come back, she's still in the chair, mug pressed to her lips, staring into the fire like it holds answers. I set the clothes on the arm of the couch, within reach but not crowding her space.
"Take your time," I say. "I'll heat up some food."
She nods, not looking at me, and slowly unfolds herself from the chair. I turn back to the kitchen, giving her privacy to move, listening to the soft pad of her feet across the floor, the creak of the bathroom door closing.
The lock clicks. Loud in the quiet cabin.
I pull out the pot of stew I made yesterday, set it on the stove to reheat.
Check the fire, add another log. The storm's getting worse outside, wind slamming against the walls hard enough to make the windows rattle in their frames.
Snow's piling up fast. By morning, the drifts will be waist-high, maybe deeper.
She's not going anywhere. Not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow either, depending on how long this lasts.
She's in there a while, long enough that I start to wonder if she's okay, if the cold did more damage than I thought. But then the door opens and she emerges, dressed in my clothes.
Christ.
Her wet hair is pushed back from her face, and without the coat and wet layers, I can see her properly for the first time.
Curves. Real ones. Hips that flare soft and wide beneath my shirt. Full breasts straining against the fabric. Thick thighs disappearing into too-long pants. She's not small, she's lush and warm and real, the kind of woman meant to be held.
Desire hits me like a fist to the gut. Raw and immediate and completely unwelcome.
I clamp down on it hard, dragging my focus back to the stove before she catches me staring.
She's terrified, running from something bad enough to send her into a blizzard without proper clothes or a plan. The last thing she needs is me looking at her like I want to strip her out of those borrowed clothes and map every soft inch of her with my hands and mouth.
Even if that's exactly what I want.
"Sit," I tell her, nodding toward the table. My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. "Food's almost ready."
She obeys without question, sliding into the chair farthest from me, tucking herself into the corner like she's trying to disappear. I dish out two bowls of stew—venison, potatoes, carrots, thick and hot—and set one in front of her along with a spoon and a hunk of bread.
"Eat."
She picks up the spoon, hesitates, then takes a small bite. I watch her swallow, see the way her shoulders ease slightly as warmth hits her stomach.
I take the chair across from her, eating in silence. Giving her space to settle, to realize I'm not going to interrogate her or demand explanations.
She eats slowly at first, then faster, like hunger is catching up to fear. I refill her bowl without comment when she finishes. She glances up at me, surprised, then murmurs something that might be thank you and keeps eating.
I let her have three bites before I speak.
"You want to tell me what you're running from?"
Her spoon freezes halfway to her mouth. She sets it down carefully, too carefully, and her hands disappear beneath the table. Hiding. Bracing.
"I'm not—" She stops. Swallows. Tries again. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—I'll leave as soon as the storm clears, I won't—"
"Didn't ask you to leave." I keep my tone level, firm. "Asked what you're running from."
She's quiet for a long moment, staring down at her bowl.
"My fiancé," she finally says. Barely a whisper. "Ex-fiancé, I guess. I—I left. This morning. Before the wedding."
Everything in me goes still.
"He hurt you."
I can see it in the way she holds herself, the flinch reflex, the apologies. The ring mark on her finger where she tore off the symbol of his claim.
"Not—" She stops again, struggling. "He'd get angry." Her voice cracks. "I realized I couldn't do it. Couldn't marry him. So I ran."
Rage coils hot and vicious in my gut. Old instincts rising, the ones I spent years trying to bury. The need to find the man who made her afraid and break every bone in his body slowly until he understands what it feels like to be powerless.
My hands curl into fists under the table. I breathe through it, slow and controlled, until the red edge fades enough to think clearly.
"You're not going back."
The words come out flat, absolute. Not a suggestion. Not a question. A statement of fact delivered with the kind of certainty I learned in the ring, where hesitation gets you killed.
Her head snaps up. She stares at me, eyes wide, something flickering in them that might be relief or might be terror. "I—what?"
"You're not going back to him." I hold her gaze, letting her see the truth of it. "You stay here until the storm clears. Then we figure out next steps. But you don't go back."
"I can't—he'll look for me. He'll—"
"Let him look." My voice drops lower, edged with something I usually keep locked down. "He shows up here, he won't touch you."
It's a promise. A threat aimed at a man who isn't here but needs to understand anyway. She seems to hear both meanings, because her breath catches and she presses back in her chair, not quite afraid but definitely off-balance.
"Why?" Her voice is small. Confused. "Why would you—you don't even know me."
I don't have a good answer for that. Don't know how to explain that the second I opened the door and saw her standing there—shaking, terrified, too damn vulnerable for this world—something in me shifted.
"Don't need to know you to know he's wrong," I say instead. "And you need somewhere safe. This is safe."
She studies me for a long moment, and I let her look. Let her see the scars on my knuckles, the old break in my nose, the violence I carry in my body. Let her decide whether she believes me.
Finally, she nods. Just once. "Okay."
The tension in my chest eases slightly.
"Finish eating," I tell her, nodding at her bowl. "Then you're sleeping."
"I can take the couch—"
"You're taking the bed."
Her mouth opens to argue. I level her with a look that shuts it again.
"Not negotiable," I say. "You've been through hell today. You need rest. I'll take the couch."
She looks like she wants to protest anyway, but exhaustion is written in every line of her body. The adrenaline's finally crashing, leaving her hollow and shaky. She finishes her stew in silence, then lets me guide her down the hall to the bedroom.
I pull back the heavy quilt, and she climbs in fully dressed, still wearing my flannel and thermal like armor.
"You need anything, you call," I tell her from the doorway. "I'll hear you."
She nods against the pillow, eyes already drifting shut. "Thank you," she murmurs. "Jason."
I close the door most of the way, leaving it cracked so I can hear if she wakes, and return to the main room. The fire needs tending. I add wood, banking it for the night, then settle into the chair facing the door with a clear line of sight to the hallway.
The storm rages outside. Trees crack under the weight of ice. Wind screams through the eaves. Every sound makes my shoulders tense, instincts flaring—checking, assessing, calculating threat level.
No one's coming tonight. No one could make it up the mountain in this weather even if they tried. But I stay alert anyway, listening for her breathing down the hall, for any sign she's in distress.
Somewhere around two in the morning, I hear her whimper. A nightmare, maybe. Replaying whatever led her to this cabin, this storm, this desperate flight.
I'm halfway down the hall before I think better of it. Stop myself outside her door, hand raised to knock, every protective instinct screaming at me to go to her.
But I don't. She didn't ask for me. Didn't call out. And walking into her room uninvited, no matter how good my intentions, would break the fragile trust we started building tonight.
So I stay in the hallway, just outside her door, listening until her breathing evens out again. Until the nightmare passes and she settles back into sleep.
Then I return to the couch by the fire and keep watch through the long, dark hours until dawn.
She's mine to protect now. Whether she knows it yet or not.
And I don't let go of what's mine.