Chapter 4 – Jason
The axe splits wood with a sound like a bone breaking.
I set another log on the stump, raise the axe, bring it down. The halves fall away, and I toss them onto the growing pile by the cabin wall. My breath steams in the air. Snow clings to my beard, melts against my neck where my shirt's soaked through with sweat despite the cold.
The storm came back an hour ago. Harder this time, meaner, wind howling down from the peaks like something alive and angry. Snow falls so thick I can barely see the treeline fifty yards out. The world's been reduced to white and gray and the dark shapes of pines bowing under the weight.
I should've brought more wood in yesterday, but I got distracted by her.
I split another log, feeling the burn in my shoulders, the familiar ache in my hands.
Good pain. Honest work. Keeps my mind from circling back to the way she looked this morning in my clothes, all soft curves and sleep-mussed hair, or the sound she made when I steadied her at the sink—that sharp little intake of breath that went straight through me.
Movement catches my eye. I glance toward the cabin and see her at the window, watching. Just a silhouette behind frosted glass, but I know it's her, that she's been standing there for the last five minutes, maybe longer.
I clamp down on the thought and split another log with more force than necessary.
Not mine yet. Maybe not ever, if she decides to leave when the roads clear. But right now, in this moment, she's watching me work in the storm, and some primitive part of my brain is damn near preening under that attention.
I finish the pile, stack the split wood under the eaves where it'll stay dry, and head inside.
Snow follows me in, melting on the floorboards as I kick off my boots.
She's moved from the window to the fire, curled up in the chair with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, watching me with those wide eyes.
"You're soaked," she says.
"I'll dry." I strip off my wet henley, tossing it over the back of a chair near the fire. Her gaze follows the movement, then skitters away fast when she realizes I caught her looking.
The corner of my mouth twitches. "I'm gonna grab a dry shirt."
"Okay." Her voice is small. Flustered.
I head to the bedroom, taking my time pulling on a shirt, giving her a minute to settle. When I come back, she's staring into the fire, fingers worrying the edge of the blanket. The tension in her shoulders is visible even from across the room.
Something's wrong. Changed. I felt it shift the second I walked in.
I pour two mugs of coffee and bring one to her, settling into the chair across from hers. Close enough to talk, far enough not to crowd. "What's going on in your head?"
She glances up, startled. "What?"
"You look like you're waiting for bad news."
She's quiet for a long moment, then shakes her head.
"I'm just thinking about how insane this is.
A day ago, I was supposed to be getting married.
Now I'm hiding in a cabin in the middle of nowhere with a man I don't know, and the scariest part is that I feel safer here than I ever did with Daniel. "
The honesty in that statement lands heavy between us. I hold her gaze, letting her see that I heard it, that it matters.
"You want to know about me," I say.
"I—" She hesitates. "You don't have to—"
"I do." I lean back, cradling the coffee mug. "You need to know who you're trusting. What I am."
She goes still, blanket clutched tight. Waiting.
"I fought for twelve years," I start. Keep my voice level, factual. "Underground circuits. Bare-knuckle. No rules, no mercy. Just blood and money and men stupid enough to think they could take me."
I watch her face, waiting for the recoil. The fear. But she just listens, eyes locked on mine.
"I was good at it," I continue. "Too good. Made a fortune breaking bones for crowds who paid to watch men destroy each other. I got addicted to the violence, the adrenaline, the clarity of knowing exactly what I was in that ring. A weapon. Nothing more, nothing less."
My hands tighten around the mug. Old shame coiling in my gut, familiar and bitter.
"Last fight damn near killed me. Took a beating I shouldn't have survived.
Spent two weeks in a shithole clinic with a doctor who didn't ask questions as long as I paid cash.
Woke up one morning and realized I was gonna die in a basement somewhere, bleeding out for an audience that'd forget my name before my body went cold. "
I meet her eyes again. "So I walked away. Came here. Tried to learn how to be something other than violence."
The silence stretches. Snow hisses against the windows. The fire crackles.
Then she says, quiet and steady: "Are you still trying?"
The question catches me off guard. I expected judgment, maybe pity. Not... understanding.
"Every day," I admit. "It's still in me. That need. That rage. I keep it locked down, but it's there."
"I know." She shifts in the chair, leaning forward slightly. "I can see it. The control. The discipline. The way you move like you're constantly aware of your own strength."
Something in her tone makes my pulse kick. Not fear. Something else.
"Does that scare you?" I ask.
"It should." She holds my gaze. "But it doesn't. Because I also see the way you're gentle with me. The way you ask before you touch. The way you—" She stops, color rising in her cheeks. "You make me feel safe. And I don't know what to do with that."
The confession hangs between us, raw and honest. I want to close the distance, pull her into my arms, promise her things I'm not sure I have the right to promise.
But I stay still, giving her space to finish.
"Daniel used to say he'd protect me," she continues, voice dropping. "But it always felt like a cage. Like protection was just another word for control. With you, it feels different. Like you're standing between me and the world, not blocking me from it."
Christ. She's dismantling me without even trying.
Before I can respond, a sound cuts through the storm. Distant. Mechanical. A vehicle, maybe, struggling through snow on the access road a mile out.
Nicola's head snaps toward the window. Every muscle in her body locks. "What was that?"
"Probably nothing." I'm already on my feet, moving to the window, scanning the white expanse. "Storm plays tricks with sound. Could be a plow, or a ranger doing checks."
"Or it could be him." Her voice is tight with panic. "He could've tracked my phone, or asked around, or—"
"Hey." I cross to her in two strides, crouching in front of her chair. "Look at me."
She does, eyes wide and terrified.
"He's not getting near you," I say, low and absolute. "I don't care if he drove a tank up this mountain. He doesn't touch you. Understand?"
She nods, but she's shaking now, breath coming too fast. Panic setting in, adrenaline flooding her system.
I don't think. Just react. Pull her up out of the chair and into my arms, wrapping her completely against my chest. She's soft and warm and trembling, and every protective instinct I've got roars to life.
"I've got you," I murmur into her hair. "You're safe. I promise."
She presses her face against my shoulder, hands fisting in my flannel. Her breath is ragged against my neck. I tighten my hold, one hand spanning the small of her back, the other cupping the base of her skull. Caging her. Sheltering her.
We stand like that for a long moment, her shaking gradually easing, my heartbeat steady against hers. The storm rages outside. The fire crackles.
Her breathing changes. Slows. She's not pulling away, just... softening against me. Her hands uncurl from my shirt, flattening against my chest. I feel the exact moment awareness replaces fear, the way her body tenses for a different reason, the slight catch in her breath.
She tilts her head back, looking up at me. Her face is flushed, lips parted, eyes dark and uncertain.
"Jason—"
I should step back. Give her space. Let her think clearly without my hands on her and my scent all around her.
I don't.
"Tell me to stop," I say quietly. "If you want me to step back, say it now."
She doesn't. Just stares up at me, something vulnerable and fierce warring in her expression.
So I lower my head and kiss her.
Slow. Giving her every chance to pull away. Her lips are soft, tentative at first, like she's forgotten how this works. Or maybe like she's never been kissed by someone who meant it as a promise instead of a claim.
Then she melts into me, and everything else falls away.
I cup her face with one hand, angling her head to deepen the kiss, and she makes a soft sound. Her hands slide up my chest, around my neck, fingers threading into my hair.
I kiss her like I've been starving for it. Like she's oxygen and I've been drowning. Slow and thorough and reverent, tasting her, learning her, memorizing the way she fits against me.
When I finally pull back, we're both breathing hard. Her eyes are glazed, lips swollen, and she's looking at me like I just rearranged her entire world.
"That—" She stops, swallows. "What was that?"
"That," I say, voice rough, "was me making something clear."
"What?"
"That I want you." Simple. Honest. No room for misunderstanding. "Not just to keep you safe from the storm. I want you. And if you stay, it won't be because you have to. It'll be because you choose it."
Her breath catches. "Jason—"
"You don't have to decide now." I brush my thumb across her cheek, gentle despite the possessiveness coiling hot and vicious in my gut. "But I need you to know. So there's no confusion. No wondering."
She stares at me, something like wonder and fear and desire all tangled together in her expression. Then she rises on her toes and kisses me again, harder this time, more certain, like she's testing the weight of her own want.
I let her lead, let her set the pace, even though everything in me is screaming to deepen it, to back her against the wall and show her exactly how much I want her. But this is her choice. Her decision. And I'll be damned if I take it from her.
When she pulls back, she's trembling again. But not from fear this time.
"I don't know what I'm doing," she whispers.
"Neither do I," I admit. "But I know I'm not letting you go back to him. And I know I want you here. With me. For as long as you'll stay."
She searches my face, looking for something. A lie, maybe. A crack in the promise.
She won't find one.
"Okay," she finally says. Barely a whisper. "Okay."
I pull her back against my chest, holding her while the storm rages outside and the fire burns low and the world beyond this cabin fades into irrelevance.
She's warm and soft and mine, and for the first time since I left the ring, I feel like I've got something worth fighting for.
Something worth keeping.