Chapter 3
Chapter three
Aaron
The cabin door closes behind us with a solid, final click that echoes louder than it should in the quiet night.
Megan stands dead center in the living room, arms crossed tight over her chest, green eyes blazing like twin forest fires.
Her dark curls are wild from the struggle at Lookout Point, cheeks flushed with anger and leftover adrenaline, lips parted like she’s still deciding which insult to unleash first. She’s beautiful when she’s furious, dangerously so, and I hate that I notice.
Hate that my pulse kicks up a notch just from looking at her.
I lean back against the door, arms folded, blocking the only exit. Not that she could run far. The ranch compound is a fortress: gated, monitored, miles of open land between here and anywhere else. She’s safe. She’s also trapped, and she knows it.
“Give me my phone,” she says, voice low and sharp, slicing through the silence like a blade. “And my laptop. Now.”
“No.”
She takes one step forward, chin lifted, eyes narrowing. “You can’t just—”
“I can, and I did.” I keep my tone even, calm.
Professional. The way I’ve trained myself to sound when everything inside is screaming.
“Your phone’s on airplane mode in the truck.
Laptop’s locked in the safe. No calls. No emails.
No pings. Not until we know the threat’s contained and Gray gives the green light. ”
Her laugh is short, bitter, almost a scoff. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious.”
She starts pacing. Her long, furious strides across the wide-plank floors, boots clicking with every step.
The cabin is small but open, with cedar walls that smell faintly of pine, the stone fireplace cold and dark, a leather couch that’s seen better days, and a kitchen island that doubles as a dining table.
One bedroom down the short hall. One bathroom. One bed.
I’ve already decided I’ll take the couch.
She stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell her vanilla shampoo and the faint trace of fear she’s trying to hide behind fury.
Too close. The air thickens, charged, like the moment before a lightning strike.
I can feel the heat radiating off her body, the way her chest rises and falls too fast under that thin jacket.
“You kidnapped me,” she says, voice trembling just enough to make my chest tighten. “You threw me over your shoulder like some caveman and carried me off. And now you’re holding me prisoner in your… your cabin fortress?”
“Protecting you,” I correct, keeping my voice level. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” She steps even closer, until the toes of her boots almost touch mine.
The air between us feels thinner, hotter.
I can see the pulse jumping at the base of her throat, the way her lower lip is still swollen from biting it during the fight.
“Because from where I’m standing, it looks exactly the same.
A big, strong man decides what’s best for the little reporter.
Takes her phone, her freedom, her choice. Real heroic.”
I don’t move. Don’t back up. “You’re alive. That’s the only metric that matters right now.”
She searches my face, those green eyes stripping me bare, looking for cracks, for weakness. I keep mine steady. Blank. Professional.
But inside? Inside, my pulse is hammering like artillery.
Every time she gets this close, the air feels thinner, hotter.
I notice things I shouldn’t. The faint freckles across her nose, the way her curls cling to her neck where she’s sweating, the stubborn set of her jaw that makes me want to kiss it until she stops fighting.
I notice how small she is next to me, how fragile she looks, and how badly I want to pull her against me and shield her from everything.
I shove the thought down. Hard.
She’s the asset.
She exhales sharply, turns away, and resumes pacing. Megan stops. Whirls back. “You expect me to just sit here? While my sources disappear? While Ramsey and Tate keep buying up the county like it’s a game of Monopoly? While families lose their land, their homes—”
“I expect you to stay alive,” I say, voice dropping lower than I intend. “So you can finish the story. Publish it. Burn them down. But you can’t do any of that if you’re dead.”
She stares at me. Something flickers in her eyes, a range of emotions from anger to fear to exhaustion.
My chest aches.
I turn away before I do something stupid. “You hungry?”
She blinks. “What?”
“Dinner. I can hear your stomach from here.”
She opens her mouth, probably to argue, then closes it. Her stomach growls again, loud in the quiet cabin.
I almost smile. Almost.
“Sit,” I say, nodding toward the island stools. “I’ll cook.”
She hesitates, then slides onto a stool, arms still crossed like armor, but her shoulders drop a fraction. She’s exhausted. Adrenaline crash coming. I’ve seen it a hundred times.
I move to the fridge, pull out two rib-eyes, russet potatoes, butter, garlic. Simple. Familiar. I’ve cooked this meal alone in this cabin more nights than I can count. Tonight feels different.
She watches me. Silent at first. Then she asks, “Why do you live like this?”
I don’t look up from the cast-iron skillet I’m heating on the gas range. “Like what?”
“Like a monk.” She gestures around the room with it’s sparse furniture, no photos on the walls, no clutter, no personal touches. “One bedroom. One couch. No TV. No plants. It’s like you’re waiting for someone to tell you to leave. Or like you’re punishing yourself.”
I set the steaks in the pan. They sizzle immediately. “I don’t need more than this.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I flip the steaks. “I like simple.”
She leans forward, elbows on the island, chin in her hands. “You’re deflecting.”
I meet her eyes—those damn green eyes that see too much. “You’re prying.”
A small smile tugs at her lips, the first one I’ve seen since the overlook. It’s slow, teasing, dangerous. “I’m a reporter. Prying is my job.”
“Not tonight it isn’t.”
She tilts her head, studying me like I’m the story now. “You’re good at dodging questions, bodyguard.”
I snort. “Flattery won’t get your phone back.”
“Who said I was flattering you?” Her voice drops, playful now. “Maybe I’m just trying to figure out why a man who looks like he could bench-press a truck lives like he’s afraid of getting attached to anything heavier than a coffee mug.”
I set the spatula down, lean my palms on the island, mirroring her posture. “And why does that bother you so much?”
Her smile fades a little, but the spark in her eyes stays. “Because it makes me wonder what happened to make you build walls that high. And because…” She pauses, licks her lips. “Because I’m starting to think I want to know what’s behind them.”
The air between us crackles.
I hold her gaze. “Careful what you wish for, Megan.”
She doesn’t blink. “I’m not the careful type.”
Silence stretches. Steaks sizzle. Potatoes roast. The cabin fills with the smell of garlic and butter and meat.
She speaks again, softer. “How’d you get the scar on your jaw?”
My hand pauses on the spatula. I don’t answer.
She doesn’t push. Just watches.
I slide a plate in front of her. Pour two glasses of water. Sit across from her. We eat in tense silence. Every bite feels loaded.
She cuts her steak, takes a small piece, chews slowly. Watches me.
“You’re good at this,” she says finally.
“Cooking?”
“Everything.” She gestures with her fork. “The calm. The control. The way you just handled tonight like it was nothing. The way you look at me like you’re trying to decide whether to kiss me or strangle me.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I keep my voice even. “I’m not going to strangle you.”
Her smile is slow, wicked. “But you’re thinking about the other thing.”
I meet her gaze. “You’re making it very hard not to.”
The air between us crackles.
She leans forward, elbows on the island. “Then why don’t you?”
I set my fork down. “Because you’re the asset. I don’t cross that line.”
She studies me, long and searching. “What if I want you to cross them?”
My pulse slams. “Then we have a problem.”
She laughs. It’s soft, low, dangerous. “We already have a problem. You kidnapped me. You carried me over your shoulder. You put your hands all over me. And now you’re sitting there pretending you don’t want to do it again.”
I lean forward too, closing the distance until our faces are inches apart. “I never said I didn’t want to.”
Her breath catches.
“But wanting and doing are two different things,” I finish, voice rough. “And right now, doing gets you killed.”
She swallows. “So what happens when the threat’s gone?”
I don’t answer.
I can’t.
I stand instead. “Excuse me.”
I walk out the front door, onto the porch. The night air is cold. Stars are sharp overhead. I brace my hands on the railing, head down, breathing hard.
Gray’s rule echoes in my skull.
No personal involvement.
She’s the asset.
She’s the asset.
She’s the asset.
But she’s also Megan and I already feel like I’m in deeper than I should be.