Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
ZAC
Gravel crunches under tires that aren’t mine, and I go still.
Visitors don’t happen at my cabin. Nobody shows up unannounced.
The rules exist for a reason — I don’t have the bandwidth for small talk when she’s inside, when every inch of this place smells like cocoa butter and vanilla and I’m working overtime to keep my hands where they belong.
Duncan’s truck pulls up to the porch with Ruby in the passenger seat. Ruby climbs out holding a casserole dish with both hands, the kind covered in foil that says she made this before she came and didn’t ask permission.
I meet them on the porch. Duncan claps my shoulder. Ruby walks past me into the cabin like she owns it, finds Alana in the kitchen, and hands over the dish. “I brought food. You don’t argue with food.”
By the time I’ve washed my hands, Alana’s got the casserole in the oven and she’s moving through the kitchen like it’s already hers. Like she fits there. Something heavy drops in my chest and stays.
Ruby’s already talking to her — asking about the cabin, about her work, about whether I’m feeding her enough — and I watch Alana’s shoulders come down from where they’ve been sitting near her ears since she arrived.
Her face loosens. She laughs at something Ruby says, and there it is — the snort, the real laugh, the one I’ve been keeping in my head for four years.
The four of us around my small table. This cabin hasn’t held four people in years. Alana passes the bread to Duncan without being asked, and Ruby tops off her water, and for a second it looks like a life I didn’t think I was allowed to have.
By the time we clear plates, Ruby and Alana are talking like they’ve known each other for longer than twenty minutes.
I watch Alana’s hands move when she explains something — wide gestures, pencil-stained fingers cutting through the air — and the way her eyes light up when Ruby mentions Montana Matches, how she knows exactly what it feels like to sign your life over to a stranger.
I know exactly what Alana’s been trying not to do all evening. She’s been trying not to look at me the way Ruby looks at Duncan. That soft, certain way. That “this is mine” way. I’ve been fighting not to reach across the table and put my hand on her.
Duncan pulls me onto the porch while Ruby and Alana clean up. Through the window, I see them moving in the kitchen, easy together, and something in my chest unclenches just slightly. She’s not alone. She’s being seen.
“She’s remarkable,” Duncan says. It’s not a question.
“She’s Nate’s sister.” The words come out automatic, a shield that’s held for four years and isn’t going to hold much longer.
Duncan looks at me like I just said something stupid. “That woman looks at you like you’re the only man in the room. And you look at her like you’re starving.” He lights a cigarette, exhales slow. “Nate will get over it. You won’t get over losing her.”
“I’m not losing?—“
“Yes, you are. Unless you stop being noble and actually claim what’s yours.” He takes a drag. “You’ve got thirty days, Walsh. You going to use them?”
I don’t answer because answering means admitting that I’ve already decided.
Already accepted that the rules about Nate, about loyalty, about what I’m allowed to take from this world — they’re all going to burn.
She touched me yesterday and something in my DNA shifted.
She’s been here less than thirty-six hours and I’m rearranging my entire life to fit her into it permanently.
Nate will recover. Or he won’t. That’s the decision I’m about to make.
When they leave, the cabin goes quiet in a way that makes every nerve ending in my body aware that we’re alone. Completely alone. No Nate on the horizon. No rules except the ones I make.
I get the fire going without asking her if she wants one.
Need it. Need the ritual of wood and heat and something primal that makes sense when everything else is falling apart.
The central heating keeps this place warm, but a fire means something different.
Means I’m building something. Means I’m tending to something that matters.
We end up on the floor by the fireplace, backs against the couch.
Her shoulder is touching mine. Just barely.
Just enough that I can feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her shirt.
The heat from the fire and the heat from her body are creating a pocket in this room where nothing else exists — no ghosts of my father, no obligation to Nate, no four years of denying what my body’s been screaming for.
“Duncan was a lot to take,” she says softly.
I let the silence sit for a beat. Let her feel me thinking about this, about her, about what’s coming. “Not about them.”
She turns her head slightly, waiting.
“About the porch. Earlier.” The words are rough coming out.
Admission. Surrender. “I can’t—“ I stop. Try again, because she deserves the real truth, not the practiced version I’ve rehearsed for four years.
“I’ve been telling myself for years that I shouldn’t want what I want.
That it makes me selfish. That your brother would see it as a betrayal. ”
“My brother doesn’t get to see anything,” she says, and there’s steel underneath the softness. “It’s not his.”
I turn my head and look at her fully. Her eyes are bright in the firelight, her beauty mark catching shadows and light, that honey blonde hair falling across her shoulder like she was made to exist right here, right next to me, in this moment.
Something that’s been caged in my chest for four years finally breathes.
“Your father,” she says. Not a question. She heard it in my voice — the way it went flat on the word selfish. “He left when you were a kid.”
“Twelve.” The word tastes like old poison.
“One day he was there, then he decided his own life was more important than ours. Ma worked doubles. I raised my brothers. Been trying to be his opposite ever since — never take anything for myself, never be selfish, never want something that doesn’t come with obligation or debt already paid.
” My jaw tightens. “Convinced myself that wanting you the way I do makes me just like him. Selfish. Disloyal. A bastard.”
She reaches over and puts her hand on my forearm, right over the rope-burn scar. The touch is gentle, steady, and it undoes me. Her fingers trace the raised skin like it’s something precious instead of a reminder of all the times I’ve tied myself in knots.
“You’re not your father, Zac.”
Something breaks. I feel it happen — feel the moment the cage door swings open and I stop fighting. Four years of denial, of penance, of convincing myself that Nate’s friendship was worth more than what I need. Four years of watching her from a distance and pretending I wasn’t dying.
She’s mine. Nate or no Nate. Four years of denial ends here.
I pull her into my lap like the decision’s already made, like I’ve run out of reasons to wait.
Her soft gasp when I move her hits something primal in my chest. My mouth finds her forehead first — tender, almost apologetic — then her temple, then the corner of her mouth.
Not quite kissing. Not yet. Building to it.
“Zac,” she whispers, and my name in her mouth sounds like permission, like everything I’ve been denying myself.
My hands move to her hips, grip hard enough that she’ll feel it tomorrow, then soften.
One hand slides under her shirt, traces the curve of her waist. Her skin is warm, soft — my calloused palms feel rough against it.
My thumbs find her belly and she flinches.
Her hand comes down to cover mine, pushing it away.
“Don’t,” she says. Quiet. Not angry — ashamed?
I stop. Hold still. “Don’t what?”
“That part of me isn’t—“ She swallows. “You don’t have to touch me there.”
I press my thumbs in harder. Not moving them. Just holding. “This belly?”
She won’t look at me.
“Alana.” I wait until her eyes come up. “I’ve been thinking about putting my hands right here for four years. Don’t tell me where I don’t get to touch you.”
Her breath shakes. I hold her gaze and trace a slow circle with my thumb, right over the soft curve she was trying to hide. She doesn’t push me away this time.
My hand slides between her thighs, pressing over her jeans, and the sensation is specific and intentional and makes my cock hard enough to hurt.
I’ve been hard since she walked into this cabin two days ago.
She’s already wet — I can feel it through the denim — and the knowledge that she wants this, wants me, nearly breaks me.
I lean in close, let my beard brush her ear. Let her feel how close I am, how much control I’m barely holding onto.
“I heard you the other night.” The words come out rough, gravel-voiced, and her entire body stiffens. “In my bed. Touching yourself.”
She makes a sound that’s half gasp, half mortification. But she doesn’t pull away. Her hips rock forward against my hand like her body knows what it wants even if her mind’s spinning.
“Don’t.” I’m not asking. “Stay right there.”
My hand keeps moving, the same steady pressure, slow and deliberate. I watch the side of her face in the firelight, watch the blush creep down her neck, watch her lips part like she’s trying to remember how to breathe.
“Did you imagine my hand on your pussy when you touched yourself?” The words are low, rough, and I feel her entire body clench around them. “Tell me.”
“Zac, I?—”
“Did you?” My hand presses harder, and her hips arch into it. “Were you thinking about me? About what my hands could do?”
“Yes,” she gasps. “Damn it, yes.”
My hand between her thighs doesn’t stop. The other one pushes her shirt up — she’s not wearing a bra, hasn’t been since she changed after dinner — and I find her nipple with my mouth. Bite down. Not hard. Just enough.
“Did you pinch your nipple at the same time?” I say it against her skin, teeth still grazing. “Is that what gets you off?”
She can’t speak. Her back arches into my mouth, her hips grinding against my hand. I pull back to watch her face — flushed, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted.
“Look at me.” Her eyes snap open. “I want to see you when you come.”
My hand keeps moving — pressing, releasing, finding the rhythm that makes her nails dig into my shoulders. The fire is warm on her bare skin. The cabin is silent except for her breathing and the blood in my ears.
“That’s it. Let go.”
She comes against my hand. Her whole body locks, a sound tears out of her that I’m going to hear in my head for years, and I hold her through it — her hips moving against my palm, her hands gripping my flannel, shaking.
When the tremors slow, I pull her shirt back down. Wrap both arms around her. Her breathing’s ragged against my neck. My cock is aching — I’m so hard it hurts, and she can feel it, because her hand drifts down between us and presses against the front of my jeans.
I catch her wrist. Hold it.
“Not tonight.”
“But you?—”
“Tonight was for you.” I bring her hand up and press my mouth to her knuckles. “I can wait.”
She pulls back enough to look at me. Blue eyes, still hazy, still flushed. “You’ve been waiting four years.”
“I know how to wait.” I tuck her hair behind her ear. My hand’s steadier than it should be, given that every nerve in my body is screaming. “When I have you, I want it to be right. Not on the floor.”
She studies my face for a long time. Then she leans in and presses her mouth to my jaw — right where Nate will eventually hit me, though neither of us knows that yet — and settles against my chest.
The fire pops. Her heartbeat slows against my ribs. I hold her and don’t let go.