Chapter 13
Thirteen
BAILEY
The worst part about waking up next to an attractive man who saved your life? Morning breath. And bed head. And the fact that my ankle looks like someone stuffed a grapefruit under my skin. But mostly the morning breath thing, because Sebastian’s face is inches from mine as he examines my ankle.
His fingers trace the purple-blue contours, gentle despite their strength. Every touch sends electric currents racing up my leg that have nothing to do with pain.
Get it together, Bailey. He’s just playing doctor because he’s stuck with you.
“The swelling’s gone down a little,” he says, voice gravelly with sleep. “Does it feel better?”
“Yes.” I focus on a cobweb in the corner instead of how his thumbs make small circles on my skin. “Good enough to help with chores.”
He looks up, his hands pausing. “Absolutely not.”
“Come on!” I gesture toward the window where snow builds. “That storm isn’t letting up, and we’re running low on everything. Water, firewood, those ancient beans that might kill us anyway...”
“You can barely walk.”
“I can hop.” I demonstrate by scooting to the bed’s edge, ignoring the jagged pain. “See? Half-kangaroo, half-pilot.”
“Bailey.” He catches my arm as I wobble forward. “Stop.”
“Make me.” Fuck. Wrong thing to say.
His fingers freeze on my skin, then tighten like he’s fighting against his own grip. The rough pad of his thumb finds my wrist, settling over my pulse, which immediately betrays me by racing wildly beneath his touch.
His eyes drop to my lips, lingering there with an intensity that makes my thighs clench. The blue of his irises darkens as his pupils expand, leaving just a thin ring of color.
Kiss me, my brain offers helpfully. Heat pools low in my belly, spreading outward until my skin feels too tight. I want to slap myself. What am I doing? He has someone waiting for him. Someone he loves enough to buy that ring for. Someone perfect and polished who fits into his world.
Gold flecks in his blue eyes catch the morning light as he stares at my mouth.
For one insane moment, I imagine him closing that distance, pressing his lips to mine, sliding his hands into my hair, pinning me against the wall, his knee sliding between my thighs, his teeth grazing my neck as I arch against him, clothes falling away until—
I squeeze my eyes shut.
The wind howls, rattling the windows. We need supplies. He needs help. And I need a distraction from whatever this is.
“I’m helping,” I say. “Unless you want to drink snow and freeze when the firewood runs out.”
I open the door, and cold air slaps my face. I breathe, filling my lungs with crisp winter.
Sebastian scans our surroundings before helping me outside, his arm steady around my waist. Snow crunches beneath us—his feet and my singular functional one. A few yards from the cabin, he stops and retrieves a fallen branch, testing its strength.
“Here.” He presses it into my hands. “This should work as a crutch.”
It’s not perfect, but it beats hopping. I lean my weight against it while he grabs the axe from beside the door. Gathering our empty water jugs, I tuck them under my free arm and hop-shuffle toward a pristine patch of snow away from the cabin, careful to avoid anything yellow.
“What are you doing?” Sebastian calls over the rhythmic thud of his chopping.
“Getting water.” I plant my makeshift crutch and lower the first container into untouched powder. “Since someone won’t let me do any actual work.”
The snow compacts as I scoop it into the jug. We’ll melt it later on the stove, part of our glamorous survival routine.
Silence makes my skin crawl. Especially with him right there, all focused and capable with his perfect wood-chopping form. My brain itches for conversation.
“So what’s the Lockhart family Christmas like? Fancy trees? Diamond ornaments? Gold-plated stockings?”
He swings the axe again, muscles flexing beneath his coat. “Very... coordinated. Mother hires decorators in October. Everything matches the year’s theme.”
“Theme?”
“Last year was ‘Winter in Paris.’ Blue and silver everything. Ice sculptures. Champagne tower.” His voice empties of emotion. “The tree was twenty feet tall. This year is skiing in Aspen.”
“Sounds...”
“Artificial?” His laugh holds no humor. “Father works through most of it. Conference calls don’t stop for Christmas.” The axe hits harder this time. “Mother drinks champagne and critiques the catering.”
The bitterness in his voice catches me off guard. Mr. Perfect’s perfect Christmas isn’t so perfect after all.
His jaw clenches between strikes, and I recognize that tension—the kind that comes from expectations crushing you like an avalanche you never saw coming.
The way he describes his family Christmas reminds me of how corporate pilots talk about luxury flights. All sparkle on the surface, hollow underneath. No wonder he looks like he’s trying to murder that log.
I scoop another handful of snow, aiming for casual. “And your girlfriend? Does she join the fancy festivities?”
The axe freezes mid-swing. His shoulders lock.
“I mean, she must love all that fancy stuff,” I continue, words tumbling out faster. “The champagne towers and ice sculptures. Bet she fits right in with the Winter in Paris theme.”
The axe slams into the wood with enough force to make me jump. Splinters spray across pristine white.
“She would have,” he says. Just that. Nothing else.
Would have? My brain latches onto the past tense.
Oh.
My hands still over the snow jug. The muscle jumping in his jaw. The shadows beneath his eyes. The ring. His desperate need to leave Alaska.
Something happened. Something bad.
I seal my lips against the questions burning my tongue. Whatever crashed and burned in his perfect life isn’t my business. Even if part of me wants it to be.
The silence stretches between us, broken only by the sounds of the axe. I focus on filling the last container, giving him space with his demons.
“Your turn to ask something,” I say, changing the subject before the shadows in his eyes swallow him.
He pauses, axe suspended. “Do you have someone waiting at home?”
“My parents and my brother, Gabriel.” I smile, grateful for the change of topic.
“Christmas at the Monroe house is controlled chaos. Mom bakes for two straight days—cookies, pies, these cinnamon rolls that should be illegal. They’re so good.
Dad pretends to help but mostly sneaks dough when she’s not looking.
He thinks she doesn’t know, but she always makes extra because of his ‘quality control.’”
I hop a few feet to get fresh snow for the last container.
“Gabriel flies in from Seattle and acts all sophisticated because he works for some tech company, but by Christmas morning, he’s in footie pajamas fighting me for the best spot under the tree.
We still do stockings, even though I’m almost thirty.
Mom knitted them when we were kids—mine has an airplane on it, because even at six I knew what I wanted to be. ”
The memory warms me despite the cold. “We watch terrible Hallmark movies and drink hot chocolate with those mini marshmallows. Nothing fancy. Nothing coordinated. Just...home.”
“It sounds wonderful.” Sebastian’s voice softens, and the smile that crosses his face looks real for once. “You sound close.”
“We are. You should join us sometime. Mom would love having someone new to feed cookies to.”
My cheeks heat at the invitation that slipped out. It’s a ridiculous image—Sebastian Lockhart in our cramped living room, dodging Gabriel’s teasing while Mom force-feeds him homemade fudge. He’d stick out like a private jet at a cargo terminal. He’ll never come.
Men like Sebastian don’t do casual family dinners with cargo pilots. They do champagne towers and designer trees and perfect girlfriends who know which fork to use.
Sebastian leans the axe against a stump. “Boyfriend?”
“Nope. Turns out most guys don’t appreciate a girlfriend who can’t stop talking and doesn’t understand when she’s being ‘too much.’” I add air quotes with my free hand.
“Too much?”
“Don’t pretend you didn’t notice.” I poke at the snow with my makeshift crutch, avoiding his eyes.
“Like, right now, I’m talking about personal stuff with a stranger in the middle of nowhere, which is weird, but I can’t tell if it’s normal-weird or too-weird-weird, so I just keep going until someone stops me. ”
His silence draws my gaze upward. He watches me with an expression I can’t interpret, which is normal for me—faces are hard—but something about the intensity of his stare makes my skin prickle with awareness.
“And guys find that...problematic?” He says the word like it tastes wrong.
“Well, yeah. Most people want someone who knows when to shut up. Who doesn’t ramble about snow globes or make inappropriate jokes at serious moments or—” I stop, realizing I’m proving my point. “Like that. That thing I’m doing right now.”
“That’s why you fly cargo.” It’s not a question.
“Yep. Cargo doesn’t care if I talk too much or get excited about weird things or miss social cues. Cargo just...is.”
I stab at the snow with my branch, watching crystals scatter.
“I think it’s cute,” he says.
My head snaps up. “What?”
“The way your mind works. How you make connections other people miss. It’s refreshing.”
Heat floods my face despite the freezing temperature. No one has ever called my rambling “cute” before. Annoying, yes. Overwhelming, definitely. But cute?
“It wasn’t so cute in second grade,” I mutter, flustered by the compliment. “Made a presentation about penguin mating habits. Very detailed. Very enthusiastic. Very inappropriate for show and tell. They called my parents.”
He laughs then—not a polite chuckle, but a genuine laugh that bounces off the trees. “I would’ve loved to see that presentation.”
“No, you wouldn’t. There were diagrams.” The memory makes me smile despite myself. “Very anatomically correct diagrams. In crayon.”
His laughter deepens, shoulders shaking. The sound does something warm and dangerous to my insides.
“I labeled everything,” I continue, because making Sebastian Lockhart laugh shouldn’t feel this good, but it does.
“Even included their mating calls. With sound effects. It’s exhausting sometimes,” I admit, softer now.
“Always being the ‘too much’ girl. The one who makes people uncomfortable. The one who—”
“Makes people recognize things they’re trying to avoid?”
His voice stops me cold. Something in his tone makes my head snap up, draws my breath short. His eyes capture mine, and my skin tingles with something I can’t name, my heart performing gymnastics in my chest.
“You’re not too much, Bailey.” The gentleness in his voice wraps around me. “You’re just—”
A twig snaps somewhere in the forest. His whole body goes rigid, head turning toward the sound.
I follow his gaze to the treeline. Nothing. Then, movement. A shadow separating from shadows.
Eyes appear first. Amber circles floating between bare branches, unblinking and fixed on us. Then the shape materializes. Low to the ground, shoulder blades rising with each deliberate step.
Not one. Three. Four. The pack emerges from different angles, cutting off escape routes to the cabin.
“Sebastian.” His name barely makes it past my dry throat.
“Don’t run,” he whispers, the command vibrating against my ear. “Whatever you do, don’t run.”
“You’re joking, right?” My laugh comes out strangled. “Can’t run. Can’t even walk.” My hand waves at the purple balloon formerly known as my foot. “But you can. Like in that joke—if you run faster—”
“Bailey.” His voice cuts through my panic. “I made it clear by now. I won’t ever leave you here to die.” His eyes find mine, fierce and certain. “I didn’t in the plane, or the cave, and I won’t start now.”
The intensity in his gaze steals my breath. More than fear, more than cold—this man is looking at me like my survival matters more than his own.
The lead wolf steps into the clearing. It’s massive. Bigger than any German Shepherd I’ve ever seen. Silver-tipped black fur ripples across powerful muscle.
My pulse hammers with skull-rattling force. One step back and my injured ankle buckles. Sebastian’s arm locks around my waist, holding me upright, pressing me against him. Through his coat, I feel his heart pounding as frantically as mine.
“Bailey.” Sebastian’s voice flattens, controlled. His hand reaches back, finding mine. His fingers wrap around mine with steady pressure.
He slowly reaches for the axe with his free hand. The movement draws the lead wolf’s attention—amber eyes tracking each micro-adjustment of Sebastian’s muscles.
The axe handle slides into Sebastian’s palm. One weapon against four wolves. The math doesn’t work.
My fingers tighten around the branch-crutch, though what good it’ll do against fangs and claws I can’t imagine. The wolf’s fur ripples in the wind. Silver-tipped black, beautiful in a terrifying way.
“They’re flanking us,” Sebastian whispers.
I glance right—another wolf has circled wider, cutting off our path to the cabin. My stomach drops. They’re herding us away from safety.
Sebastian’s thumb brushes over my knuckles, a tiny gesture that somehow grounds me.
The lead wolf’s muscles coil, weight shifting to its haunches.
I’ll never see my family again. Never fly another cargo route. Never find out what Sebastian was about to say...
“Nice doggy. Good boy. Or girl. I don’t want to assume wolf gender in this modern age.”
A second wolf edges closer on our left. They’re synchronizing. The instinct to run screams through every nerve ending.
I’m basically a gift-wrapped snack. The branch slips in my sweaty grip as the wolf takes another step closer, close enough that I can spot individual snowflakes catching in its fur.
Sebastian shifts his weight, edging the axe higher. The wolf’s eyes track the movement. A ripple passes through the pack. The air between us is taut, ready to snap.
They’re going to charge. Right now. We’re going to die in the snow, torn apart while good expired canned beans sit on the cabin shelf.