Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
SADIE
Valentine's Day dawns gray and quiet.
The storm has finally stopped. I stand at Wolfe's window, watching the world emerge from under all that white, and try to convince myself that the knot in my stomach is just nerves about Derek.
It's not just nerves about Derek.
Last night, Wolfe Hendrix kissed me against a wall and told me he'd kill my ex-boyfriend, and somehow both of those things made me want him more. What does that say about me? Probably nothing good. Probably something a therapist would have a field day with.
But I can't stop thinking about his hands in my hair. His mouth on my throat. The way he said tomorrow like a vow.
Well. It's tomorrow now.
"Coffee's ready."
I turn from the window. Wolfe is standing in the kitchen doorway, two mugs in his hands, looking unfairly attractive for a man who's been awake since before dawn coordinating tactical operations via radio. His hair is loose around his shoulders today, and I want to bury my fingers in it.
Focus, Sadie. Stalker ex-boyfriend first. Sexy mountain man second.
"Thanks." I take the mug he offers and wrap my hands around it. "Any updates?"
"Mace has a team in position. Derek's still at the inn in town. Hasn't moved yet."
"So we wait."
"We wait."
I hate waiting. Waiting means thinking, and thinking means spiraling, and spiraling means I end up pacing around the cabin like a caged animal while Wolfe watches me with those unreadable gray eyes.
"I need to do something." I set down my coffee after two sips. "I'm going to go crazy just sitting here."
"What do you want to do?"
"I don't know. Clean something. Organize something. Climb the walls."
He considers this for a moment. "I could teach you to shoot."
I blink. "What?"
"You said you wanted to be part of this. To not feel helpless." He sets down his own mug. "Knowing how to handle a weapon might help with that."
Twenty minutes later, I'm standing behind his cabin in the snow, holding a handgun that feels way too heavy in my grip, trying to focus on the makeshift target he's set up against a tree instead of the solid warmth of his body behind mine.
"Feet shoulder-width apart." His voice is low and calm, his breath warm against my ear. "Relax your shoulders. You're too tense."
"I'm holding a deadly weapon. Tension seems appropriate."
"Tension makes you miss." His hands cover mine on the grip, adjusting my stance. "The gun is a tool. Respect it, but don't fear it."
Easy for him to say. He's probably been shooting since he was in diapers.
"Now. Breathe in." His chest presses against my back. "Breathe out. Squeeze the trigger on the exhale. Don't pull. Squeeze."
I breathe in. Breathe out. Squeeze.
The gun kicks in my hands, the sound cracking through the silent morning, and the target shudders as the bullet embeds itself in the outer ring.
"I hit it!" I spin around, grinning. "Did you see that? I actually hit it!"
Wolfe is smiling. Actually smiling, not the almost-smile I've gotten used to. The expression transforms his face, softens all those hard edges, and my heart does something complicated in my chest.
"Good shot." He takes the gun from me, checking the safety. "Again."
We practice for another hour. By the end, I can hit the center of the target about half the time, and my arms are shaking from the effort, and I feel more powerful than I have in months.
"Thank you." I flex my fingers, working out the stiffness. "For teaching me."
"You're a fast learner."
"I'm motivated." I glance toward the tree line, toward the direction of town. "Is it weird that I almost want him to come? Just to get it over with?"
"Not weird. Anticipation is harder than action." He's watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. "But he will come. And when he does, I'll be ready."
We. I want to correct him. We'll be ready. But I know what he means. When Derek shows up, Wolfe will handle him. That's the plan. That's what all of this has been leading toward.
So why do I feel like the real confrontation isn't about Derek at all?
We head back inside. Wolfe makes lunch while I shower off the gun oil and sweat, and I stand under the hot water way too long, thinking about the promise he made last night.
Tomorrow. When this is over. When Derek is dealt with and you're safe.
What if I don't want to wait?
The thought crystallizes as I towel off and pull on clean clothes. Leggings and one of Wolfe's flannel shirts because my own clothes still smell like blizzard and fear. The shirt swamps me, falling almost to my knees, but I like the way it feels. Like being wrapped in him.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Wolfe is setting two plates on the table. He looks up, and his eyes track down my body, taking in the oversized shirt, the bare legs beneath it.
His jaw tightens. "That's my shirt."
"My clothes are still damp. You said I could borrow whatever I needed."
"I did say that." He doesn't look away. "Didn't expect you to look like that in it."
"Like what?"
He doesn't answer. Just pulls out a chair for me, his movements a little too controlled, a little too careful.
We eat in charged silence. Every clink of fork against plate sounds too loud.
Every accidental brush of fingers when we reach for the salt sends electricity up my arm.
I'm hyperaware of him in a way that makes it hard to taste the food, hard to think about anything except the heat building between us.
"Wolfe." I set down my fork. "About last night."
"Sadie."
"You said tomorrow. It's tomorrow."
"Derek is still out there."
"I know. I don't care."
He goes still. "What?"
"I don't care." I push back from the table and stand. "I've already spent months waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for Derek to do something. Waiting to feel safe. Waiting to feel anything other than scared." I move around the table toward him. "I'm done waiting."
"This isn't a good idea."
"Probably not." I stop in front of his chair, looking down at him. "But I want you. I've wanted you since you carried me out of that snowbank, and I'm tired of pretending otherwise."
"Sadie." My name is gravel in his mouth. "If we do this, I'm not going to be able to let you go. You understand that? This won't be a one-time thing for me. I’m not a casual fuck."
"Good." I reach for the top button of the flannel. His flannel. "Neither am I?"
The button slips free. Then another. His eyes follow my fingers, tracking each inch of skin I reveal.
"Are you sure?" The words seem dragged out of him.
"I've never been more sure of anything."
He moves.
One second he's in the chair, the next he's on his feet with his hands in my hair and his mouth on mine. The kiss is nothing like last night. No hesitation. No holding back. He kisses me like he's starving for it, like he's been waiting his whole life for exactly this.
I grab his shirt and pull him closer, needing more contact, more pressure, more everything. He groans against my lips and lifts me, my legs wrapping around his waist automatically, my back hitting the wall for the second time in twelve hours.
He carries me to the bedroom without breaking the kiss, navigating his cabin with the same effortless competence he does everything else. The bedroom is cold, the fire in here long since burned out, but I don't care. I don't care about anything except getting his clothes off.
He sets me on the bed and steps back, and for one horrible second I think he's changed his mind. Then he reaches behind his head and pulls his shirt off in one smooth motion, and I forget how to breathe.
I've seen attractive men before. I live in San Diego. I've dated tech bros and fitness influencers and one memorable surfer who looked like he belonged in a magazine.
None of them looked like this.
Wolfe is all lean muscle and scarred skin, a body built for survival rather than aesthetics. A tattoo winds around his left arm, tribal patterns I want to trace with my tongue. His chest is broad, his stomach flat, a trail of dark hair disappearing into his waistband.
"Your turn." His voice is rough.
My fingers tremble as I finish unbuttoning the flannel. I shrug it off, leaving me in just my bra and leggings, and resist the urge to cover myself. I'm not built like an Instagram model. I've got curves that don't quit and a softness to my belly that no amount of hiking has ever eliminated.
But Wolfe looks at me like I'm the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
"Come here." Not a request.
I crawl to the edge of the bed and he meets me there, his hands sliding up my thighs, my hips, my waist. He unclasps my bra with a deftness that makes me wonder how many times he's done this before, then tosses it aside and cups my breasts in his palms.
"Fuck." The word escapes him on an exhale. "You're perfect."
"I'm really not."
"Don't argue with me." He rolls my nipples between his fingers and I arch into his touch, a moan slipping out before I can stop it. "Not about this."
He pushes me back onto the bed and follows me down, his mouth replacing his fingers on my breast. The wet heat of his tongue circles my nipple, teasing, tasting, and I bury my hands in his hair and pull him closer.
"Wolfe. God."
He switches to the other breast, giving it the same attention while his hand slides down my stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of my leggings. I lift my hips to help him, and he strips them off along with my underwear in one efficient motion.
Then he just looks at me. Sprawled naked on his bed, flushed and panting, completely exposed to his gaze.
"Beautiful." He says it like a fact. Like there's no room for argument. "I've been thinking about this since the first night. What you'd look like underneath all those layers."
"And?"
"Better than I imagined." His hand slides between my thighs, and my breath catches. "Spread your legs for me, Sadie."
I do. God help me, I do, opening myself to him without hesitation. His fingers find my center, already slick with want, and he groans low in his throat.