Chapter 5
NEVE
Consciousness comes slowly, dragging me up through layers of exhaustion into a world that feels wrong.
Unfamiliar weight of blankets. Strange angle of morning light filtering through curtains I didn't close.
My body aches in ways that have nothing to do with yesterday's desperate run through the snow.
Memory floods back in a rush that makes heat crawl up my neck and pool low in my belly.
The cabin wall rough against my palms. Magnus behind me, inside me, his hands bruising my hips while I fell apart on his cock.
The way he commanded me to come and my body obeyed like it belonged to him more than it ever belonged to me.
I press my face into the pillow and groan. Mortification wars with the liquid heat spreading through my core at the memory. My thighs are sticky. My shoulders bear the phantom pressure of his teeth through fabric. Everything between my legs is tender in a way that will make today interesting.
This is clearly his room—rugged furniture, maps on one wall, his scent clinging to the sheets. Which means he slept somewhere else. Gave up his bed while I passed out from exhaustion and adrenaline crash.
Fresh towels sit on the dresser. Clean flannel shirt draped over the chair—his, judging by the size.
Practical gestures from a man who probably fucked me and moved on before his heartbeat even steadied.
The clinical thought helps. Steadies me.
Reminds me that whatever happened last night was adrenaline and survival, nothing more.
Even if it felt like something when he growled that I was his.
I push myself upright despite my body's protests. Muscles I forgot I had scream complaints about yesterday's run, the fear, the cold, and then the wall. God, the wall. His hands fisted in my hair, controlling me, taking what he wanted while I gave it freely.
I shower in a bathroom that's surprisingly well-appointed for a remote cabin.
Hot water sluices over sore muscles and sensitive skin.
I try not to think about Magnus while I wash away the evidence of what we did.
Try not to remember how it felt when he filled me.
Try not to touch the places that still ache with memory and need.
By the time I emerge, dressed in yesterday's clothes because they're all I have, I've constructed a careful facade of normalcy.
Scientists are good at compartmentalizing.
Observing without emotion. Analyzing without attachment.
I can do this. Walk out there and face him like a professional adult who made a choice and doesn't regret it.
The smell of coffee and bacon hits me first. Cooking sounds from the kitchen. Mundane domestic noises that feel surreal after yesterday's violence and last night's raw claiming.
Magnus stands at the stove, spatula in hand, looking completely at ease.
Like he didn't rail me against a wall last night.
Like he can't still smell me on his skin the way I can still feel him inside me.
His hair is damp from taking his own shower.
Flannel shirt rolled up his forearms. Focused on the eggs he's scrambling with the same precision he probably uses to calculate fuel loads.
"Coffee's fresh." His voice is neutral. Pleasant, even. The same tone he'd use with a stranger at a fuel stop.
That should make this easier. Instead it makes me want to shake him. Make him acknowledge what happened. Prove to myself that it meant something even though I told myself all through my shower that it didn't.
"Thanks." I aim for matching his casual tone. Fail when my voice comes out too tight. Too aware.
I pour coffee with hands that are steadier than I expected. Add cream. Pretend interest in the storm still battering the windows. Anything to avoid looking at him. Anything to stop remembering how his body felt against mine.
"Storm's not letting up." He slides eggs onto plates with economical movements. "Weather service says another day minimum before it passes."
Another day trapped here together. Another day of maintaining this facade while I can still taste him on my tongue.
"Forecast could be wrong." Even to my own ears I sound desperate. "Storms blow through faster than predicted sometimes."
"Not this one." He sets a plate in front of me. Bacon. Eggs. Toast. Competent and capable, taking care of basic needs like last night's primal claiming was just another task to check off his list. "Air pressure's dropping. We're in for days, not hours."
Days. Trapped in close quarters with a man who makes my body respond in ways my brain knows are dangerous. Days of fighting attraction that already won. Days of acting like professional colleagues while I can still feel his handprints on my hips.
I sit. Eat mechanically. The food is good. Everything he does is competent. Efficient. Like he approaches life as a series of problems to solve rather than experiences to feel.
Except last night he felt plenty. His mouth on mine. His hands controlling my body. The way he growled possessive words against my shoulder while claiming me from the inside out.
"We should discuss next steps." His tone is all business. Planning. Strategy. "Storm buys us time but also limits options. Can't move until it clears but staying here long-term is risky."
"Right." I try to focus on logistics instead of the way I remember his hands felt gripping my hips. "What's the plan?"
"Depends on their resources." He spreads the maps from last night across the table between us. "If they've got connections to check flight records, they're already narrowing down pilots who were in the area. My name will come up."
"How many bush pilots operate in that region?"
"Enough that I won't stand out immediately. But not so many that they can't investigate each one systematically." His finger traces routes on the map. Clinical. Detached. "We've got days. Maybe a week. Then we need to either run or fight."
"What about going to the authorities?" Even as I say it, I know it's naive. Wishful thinking from the part of me that still believes in systems and justice.
"With what evidence?" His look is flat. Unimpressed.
"Footage from a trail camera placed on federal land?
No chain of custody. No corroborating witnesses.
Just you and a video that could be staged or manipulated.
They'll bury you in procedure while the traffickers clean up their operation and disappear. "
"So we run."
"Or we get them first." Something dangerous flickers in his expression. "Make them too busy dealing with their own problems to hunt you."
The predatory edge in his voice makes my pulse spike. Not from fear. From recognition of exactly what kind of man I let claim me last night. What kind of man I'm trusting with my life.
"How?" My throat is dry despite the coffee.
"Still working on that part." He folds the map with precise creases. "For now, we wait out the storm. Keep our heads down. Don't do anything stupid."
The word "stupid" hangs in the air between us. Loaded with meaning. Don't do anything stupid like fuck again. Don't do anything stupid like acknowledge that last night changed something fundamental.
"I can help around the cabin." The offer comes out too eager. Too desperate for something to do besides sit here drowning in thoughts of him. "Earn my keep while we're stuck here."
He looks at me for a long moment. Evaluating. Then he shrugs. "Woodpile needs splitting. Generator needs maintenance. Radio's been acting up."
"I can look at the radio." The words are out before I think them through. "I have electronics training. Part of field research requires maintaining your own equipment."
Surprise flickers across his face. Brief but genuine. "You know your way around a radio?"
"I know my way around circuit boards and signal processors. Can't promise I'll fix it but I can probably diagnose the problem."
"All right." He finishes his coffee. "Radio's in the Corner. Equipment's in the cabinet below it. Don't electrocute yourself."
The dry delivery catches me off guard. Makes me smile despite the tension coiling in my belly. "I'll try to contain my enthusiasm for live wires."
His mouth twitches. Then the neutral mask slides back into place and he's moving away, putting the length of the cabin between us, retreating to whatever task will keep him occupied and not thinking about what we did.
I clear the breakfast dishes. Wash them in the deep sink while he disappears outside to check the generator.
Through the window I watch him move through wind-driven snow with the confidence of someone completely at home in hostile environments.
Strong. Capable. Dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with survival skills and everything to do with the way my body responds when he's near.
Focus. Radio. Electronics. Something I can actually control.
The office is small but well-organized. Maps on the walls.
Flight logs in careful stacks. The radio setup is older but quality equipment.
I pull the casing and start tracing connections, looking for loose wires or corroded contacts.
Methodical work that requires concentration.
Safe work that doesn't involve thinking about Magnus or last night or how my body still remembers his.
Except every shift reminds me of soreness. Every breath brings back his hands in my hair. Every heartbeat pulses with memory of how it felt when he filled me.
I make myself focus on capacitors and resistors. Find the problem eventually—corroded connection in the antenna lead. Simple fix with the right tools. I clean the contacts, resolder the connection, test the signal strength. Better. Not perfect but functional.
Magnus comes in while I'm closing up the casing. Snow dusts his shoulders. Cold clings to him in a way that makes me want to step closer, share heat, close the gap he's been carefully maintaining all morning.