Chapter 5 #2
"Generator's good for another week." He sheds his coat. Stamps snow from his boots. Looks at the radio. "How's the signal?"
"Better. Corroded connection in the antenna feed." I gesture to the equipment. "Should hold but the whole system could use upgrading. This setup is ancient."
"It works." He crosses to check my repairs. Stands close enough that I can smell snow and diesel and something underneath that's purely him. "That's what matters."
Our shoulders brush. Electricity shoots through me where we touch. Immediate and consuming, like my body recognizes his on some level that bypasses conscious thought. He jerks back like I burned him. Puts the length of the desk between us with deliberate precision.
"Storm's getting worse." His voice is too controlled. Too careful. "We should check supplies. Make sure we've got what we need if we're stuck here longer than expected."
"Right." I step back too. Neither of us wants this separation but we both need it. "Makes sense."
We inventory supplies with tense efficiency. Canned goods. Freeze-dried meals. Water purification tablets. Ammunition for weapons I hope we never have to use. Practical preparations from a man who lives like disaster is always one miscalculation away.
Working beside him is torture. Every accidental touch makes my skin burn. Every time he reaches past me I remember how those hands felt on my hips. Every time he speaks I hear the command in his voice when he told me not to come until he said.
The morning bleeds into afternoon. We work mostly in silence, the storm a constant roar outside that somehow makes the quiet between us louder.
I organize medical supplies while he checks ammunition counts.
Mundane tasks that should be boring but feel charged because we're conscious of each other. Every movement. Every breath.
When we finally break for lunch, the cabin feels smaller. The air thicker. Like the storm outside is compressing everything inside into tighter quarters.
I make sandwiches. He doesn't eat much. Neither do I. We're both wound too tight, tension building with nowhere to go.
"I'm going to check the perimeter." His voice is rough. Strained. Like maybe he's fighting the same battle I am. "Make sure drifts aren't blocking the emergency exits."
He leaves before I can respond. Escapes into the storm like fresh air might clear whatever's building between us. Maybe it will. Maybe cold and wind will freeze out this heat making it hard to think about anything except how much I want him to take me against the wall again.
I try to read but the words don't stick. Everything circles back to Magnus moving through the storm outside. Magnus who claimed me last night and is working so hard to act like it never happened today.
Except he's not acting like it never happened. He's fighting it. Same as me. Creating space because proximity is dangerous when attraction burns this hot.
When he finally comes back, snow-covered and wind-burned, something has shifted in his expression. More raw. Less controlled. Like the storm outside found something inside him that he can't quite contain anymore.
"Coffee?" I offer. Safe. Domestic. Normal.
"Yeah." He strips off layers methodically. Hangs his coat. Sets his boots by the door. Everything precise and controlled while I watch him move and remember how that control shattered last night when he came inside me.
I pour coffee. Hand him the mug. Our fingers brush and heat explodes between us. Electric. Consuming. Everything we've been acting like doesn't exist all day crashes over us in a wave that makes my breath catch.
This time neither of us pulls away.
We stand there, fingers touching on ceramic, eyes locked, both breathing too hard for people who haven't moved. The air between us thrums with want and memory and the promise of more if either of us is brave enough or stupid enough to reach for it.
"Neve." My name in his mouth is warning and invitation both.
"I know." My voice shakes. "This is a bad idea."
"Terrible idea." He doesn't move. Doesn't create space. Just stands there looking at me like he's calculating risk versus reward and coming up with an equation that doesn't balance. "We should establish boundaries."
"Should we?" I don't step back. Don't break eye contact. Don't do any of the smart things my brain is screaming at me to do.
"Survival partnership." His voice drops lower. Rougher. "Keep it simple."
"Simple." I'm agreeing even as my body sways toward his. "Uncomplicated."
He sets his coffee down. Doesn't break eye contact. "We're clear on that."
"Crystal clear." I set mine down too. We're inches apart now. Close enough that I can feel his heat. See his pupils dilate. Watch his jaw clench with the effort of not closing that final distance.
He reaches up. Brushes snow from my hair where I must have gotten too close to him when he came in. His fingers trail fire across my skin. Linger at my temple. Trace down to my jaw. "Good."
"So we're agreed." My voice barely works. My body is screaming for his touch. For more than this careful almost-contact that's driving me insane.
His thumb traces my lower lip. Gentle pressure that makes me want to bite him. Taste him. Pull him closer and damn the consequences. "Absolutely agreed."
His hand drops. He steps back. The space between us feels like violence. "I should check the weather reports. See if the storm's tracking has changed."
"Right. Yes. Storm." I can barely remember what words mean when he looks at me like that. "I'll start dinner."
We separate. Retreat to opposite sides of the cabin like we might forget what the other feels like if we just maintain enough physical distance.
Dinner is quiet. Tense. We eat without tasting. Make small talk that rings false. Act normal while tension coils tighter with every passing minute.
"Tell me about flying." I break the silence because I can't stand it anymore. Need conversation, connection, something to focus on besides the way his hands look holding his fork. "How you got into it. What made you choose Alaska."
He looks up. Wary. "What do you want to know?"
"You said you were Air Force. How did that lead to..." I gesture around the cabin. "This."
"Did my time. Got out. Ended up here." His tone flattens. Warning that I'm treading on ground he doesn't share.
"That's not a story. That's a resume." I push gentler now. Curious scientist meeting careful survivor. "What happened between 'did my time' and 'ended up here'?"
Silence stretches while he decides whether to answer. Whether to give me this piece of himself. Then he sighs. Sets down his fork. Looks past me to the windows showing nothing but white.
"There was a village." His voice is flat. Stripped of emotion. "Remote. Hostile territory. Intel said it was clear. Intel was wrong."
I stay quiet. Let him work through it at his own pace.
"We had orders to stay out. Not our mission. Not our problem. Standard operating procedure—don't deviate, don't get involved, complete the objective and get out." He picks up his coffee. Doesn't drink. Just holds it. "I deviated."
"You saved people." It's not a question. I can see it in the rigid set of his shoulders. The way his jaw locks around words he doesn't want to say.
"I extracted civilians from an active fire zone against direct orders." His voice is bitter. Cold. "Court-martial offense. They gave me an Other than Honorable discharge and told me to disappear. So I did."
"But you saved them." I lean forward slightly. "That's what mattered."
His laugh is harsh. "I saved them so they could die anyway when their government abandoned them and the warlords came back. Rules exist for reasons, Neve. Sometimes following them is the only way to survive."
"And sometimes rules protect the wrong things." The words come out before I can stop them. Truth I've been carrying since my mentor died and I couldn't save her because I followed protocol instead of instinct.
He looks at me. Really looks. Sees something in my expression that makes his own soften slightly. "What rules did you follow?"
"All of them." My throat is tight. "Dr. Lydia Bryan was my advisor. Brilliant researcher. She got sick during field work in the Arctic. Standard protocol was to wait for medevac. I followed protocol. She died waiting."
"Medevac delay isn't your fault."
"I know that." I wrap my hands around my mug. "Logically I know that. But logic doesn't change the fact that if I'd broken protocol, stolen equipment, done something instead of waiting for authorization, she might have survived. I followed the rules and she died."
Silence falls between us. Heavier now. Weighted with my admission.
"You're blaming yourself for something that wasn't in your control," he says finally. Not sympathetic. Just observing. "That's a waste of energy."
"Easy to say when you're not the one who—"
"I'd make the same choice again." He cuts me off. Voice flat. Certain. "Saved those civilians knowing exactly what it would cost me. Would do it tomorrow if the situation repeated. That's not guilt. That's consequences I accepted."
I stare at him. "You don't regret it?"
"Regret doesn't change outcomes. It just makes you hesitate next time." He stands, collecting dishes. "You followed protocol because that's what you were trained to do. Your mentor died because medevac was delayed, not because you weren't brave enough to steal a helicopter."
The bluntness should sting. Instead it cuts through the fog I've been carrying for months.
"So I should just... stop feeling guilty?" It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.
His mouth tilts up slightly. Not quite sympathy. "You'll feel however you feel. But beating yourself up over decisions you made with incomplete information in impossible situations?" He shrugs. "That's just you making yourself suffer twice."
We sit in comfortable silence for the first time since I crashed into his plane yesterday. Something shifts between us—not exactly understanding, but recognition. Two people who made impossible choices and lived with the aftermath.
"You're not what I expected." He says it quietly. Statement of fact rather than judgment.
"What did you expect?"
"Someone who'd break under pressure. Soft academic who couldn't handle real danger." He studies me across the table. "You're tougher than you look."
"You're less of an asshole than you pretend to be." The words slip out before I can stop them.
Surprise flickers across his face. Then his mouth tilts up again. "Don't spread that around. Bad for my reputation."
"Your secret's safe with me." I'm smiling. Can't help it. This version of him—slightly less guarded, more human—is dangerously appealing in ways the cold survivalist wasn't.
Wrong. So wrong. I can't afford to like him.
Can't afford to see him as anything except temporary safety until this nightmare ends and I can get back to my life.
Except my life is destroyed. Research equipment gone.
Data wiped or burned. Trail cameras probably smashed to pieces by now.
Everything I worked for reduced to ash because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
"Where do you go from here?" He asks it like he's reading my thoughts. "After this. When the traffickers are handled and you're safe."
"I don't know." The admission scares me more than the men with guns.
"They probably destroyed everything. All my equipment.
My data. Months of work gone. And I've got nothing to show for the grant that funded me.
Try explaining to a review board why you can't provide results because you accidentally documented human trafficking instead of wolf migration patterns. "
"Someone who values what you found." His voice is firm. Certain. "Someone who recognizes that courage matters more than careful career planning."
"Is that what you did? Valued courage over career?"
"I valued living with myself over living according to someone else's rules." He stands, collecting dishes. "That's all anyone can do."
We clear dinner in synchronized silence. Comfortable now in ways we weren't this morning. The awkwardness has faded, replaced by something more dangerous—familiarity.
But physical attraction hasn't dimmed. If anything, the connection makes it worse. Makes me notice how his shoulders move when he washes dishes. How his hands look soapy and capable. How his voice rumbles when he makes small comments about cabin maintenance.
By the time we retreat to separate areas—him to check equipment, me to the bedroom—I'm wound tight with need. Aching. Wet. Conscious of him moving through the cabin like I'm tracking prey instead of avoiding temptation.
I lie in bed fully clothed. Listen to him moving in the main room. Hear him checking locks. Testing the radio I repaired. Normal evening routine that sounds anything but normal when every sound makes me imagine him out there, thinking about me, wanting me the way I want him.
Sleep is impossible. My body thrums with memory. With need that won't be denied no matter how many logical reasons my brain lists for keeping space between us.
I hear him moving. Restless. Pacing. Unable to settle the same way I can't settle.
He can't sleep either. He's out there fighting the same battle I'm fighting in here. Both of us maintaining separation that feels more like torture than safety.
I stare at the ceiling. Listen to him move. Feel the pull between us like physical force.
Tomorrow we'll act normal again. Maintain boundaries. Keep professional space.
But lying here in his bed, my body still tender from his claiming, listening to him pace beyond that door—I press my thighs together and bite my lip. My hand slides down my stomach. Stops at the waistband of my jeans.
His footsteps pause. Like he knows. Like he can feel me lying here, aching for him, fighting the urge to walk through that door and finish what we started.
The silence stretches. Heavy. Charged.
Then his footsteps resume. Moving away from the bedroom. Toward the far side of the cabin.
I exhale slowly. Close my eyes. Try not to imagine what would happen if I stopped fighting this. If I walked out there right now and let him see exactly how much I want him.
My fingers curl into the sheets. My pulse pounds in my throat. Between my legs.
The storm rages outside. Inside, something else builds. Patient. Inevitable.
Waiting.