Chapter 6
MAGNUS
Sleep is a luxury I can't afford. Haven't managed more than an hour at a stretch since I took her against the wall.
My body remembers everything—the taste of her mouth, the sounds she made when she came, how perfectly she fit around my cock.
My brain keeps replaying the moment she surrendered, when control shattered and she gave me everything I demanded.
I tell myself it was adrenaline. Survival instinct. Chemical reaction to near-death experience. Standard biological response to extreme stress.
My body knows I'm lying.
Dawn breaks gray and sullen through windows showing nothing but white. Storm's been raging with no break. Visibility down to nothing. Temperature dropping steadily. We're sealed in tight while the world outside tries to kill anything stupid enough to venture into it.
Perfect conditions for staying inside. Staying close. Staying aware of every breath she takes in the next room.
I've checked the generator twice already. Inventoried supplies that don't need inventorying. Cleaned weapons that are already clean. Busywork. Anything to keep my hands occupied and my mind off the woman sleeping in my bed.
Coffee brews while I monitor weather reports on the radio. Low pressure system stalled over the region. No movement predicted for at least another day. Maybe longer. Air traffic grounded. Roads impassable. Anyone who needs rescue is out of luck until conditions improve.
Which means anyone hunting us can't reach us either. Storm's providing cover even as it's trapping us together in increasingly tight quarters.
I hear her moving before I see her. Footsteps in the bedroom.
Sounds of her waking. She emerges minutes later, hair sleep-mussed, still wearing my flannel shirt from yesterday.
Doesn't look at me directly but she knows I'm watching.
Can tell by the way her shoulders tense, how she moves through the space like she's tracking my position without acknowledging it.
"Coffee's fresh." My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"Thanks." She pours carefully. Adds cream with precise movements. Scientists and their measured approach to everything. Controlled. Methodical. But there was nothing controlled or methodical about the way she came on my cock.
We eat breakfast in silence that's somehow louder than conversation.
Oatmeal with dried cranberries. Coffee. The meal I threw together while trying not to think about her waking in my bed.
Every sound amplified. Spoon against bowl.
Coffee mug on table. Her breathing when she thinks I'm not paying attention.
But I'm always paying attention now. Can't help it. Catch myself tracking the way she bites her lower lip when she's thinking. How she tucks hair behind her ear with unconscious grace. The competence in her hands when she handles equipment. Details that shouldn't register but somehow do.
"You always this quiet in the morning?" She's watching me over the rim of her mug.
"Depends on the company." I finish my coffee. "You always this curious about someone's morning habits?"
"Depends on whether I've fucked them against a wall." Her bluntness catches me off guard. A smile tugs at my mouth despite myself.
"Fair point." I stand, collecting dishes. Need distance before I do something we both want but shouldn't repeat until I've got better control. "I'm going to check the perimeter. Make sure drifts aren't blocking the vents."
She nods. Doesn't argue. Smart enough to recognize when someone's looking for escape routes.
Outside it's brutal. The wind tears at my coat with teeth made of ice, and snow drives horizontally, reducing visibility to feet rather than yards. The temperature sits well below anything safe for exposure.
I force myself to stay out longer than necessary. I let the cold work through layers until my body focuses on survival instead of the woman inside who makes me forget careful planning.
The generator is fine. I knew it would be. I already checked it this morning. But I tinker anyway, adjusting settings that don't need adjusting, testing the fuel lines. It's busywork while my brain processes the reality of being trapped here with her while desire builds with nowhere to go.
When I finally return, she's working at the table.
Notebook open, pen moving across pages with practiced efficiency.
Reconstructing her research from memory.
She's transcribing field notes, sketching maps of locations she studied.
Salvaging what she can from the wreckage.
Focused. Absorbed. Refusing to let the traffickers take everything.
"What are you working on?" The question surprises both of us.
She looks up. Considers whether to answer. "Field notes. From before. Trying to reconstruct what I can remember about the research. Probably pointless but it's better than staring at walls."
"Not pointless." I shed my coat. Hang it carefully. "Documentation matters. Even if the original data's destroyed."
"You sound like my advisor." Her voice carries weight I recognize. Loss. Regret for things that can't be changed.
"The one who died waiting for medevac?"
"Dr. Bryan. Yes." She goes back to writing. "She used to say that the worst thing a scientist could do was assume they'd remember important details later. Write everything down immediately, even if it seems irrelevant."
I lean against the counter, watching her work. She's rebuilding from memory. Refusing to give up even when everything's been destroyed. That stubbornness does something to me. Makes the possessive part of me want to lock her away somewhere safe and keep her there.
"You're staring." She doesn't look up from her notes.
"Just watching you work."
"Why?" Now she meets my eyes. Challenge in her gaze. "Something I should know about?"
"Nothing you don't already know." I push off the counter. Move toward the radio setup. Need to check frequencies. Monitor traffic. Do my actual job instead of getting distracted by a woman who's becoming dangerous in ways bullets never could be.
I scan through channels methodically. Static. Weather reports. Some local chatter from pilots grounded by the storm. Then I hit a frequency that makes my spine straighten.
"—confirm the witness has the SD card. Intel suggests she's with someone. Pilot, probably. Running dark, no flight plans filed. They could be anywhere within fuel range of the pickup site."
Different voice responds. "Bounty's been authorized. Dead or alive recovery of the card."
"Preference?"
"Dead. Cleaner. Less testimony to worry about."
My hand tightens on the radio dial. Every muscle in my body goes taut.
They've escalated. Put money on her head.
.. mine too. Made us valuable enough that every desperate pilot and bush rat in the region will start asking questions about strange women and unscheduled flights.
And they want her dead. Not captured. Not questioned.
Dead and buried where she can't testify.
The protective rage that floods through me is visceral. Primal. I want to find every man involved in that conversation and put bullets in them. Slowly. Make them understand exactly what happens when you threaten what's mine.
I force the reaction down. Channel it into cold calculation. Log the frequency. Note the transmission patterns. Build a picture of how organized the hunt has become. How serious they are about permanent silence.
"What is it?" Neve's watching me now. Notebook forgotten.
"Chatter." I keep my voice level. "Normal traffic."
She's too smart to believe me but doesn't push. Just goes back to her work while I continue scanning. Gathering intelligence. Planning contingencies for when the storm clears and we have to move.
The afternoon passes with us circling each other through the cabin. She works on her notes. I maintain equipment. The space forces proximity we're both trying to avoid. Hands brush when passing coffee. Shoulders touch in narrow passages. Standing too close at the sink while washing dishes together.
Each contact is charged. Electric. Building toward something neither of us is ready to acknowledge.
By evening, tension has wound so tight I can hear it humming in the silence between us. She's curled in the chair with her notebook, making sketches. I'm pretending to read weather reports while actually watching her bite the end of her pen with unconscious sensuality that's driving me insane.
"I need to wash up." She stands abruptly. Escapes to the bathroom.
Water sounds start almost immediately. The shower running. Movement. My imagination supplies details I don't need—her stripping, testing temperature, water moving over skin I remember touching. Soap sliding over curves I tasted.
I'm gripping the table edge before I realize it.
Knuckles white. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to walk through that door and take what I want.
Nothing's stopping me except the thin barrier of wood and the knowledge that she'll come to me soon enough.
They always do when the hunger gets sharp enough.
She emerges wearing my shirt. Just the shirt. Sleeves rolled up. Hem hitting mid-thigh. Hair damp and loose around her shoulders. Skin flushed. She looks soft. Vulnerable. Mine.
Catches me staring. "What?"
Everything. You wearing my clothes. How badly I want to taste the drops still on your collarbone. The knowledge that you're probably naked under that shirt and it's taking everything I have not to verify.
"Nothing." My voice is strained. "You should get to bed."
Her eyes hold mine. Challenge sparking in their depths. "So should you."
"Eventually."
"Magnus." She says my name like a question and a dare both. "We can't keep doing this."
"Doing what?" I know exactly what she means but I want to hear her say it.
"Circling each other. Acting like there's not..." She gestures between us. Frustrated. "This."
I stand. Move toward her because staying away isn't working anymore. "You mean the attraction that's been building since you crashed into my plane?"
"Yes." She doesn't back down. Holds her ground even as I close the distance. "That."
We're inches apart now. Close enough that I can smell soap and her underneath. See her pulse fluttering in her throat. Watch her pupils dilate as I invade her space without touching.
"What do you want me to do about it?"
"I don't know." Her voice drops. Honest. Raw. "But I can't sleep. Can't think. Can't focus on anything except how much I want you to touch me again."
My hand lifts. Cups her jaw. Thumb stroking the pulse point that's racing under her skin. "Neve."
"Magnus." My name on her lips breaks something in me. Some carefully maintained wall between want and action.
I kiss her. Slower than before. Still hungry but exploring instead of consuming. Learning the taste of her mouth. The way she responds when I angle her head just right. How she makes this sound in her throat when I deepen the kiss gradually instead of taking immediately.
She melts into me. Hands coming up to grip my shoulders. Meeting my kiss with matching hunger. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just pure response that tells me everything I need to know about how much she wants this too.
I break the kiss. Pull back just enough to watch her face. Both of us breathing hard. Her hands still fisted in my shirt. My thumb still stroking her jaw.
"Last chance to walk away." The words are rough. Direct. "Once we do this, I won't let you go."
"Good." Her voice is fierce. "I'm angry and scared and I want you so much I can't breathe."
The declaration does something to me. This woman who's been running for her life, who lost everything, who has every reason to keep distance—she's choosing this. Demanding I take what I want.
"No backing out then." I step closer. Crowd her space. "I'll want to keep you."
"Then keep me." Her hands tighten on my shoulders. Eyes locked on mine. "For now."
For now. Temporary. Until the storm clears and reality crashes back in. She's offering what I can accept—no promises, no expectations, just raw need while we're trapped here together.
The dark possessive part of me that's been growing since she hauled herself into my plane wants more than now. Wants permanently. Wants her in my bed and in my life and under my protection in ways that go beyond survival partnership.
I lift her into my arms. She makes a sound of surprise that becomes approval as I carry her toward the bedroom. Her arms loop around my neck. Face buried against my shoulder. Trusting me with her weight, her body, her vulnerability.
"For now." I push open the bedroom door with my shoulder. Carry her to the bed that still smells like her. "But know this—I don't share. While you're mine, you're mine. No half measures. No hesitation. You give me everything or we stop right now."
Her answer comes without pause. "Everything."
I lay her on the bed. Stand over her looking down at this woman who crashed into my life bleeding and terrified and is now looking up at me with hunger that matches my own. My shirt rides up her thighs, exposing skin. Her hair spreads across my pillow like she belongs there.
She sits up. Reaches for my belt buckle with steady hands. Works the leather. Pops the button on my jeans. Lowers the zipper with deliberate slowness while holding my gaze.
"Then stop talking." Her fingers hook in my waistband. Pull me closer. "And show me what mine means."