2. Bennett
BENNETT
T he cold is an old friend, but tonight it feels like an enemy. I hike the small, shivering woman higher against my chest, my boots crunching through the deep powder as I navigate the steep incline toward my cabin. Every step is a battle against the mountain I usually call my only companion.
The wind screams, whipping snow into the jagged scars that map my body. I feel the phantom ache in my right shoulder and the deep, throbbing pull in my left thigh - reminders of the day a roadside IED in a valley halfway across the world ended my career and nearly my life.
I’ve had multiple surgeries and enough titanium to build a small engine just to keep me upright, but they couldn’t fix the part of me that died in that sand. The emptiness, the ache, the darkness that itches the corners of my mind.
When I woke up alone in a hospital stateside, I knew my military career was over. I’m a retired ghost, a man who came to Hollow Peak to be forgotten by a world that has no use for a broken soldier.
But as I look down at the woman in my arms, I feel a heartbeat that isn't mine thrumming against my ribs. It’s the loudest thing I’ve heard in years, each beat clearing the cobwebs in my mind until all that’s left is her.
She’s still breathing, thank Christ. She’s alive. Her shallow breaths and fluttering pulse ignite a new purpose deep in my bones. I don’t know where the hell she came from, but I don’t think she’ll be going back anytime soon. I’m going to do everything in my power to keep her with me for good.
I don’t know her name or anything about her, but she’s absolutely stunning. Even under the layer of frost and the smudge of grease on her cheek, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Her curves are soft, plush against the hard, unforgiving planes of my chest, and her skin looks like cream.
She’s delicate, so damn fragile I’m afraid my grip might break her. However, I saw the way she fought to stay conscious in that wreck. There’s a steel thread of strength buried deep inside that softness, a resilience that calls out to the protector I tried to bury.
I don’t deserve her. A man like me, jaded, rough, and scarred inside and out, has no business holding something so precious.
My hands are stained with things she shouldn't even have to dream about. I should get her warm, get her to a hospital, and walk away back into the shadows. This act of pulling her from her SUV won’t make up for a lifetime of sins, but it’s a start.
I should be thankful to even have this small amount of time with her.
Yes, I’ll get her patched up and sent on her way. That’s all I can offer.
But as I reach my porch, my fingers tighten instinctively.
I can’t let her go. The thought of another man’s hands on her, of some city boy trying to claim this light as his own, makes a primal growl vibrate in my throat.
I haven't even known her for an hour, but my soul is already snarling at the universe: Mine.
My brain screams at me to get her to safety and leave her be, but every other cell in my body knows she’ll never belong to anyone else. It feels like my chest is being ripped in half, but none of that matters now.
I kick the door open and step into the heavy, cedar-scented warmth of the cabin. The shift in temperature makes her stir, her small yet curvy body shuddering as the heat begins to fight the hypothermia. Her thick, dark lashes flutter, and then she opens her eyes.
They’re wide, searching, and so incredibly pure.
Looking into them is like staring into a clear mountain spring before the world has had a chance to muddy it.
Her bright green eyes are filled with an innocence that tears at my gut, her pupils blown wide with shock and something else.
Something that looks like trust. I’m a beast, a monster of the mountain, and she’s looking at me like I’m her savior.
The conflict rips through me once more. I’m too harsh for her, too broken, but the possessive urge to claim her is a roar I can't silence. The mountain gave her to me, delivering her through the storm, and I’m keeping her. I will be the walls that protect her and the fire that keeps her warm.
"You're safe," I rumble, my voice sounding like gravel underfoot. The sound is jarring in the quiet cabin.
"Thank you," she whispers, her voice a tiny, exhausted, whimper of sound that makes my heart squeeze.
I set her down on the thick bear-skin rug by the hearth.
My hands are trembling - not from the cold, but from the terrifying proximity to her.
I move with a frantic, focused energy I haven't felt since my last tour.
I find a pair of my thickest wool socks and one of my oversized flannels, the fabric heavy and worn.
"You need to get out of these wet clothes," I say, my back turned to give her a semblance of privacy, though every instinct I have wants to watch over her, to ensure she’s still here and still breathing.
"I... I’m so tired," she murmurs, her fingers fumbling uselessly with the buttons of her coat.
I don't wait. I can't let her stay in those frozen rags.
I fuss over her like a man possessed, my large, calloused fingers moving with a gentleness I didn't know I still had in me.
With hands that have dismantled rifles and held the weight of dying men, I begin to peel away the icy layers of her coat and sweater.
I move slowly, my breath hitching as I reveal the soft, cream-colored skin beneath.
She is a vision of curves and moonlight, so breathtakingly beautiful that my chest tightens up painfully.
Every instinct I have screams at me to touch her, to pull her against my heat and never let go, but I hold myself back with a brutal, iron-willed restraint.
She’s too fragile for my brand of hunger right now.
I focus instead on the dark bruise blooming across her temple like a purple flower on silk.
My thumb traces the edge of the swelling with a tenderness that feels entirely alien to my rough palms, my heart thundering against my ribs as I tend to the scrapes on her knees and arms with a damp cloth.
Once she’s clean and dry, I help her into my clothes.
Her curvy yet small frame is utterly swallowed by my heavy flannel, the hem reaching her mid-thigh and the sleeves hanging inches past her fingertips.
The sight of her draped in my scent and my clothes does something dangerous to my head.
It looks like a brand, like a silent, undeniable declaration to the mountain and every living thing on it that she belongs to me.
I turn to the fireplace, stacking seasoned cedar logs with efficient, violent strikes of the poker.
I strike a match, and soon a roaring fire is crackling, casting a golden, flickering glow over her pale face.
The light catches the dark red of her auburn hair and the softness of her lips, and I have to look away before I do something reckless, like kiss the life back into her.
"What's your name?" I ask, stoking the flames until they roar.
"Acacia," she breathes, the name sounding like a prayer. "I was... moving here. To the cottage on the edge of the peak."
"You weren't going to make it in that storm. Not in that car, and certainly not alone." I’m sure I sound like a grizzly bear and look like a mad man stabbing the already well-established flames.
"I know," she says, her eyes drifting shut, her body finally beginning to relax into the heat. "I thought... I was gone. I was so scared."
"No," I growl, looking back at her with a fierce intensity. "Not while I’m breathing. You don't have to be scared of anything ever again."
Jesus, I’m insane. I’m going to scare my little bird away before I get a chance to convince her to stay.
I can’t have her flying away on me. I’d never clip her wings; I only want to see her soar.
And then, I want her to come back home to me, where I’ll spoil her and protect her and give her the life she deserves.
She tries to say something else, a question or perhaps another thank you, but it comes out as a yawn.
Big green eyes blink a few times, her lids staying closed longer and longer with each blink.
Acacia manages a small smile before closing her eyes for good, her head resting against the bundle of blankets. The exhaustion has finally won.
I stand, my knees popping from the cold and old injuries.
Scooping her up again, I’m mindful of her head.
I carry her into my bedroom, which is the the only room with a real mattress.
I’ve spent countless restless nights here, staring up at the ceiling in the dark, wondering when I’d finally slip from the land of the living into the realm of the dead.
I was so sure no one would notice. But now…
Looking down at the woman in my arms, I feel like I have a reason to fight.
I have a reason to stay. A reason to keep breathing.
I lay her down in the center of the bed, marveling at the way the white sheets make her auburn hair look even darker.
I tuck the heavy furs and quilts around her until only her face is visible, a small island of warmth in the middle of my cold life.
I linger there for a long time in the dark, lit only by the faint glow of the fire from the other room, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. She smells like my soap and the crisp mountain air, and I know right then that the empty, hollow peace of isolation is over.
I’m not a solitary man anymore. I’m a guardian. A protector. I’m hers as much as she’s mine. Soon, she’ll know it, too.