Chapter 17 - Rylie
Rylie
Iwoke slowly, wrapped in warmth.
Not just the crackling fire or the thick quilt pulled up around my shoulders—but him. Trigger’s arm was heavy across my waist, his hand resting low on my stomach like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there.
For a moment, I stayed still.
Listened.
The cabin was quiet except for the soft pop of embers and the steady rhythm of his breathing behind me. The storm from last night had passed, leaving a hush so complete it felt unreal. Safe.
My chest tightened at the word. I loved this cabin, I never wanted to leave it.
I hadn’t slept like this in over a year. Not deeply. Not without waking every few hours, heart racing, bracing for something to go wrong.
But this morning, I felt… held.
Carefully, I turned just enough to look at him.
Trigger was still asleep, his brow relaxed in a way I’d never seen before. The hard lines softened. The weight he carried—danger, responsibility, restraint—eased just a little. One arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other still anchoring me in place.
Last night came back in fragments.
The way his voice had roughened when he said my name.
The way he’d taken his time, like there was nowhere else he needed to be.
The way he’d looked at me afterward—quiet, reverent, like I wasn’t something temporary.
My throat tightened.
I shifted, intending to slip out of bed without waking him.
His arm tightened instantly.
“Don’t,” he murmured, voice low and sleep-heavy. “Wasn’t done holding you.”
Heat bloomed low in my stomach.
“I wasn’t leaving,” I whispered. “Just… stretching.”
One eye opened. Then the other.
He studied my face for a long moment, like he was checking to make sure I was really still there. When he seemed satisfied, his hand slid up my side, warm and possessive, pulling me closer.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
I nodded. “Better than okay.”
His thumb brushed my ribs absently. Intimate. Unthinking.
“Last night wasn’t a mistake,” he said.
“I know.”
“I don’t regret it.”
“I know that too.”
Silence settled between us—not awkward. Comfortable. Earned.
But beneath it, something shifted.
Trigger’s gaze sharpened slightly, his body tensing beneath mine.
“What?” I asked softly.
He listened for a moment longer, eyes unfocused like he was tracking something far away.
“Nothing,” he said—but his tone said everything.
I pushed up on one elbow. “Eli.”
He sighed quietly. “Habit. I wake up, checking the perimeter.”
“Even here?”
“Especially here.”
That reminder steadied the warmth in my chest. Something realer. We weren’t pretending danger didn’t exist. We were choosing each other anyway.
I traced a line along his shoulder, grounding him the way he grounded me. “Does that bother you?” I asked. “That last night… happened in the middle of all this?”
His hand slid to my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek. “It makes me more certain.”
“Of what?”
“Of you.” His voice was calm. Absolute. “Of us.”
My heart stumbled.
He kissed me then—slow and unhurried, nothing like last night’s heat. This kiss was softer. Deeper in a different way. Like a promise being reinforced instead of made.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine.
“Once this is over,” he said quietly, “we talk about what comes next.”
I smiled. “You already planning that far ahead?”
“I don’t do halfway,” he reminded me.
A sound broke the moment—a sharp buzz cutting through the quiet.
Trigger stilled instantly, reaching for his phone on the nightstand.
One glance at the screen and his expression hardened.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Wolf,” he said. “Something’s off in town.”
The warmth lingered between us even as the tension crept back in.
Trigger swung his legs out of bed, already shifting into protector mode—but before he could stand, I reached for his hand.
“Hey.”
He looked back at me.
“Whatever’s coming,” I said steadily, “we face it together.”
His fingers tightened around mine.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “We do.”
And just like that, the quiet morning fractured—reminding me that love didn’t pause danger.
It met it head-on.
Trigger finished checking the locks and windows, his movements quick but quiet. When he turned back toward the bed, his gaze softened again—like he was deliberately stepping out of one world and back into another.
“You need a minute,” he said, more statement than question.
I nodded, pulling the quilt tighter around me even though the chill had nothing to do with temperature. Everything had rushed back in too fast—danger, Thomas, town, reality.
Trigger crossed the room in two strides and knelt in front of me, bringing us eye to eye.
“Hey,” he said softly.
His hands settled on my knees, warm and steady, grounding me in a way nothing else could. I let out a slow breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
“I hate how fast it all comes back,” I admitted. “The fear.”
He leaned in, resting his forehead against mine. “I know.”
The simplicity of it—no fixing, no dismissing—made my chest ache.
His thumb brushed over my knee, slow and deliberate, and heat curled through me again, surprising in its intensity. Like my body hadn’t forgotten last night. Like it was still listening.
“You okay?” he murmured.
I nodded. “I just… need to remember I’m here. Not there.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Then let me help.”
He kissed me—not urgent, not heated. Just warm. Present. A kiss meant to anchor instead of claim.
But it didn’t stay that way.
The second his lips lingered, the quiet hunger returned, deeper this time. His hands slid up my thighs, slow enough to make me shiver, firm enough to make me feel wanted. Seen.
I leaned into him, my hands finding his shoulders, fingers curling into muscle and heat and solidity.
“Eli,” I breathed.
His breath hitched. “I know.”
He kissed me again, deeper now, his hand slipping beneath the edge of the quilt, resting against my hip. Not rushing. Just reminding me of everything we’d already shared—and everything we hadn’t finished yet.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against my shoulder, his breath uneven.
“This still doesn’t change anything,” he said quietly. “You don’t owe me comfort because I’m protecting you.”
I lifted his chin so he had to look at me. “I’m not giving you comfort.”
His eyes darkened.
“I’m choosing you.”
Something in his expression shifted—like restraint tightening instead of loosening.
“Rylie,” he warned gently.
I smiled. “Five minutes,” I whispered. “Before we have to be brave again.”
He exhaled, a low, helpless sound.
“Five,” he agreed.
And for those five stolen minutes, the world stayed outside the cabin.
No Thomas.
No fear.
Just warmth, closeness, and the quiet certainty that whatever came next—we weren’t facing it alone.