Chapter 7 Emma
SEVEN
EMMA
By the time dinner is over, my stomach is full, my cheeks hurt from laughing, and my brain is doing that annoying thing where it tries to convince me this is normal.
As if I didn’t show up at a secret mountain compound like a deranged Nancy Drew with frostbite and a vendetta.
As if I’m not here because my sister is missing and I’m terrified something awful has happened to her.
As if the man walking beside me—quiet, intense Rhett—didn’t drag me out of the woods with one hand and then teach me how to break someone’s grip without breaking my own spirit.
Normal.
Sure.
We head back to Rhett’s cabin through the soft hush of snow, our boots crunching in sync. The compound lights glow warm behind us, and the sky above is ink-black, scattered with stars so bright it’s unfair. The air smells like pine and cold and smoke from the clubhouse chimney.
Rhett doesn’t talk much on the walk. He’s in that protective, watchful mode again. Head slightly angled, scanning, listening. Like the woods are speaking a language only he understands.
I keep stealing glances at him anyway. Which is probably dangerous for my health.
He’s all solid shoulders and quiet power, a man built out of sharp edges and self-control.
He wears silence like armor, but he’s not cold.
Not really. It’s just… like he saves all his warmth for the people he decides are worth it.
And somehow, through a series of terrible life choices and even worse timing, I’m inside that circle.
We step into the cabin, and he locks the door behind us automatically, then checks the windows like it’s second nature. The fire is low but still alive, and the warmth hits my skin like a blanket.
Rhett shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it over a chair. He rolls his shoulders once, like he’s trying to shake off the day.
My chest tightens with something that isn’t fear for once.
It’s guilt.
Because every night since I got here, I’ve taken his bed.
And every night, he’s taken the couch.
Like that’s the logical arrangement. Like it doesn’t matter that he barely fits on that couch. Like it doesn’t matter that he probably sleeps with one eye open anyway. Like it doesn’t matter that he’s doing it for me.
I stand in the middle of the room, twisting my fingers together. “Rhett?” I say softly.
He looks at me, brows lifting slightly. “Yeah.”
“There’s room in the bed,” I blurt.
Silence.
His gaze sharpens, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m serious or setting a trap. “I’ll be fine,” he says.
“No.” I shake my head. “You won’t. That couch is like… a medieval torture device pretending to be furniture.”
His mouth twitches. “It’s functional.”
“Everything is ‘functional’ with you,” I mutter. Then I take a breath and force the words out. “I already feel like trouble. I showed up here out of nowhere. You’ve been babysitting me—don’t deny it, that’s exactly what it is—and now I’m taking your bed too.”
His jaw tightens at the word babysitting. “I’m not babysitting you.”
“You literally taught me how to elbow someone in the ribs today,” I say. “That’s like… Protective Daddy 101.”
His eyes narrow. “Don’t call me that.”
I hold up my hands. “Okay. Fine. Protective… Grump 101.”
He exhales through his nose like he’s trying not to laugh. “Emma.”
“I’m serious,” I say, stepping closer. My voice drops. “We can share. We’re adults. We can lie on opposite sides like… civilized humans who don’t panic at proximity.”
Rhett’s gaze holds mine. For a long moment, he doesn’t speak. He just looks at me like he’s weighing risk. Not tactical risk. Personal risk. Then his voice comes out low. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
“I’m not proving,” I say. “I’m… offering. Because I don’t want you hurting yourself on that couch just to make me feel safe.”
His eyes flick down to my mouth and back up again so fast I almost think I imagined it. But I don’t think I did. Because the air shifts. Like the room gets smaller. Like the space between us suddenly has weight.
He steps closer—just one step—until I can feel his heat. “You’re safe,” he says, voice rough.
“I know.” My throat is tight. “But you deserve to sleep too.”
For a second, he looks like he’s going to say no again. Then he closes his eyes briefly, like he’s making a decision he doesn’t want to admit he’s making. “Okay,” he says finally.
My heart stutters. “Okay?” I echo, half shocked he agreed.
He opens his eyes, and they’re darker now. “We share the bed. We sleep. That’s it.”
“Totally,” I say too fast. “Just sleep. No weirdness. No… bed shenanigans.”
His brow lifts. “Bed shenanigans.”
“Don’t judge my phrasing.”
“I’m judging it.”
I glare at him, but my cheeks are heating.
We move like we’re both trying to act normal. Like sliding into bed together is nothing. Like my pulse isn’t trying to break out of my ribs and sprint into the snow.
I go into the bedroom first, mostly because I need a second to breathe without Rhett’s presence making my brain glitch.
The room is dim and warm. The bed is big—too big for just one person, honestly—and it smells faintly like clean soap and cedar, like him. I hurry to the bathroom, brushing my teeth at record speeds. I change into one of his large t-shirts with nothing underneath.
I exit the bathroom, and Rhett is still in the other bathroom down the hall, getting ready to share this massive bed.
I climb in on one side, pulling the blanket up to my chest like it’s armor.
Rhett appears in the doorway a moment later, shirtless now, wearing sweatpants. My brain bluescreens.
Because… wow.
He’s not just big. He’s built. Hard lines, lean muscle, a scattering of faint scars across his ribs that make my stomach twist with a mix of curiosity and something tender.
He catches me staring.
I immediately stare at the ceiling like it owes me money.
“Comfortable?” he asks dryly.
“Extremely,” I squeak. “I love ceilings.”
He crosses the room and slides into bed on the other side, leaving a respectable amount of space between us. So much space I could fit a small emotional support dog in the gap.
We lie there in silence. And it’s loud. The crackle of the fire out in the living room. The wind against the windows. The steady rhythm of Rhett’s breathing beside me.
My body is hyperaware of everything—his presence, the heat he radiates, the way the mattress dips slightly under his weight.
I turn my head, unable to help myself.
Rhett is staring at the ceiling too, jaw tight like he’s holding himself in place by force. His voice comes out low. “It’s been a long time since I slept next to a woman.”
My heart flips. I swallow. “Yeah?”
He glances toward me, eyes sharp even in the dim. “Yeah.”
I hesitate, then let the truth slip out because something about the quiet feels honest. “I’ve never slept next to a man.”
Rhett stills.
I immediately panic. “Not like—because I’m not— I mean—”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Never?”
I shake my head, cheeks burning hot. “No. I’ve… never even kissed one.”
The silence that follows is thick. Not awkward. Charged.
Rhett turns onto his side slowly, facing me. In the dim, his gaze feels like a touch. “Why?” he asks, voice careful.
I shrug helplessly, staring at the blanket. “Life. Trauma. Bad choices. My sister being my whole world. And I… I never met anyone who felt safe. Anyone I wanted close.”
I glance up, and the way he’s looking at me makes my chest ache.
“Until now?” he asks softly.
My throat tightens. “Until you,” I whisper.
Rhett holds my gaze for a long moment, something in him shifting like a door unlocking. Then he reaches out slowly, giving me time to stop him. His knuckles brush along my cheek, warm and gentle.
“Tell me if you don’t want this,” he murmurs.
My lips part. I shake my head. “I want it,” I admit, voice trembling. “I’m just… nervous.”
A faint, almost-smile touches his mouth. “Good. So am I.”
That makes me laugh softly—breathy and disbelieving. “You?” I whisper.
He dips closer, his forehead nearly touching mine. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
My pulse goes wild.
He leans in and kisses me. It’s slow at first—just a soft press of his mouth to mine, like he’s testing. Like he’s making sure I’m real.
And then something in me melts. I kiss him back, clumsy and eager all at once, like my body has been waiting for this language and only now remembers how to speak it.
Rhett makes a low sound in his throat—something that vibrates through me—and his hand slides to the back of my neck, steadying me, deepening the kiss just enough to make my brain go blank.
His mouth is warm. He tastes faintly like toothpaste and something darker—something him.
The feel of his lips on mine is… too much and not enough all at once.
I grip his arm, fingers digging into muscle, needing an anchor.
He breaks the kiss just slightly, hovering close. His breath brushes my mouth. “You okay?” he asks, voice rough.
I nod, but it’s a pathetic little nod because I’ve forgotten how to be a functioning person. “Yes,” I whisper. “I’m okay.”
His gaze flicks over my face like he’s memorizing me. Then he kisses me again, slower, deeper, like he’s claiming time itself.
My whole body lights up.
His hand moves from my neck to my waist, pulling me closer until the gap between us disappears. The heat of him presses into me, and it’s intoxicating—safe and strong and overwhelming.
I gasp softly into his mouth, and Rhett pauses.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. “Emma.” The way he says my name makes it feel like a promise.
I swallow, breath shaking. “Rhett.”
His thumb strokes my cheek. “We can stop.”
I shake my head again, unable to stop myself from leaning closer. “Don’t.”
Something flashes in his eyes—need, restraint, reverence all tangled. He kisses my forehead, then my cheek, then the corner of my mouth like he’s trying to slow down, trying to do this right. And that tenderness is somehow hotter than anything else.