3. Riley
Riley
The wood stove crackles steadily in the corner of the cabin.
I sit on the edge of the big bed, knees drawn up to my chest, still wearing my flour-stained clothes from what feels like another lifetime.
The heavy quilts under me are thick and warm, but they can’t chase away the chill that has settled deep in my bones.
Outside the boarded windows the blizzard howls like an angry beast, wind rattling the glass and snow piling higher with every passing minute.
I can’t stop thinking about my father. He lives alone in that little house on the edge of Denver, the one with the creaky porch swing and the garden he tends every spring.
He’s probably worried sick right now, staring at the phone that won’t ring because I no longer have access to my phone.
The thought makes my chest tight. He has already lost so much. I hate that I’m adding to his worry.
“Mason,” I say softly, my voice barely carrying over the storm. “Do you think I could call my dad? Just for a minute? He lives by himself and he’s going to be so scared when he doesn’t hear from me.”
Mason stands near the kitchen counter, his massive frame taking up so much space in the small cabin.
He turns those steel-gray eyes on me, intense and unreadable.
Snow still melts in his dark hair from when he checked the perimeter earlier.
He looks like he could crush mountains with his bare hands, yet there’s something careful in the way he watches me now.
“We’ll get a message out,” he says, his voice filled with concern “I can’t let you talk to him directly. Too risky. But my team will check on him. Make sure he knows you’re alive. That’s the best I can do right now, little one.”
The words settle over me like a warm blanket. Some of the tight knot in my chest loosens. “Really? You would do that?”
He nods once, a sharp motion, his teeth briefly clenching before his expression settles again. “Already handled. Jax is on it. Your father will know you’re okay.”
Relief washes through me so strongly that tears prick at my eyes. I blink them back quickly, offering him a small, shaky smile. “Thank you. That means more than you know. He is all I have left.”
Mason studies me for a long moment, something softer flickering behind that hard exterior. Then he clears his throat. “You need to warm up properly. Take a shower. There are towels in the bathroom. I’ll find you some clean clothes.”
I hesitate, glancing toward the small bathroom door. The idea of hot water sounds like heaven after hours in the freezing snow, but being naked in his cabin feels intimate in a way that makes my stomach flutter with nervous butterflies. Still, my body aches from the cold and the fear, so I nod.
“Okay. Thank you.”
The bathroom is tiny but surprisingly clean.
I close the door behind me and lean against it for a second, breathing in the faint smell of soap and Mason that lingers everywhere.
My hands shake slightly as I peel off my dirty clothes, letting them drop to the floor with soft thuds.
The mirror is already fogging from the steam as I turn on the shower.
Hot water sprays out strong and steady, filling the small space with thick clouds of mist that smell clean and mineral.
I step under the stream and gasp at the first rush of heat.
It cascades over my shoulders and down my back, soothing the sore muscles and washing away layers of dried sweat and fear.
I tilt my head back, letting the water soak my hair, the warmth seeping into my scalp and running in rivulets down my face.
The soap Mason left for me smells like cedar and something earthy, and as I lather it over my arms and chest I try to focus on the simple pleasure of being clean instead of the nightmare playing behind my eyes.
But the memories come anyway. The sharp crack of the gunshot in the alley.
The way the man’s body jerked before crumpling to the wet pavement.
Blood, dark and glistening under the streetlight.
The killer’s cold eyes meeting mine for one terrifying second.
I press my forehead against the cool tile wall, breathing hard as hot water pounds against my back.
My heart races again, the fear returning sharp and heavy in my chest.
I stay under the spray longer than I need to, letting the heat chase away the worst of the chills.
When I finally turn off the water the silence feels loud, broken only by the distant howl of the storm.
I dry off with one of the thick towels, the soft fabric rough against my sensitive skin.
It smells like Mason too, clean and masculine.
A soft knock sounds on the door. “Clothes on the hook outside,” Mason calls, voice muffled but still commanding.
I crack the door open just enough to grab the bundle.
One of his large white t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants.
The shirt swallows me completely, the hem falling to mid-thigh, carrying his scent so strongly that I press my face into the fabric for a second and breathe him in.
The sweatpants are way too big, but I roll the waistband several times until they stay up.
When I step back into the main room the heat from the stove hits me full force.
Mason stands by the window, staring out into the blizzard like he can see through the boards.
His broad back is tense, muscles shifting under his shirt as he crosses his arms. The space feels smaller with Mason in it, crowded by the sheer force of his presence.
I hover near the bed, twisting my hands together. The memories crash back harder now. The blood. The gunshot. The killer’s face. My breathing picks up, shallow and fast. Tears burn behind my eyes again.
“Mason,” I whisper, voice cracking. “I keep seeing it. The man in the alley. The way he fell. What if they find me here? What if they hurt my dad to get to me?”
He turns immediately, those steely eyes softening just a fraction as he crosses the room in three long strides. Before I can overthink it he pulls me into his arms, wrapping me up against his solid chest. He’s so warm. So big. His heartbeat thuds strong and steady under my cheek.
“You’re okay now, Riley,” he murmurs, his voice carrying that whiskey-and-smoke rasp I can’t ignore.
One large hand strokes slowly down my back, the other cradling the back of my neck.
“No one’s getting through that storm or past me.
I promise you that. Your father’s being checked on. You’re going to be okay. I’ve got you.”
I melt into him, burying my face deeper into his chest as fresh tears slip down my cheeks and soak into his shirt.
His arms tighten around me, strong and protective, holding me like he won’t ever let anything touch me again.
The feel of his hard body against mine, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the rough texture of his callused hand on my neck, it all works together to slowly push the worst of the fear back.
“I’ve never been this scared before,” I admit against his chest, my voice muffled and small. “I just bake bread and read books and dream about silly romantic things. I’m not built for mob hits and witness protection and hiding in cabins with growly marshals.”
A low sound rumbles in his chest, almost like a chuckle. His hand keeps stroking my back in slow, soothing circles. “You’re doing better than most would. Stronger than you think. And I’m not letting anything happen to you. Not on my watch.”
We stay like that for a long time. The storm howls outside, but inside the cabin, warmth wraps around me and the world feels distant.
I sink against him, acutely aware of the solid line of his chest and the strength that surrounds me on all sides.
My brain whispers that this is the part where the grumpy protector starts to fall, but my heart just wants to believe him when he says I’m no longer in danger.
Eventually he pulls back just enough to look down at me, his thumb brushing a tear from my cheek. His touch is surprisingly gentle for such a big, rough man. Those gray eyes hold mine, darker now with something that looks a lot like want.
“Get some rest,” he says quietly. “I’ll take the couch. You need the bed tonight.”
I nod, but I don’t let go of his shirt right away. Being close to him feels too good. Too right. The fear is still there, lingering at the edges, but Mason’s presence pushes it back. He makes me feel protected in a way I’ve never experienced before.
As I climb into the big bed and pull the heavy quilts over me, I watch him settle on the couch. His big body looks almost comically large on it, legs hanging off the end. He keeps one eye on the door and the other on me, that protective vigilance never fading.
The storm continues to howl outside, but I fall asleep to the sound of the wood stove and the steady rhythm of Mason breathing across the room, feeling safer than I have any right to in the middle of all this danger.
Tomorrow the storm might still rage, but for tonight I have a mountain of a marshal standing between me and the monsters. And somehow that makes all the difference.