4. Mason
Mason
The storm rages outside like it wants to tear the Steel Mountains down to their bones.
Wind screams through the pines and slams against the cabin walls with violent gusts that make the whole structure groan.
Snow piles higher against the windows, blocking out any trace of moonlight.
Inside the wood stove crackles steadily.
I lie on the couch, my large frame barely fitting on the damn thing, legs hanging off the end.
The cushions are too soft and the blanket too thin. Sleep refuses to come.
Riley sleeps in the big bed across the room, curled up small under my heavy quilts.
Her breathing is soft and even now, but I can’t stop watching her.
The firelight dances across her face, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheek and the way her dark hair spills across the pillow.
Every shift of her body under the blankets reminds me how close she is.
How vulnerable. How badly I want to cross the room, pull her into my arms, and show her exactly how protected she is with me.
I toss and turn again, the couch creaking under my weight.
My shoulder still aches from an old injury, and the hard surface does nothing to help.
I adjust the blanket over my lap, trying to ignore the way my body reacts to her nearness.
She’s an assignment. A witness. Nothing more.
But fuck if my mind doesn’t keep imagining peeling those borrowed clothes off her and tasting every inch of that soft skin.
A small whimper breaks the quiet. Riley stirs in the bed, her body tensing under the quilts.
Another sound escapes her, sharper this time, filled with fear.
She jerks suddenly, eyes flying open as she sits up with a gasp.
Her chest rises and falls fast, hair wild around her flushed face.
The firelight catches the sheen of tears in her eyes.
“Mason?” Her voice comes out small and shaky, cutting straight through me.
I’m on my feet before I even think about it, crossing the room in three strides. The wooden floor is cool under my bare feet. “I’m here. What’s wrong?”
She hugs her knees to her chest, trembling. “Nightmares. I keep seeing the alley. The blood. The man falling. Then they find me here and hurt you too. I… I can’t stop seeing it.”
The fear in her voice twists something deep in my chest. I sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. She looks so small wrapped in my quilts, so innocent in my space. I want to pull her into my lap and hold her until every bad memory disappears.
“You’re all right,” I say, voice raw and steady. “No one’s getting through that storm or past me. Breathe, little one.”
She nods but her breathing stays ragged. After a long moment she looks up at me with those wide eyes. “Will you… will you sleep in the bed with me? Just for tonight? I know it’s a lot to ask but I feel better when you’re close.”
The request hits me hard. Every instinct screams to protect her, to give her whatever she needs. I should say no. Should keep that professional distance. But the fear in her eyes wins.
“Yeah,” I rumble. “I will.”
I climb onto the bed and stretch out on top of the heavy quilts while she stays underneath them.
The barrier feels necessary. My body is too aware of hers.
The heat from the stove warms the room, but her closeness warms me more.
She shifts closer until her head rests near my shoulder.
The fragrance of her hair, clean and sweet with that vanilla trace, fills my lungs.
I keep one arm behind my head, the other resting on top of the quilt near her.
“Tell me about your father,” I say quietly, wanting to distract her from the nightmares. “What’s he like?”
Riley relaxes a little against me, her voice soft in the firelit dark.
“He raised me alone after my mom died of cancer when I was twelve. It was just the two of us. He worked long hours at the factory but he always made sure I had dinner and someone to talk to. I started baking to make him smile. Chocolate chip cookies first. Then cinnamon rolls on Sundays. He said they were the best thing in his week.”
Her words paint a picture I can see clearly. A little girl with flour on her cheeks trying to bring light into a hard life. It makes the protective fire in me burn hotter.
“He believed in me,” she continues, voice growing warmer with the memories.
“When I wanted to open the bakery he used his savings to help fund it. The Little Flour Shop. It was small but it was mine. He’d come in every morning for coffee and whatever I had fresh out of the oven.
He was so proud. Even when money was tight he never let me give up. ”
I listen as she talks, her voice weaving through the howl of the storm. The way she describes her father, the love in her tone, it hits something deep. She’s known real loss and still kept that soft sparkle. I want to shield that sparkle. Keep it guarded.
She keeps talking until her words slow and her breathing evens out.
Favorite memories spill from her. Late nights baking together when she was young.
The way her dad would dance with her in the kitchen to old radio songs.
How he cried the day she opened the bakery doors.
Her voice grows softer, sleep pulling her under again.
I stay perfectly still, listening to every word. Her body relaxes fully against my side, warm and trusting even through the quilts. Outside the blizzard continues its assault, wind screaming and snow battering the cabin. But in here it feels almost peaceful.
She falls asleep mid-sentence, a small sigh escaping her lips.
I turn my head slightly to watch her. Long lashes resting on her cheeks.
Soft mouth slightly parted. She looks peaceful now.
Cared for. The urge to pull her closer fights with my control.
I stay on top of the quilts, one hand resting lightly on the fabric over her hip. Protective. Present. All night.
Sleep comes in fits for me. Every creak of the cabin makes me tense, listening for threats that can’t reach us through the storm.
But mostly I stay awake thinking about the woman beside me.
How she ended up in my care. How badly I want more than just protection.
The way she calls to every dominant part of me with her innocence and quiet strength.
Morning light filters weakly through the boarded windows, gray and muted. The storm still rages outside, wind howling without mercy. Snow continues to pile against the cabin. We’re not going anywhere today.
I slide carefully out of the bed, muscles stiff from the awkward position.
Riley stirs but stays asleep, burrowed deeper into the quilts.
I move to the small kitchen area, the wooden floor cool under my feet.
I crack a few eggs into a cast iron pan, the sizzle loud in the quiet cabin.
The rich smell of cooking eggs fills the space.
I toast thick slices of bread over the stove, the edges turning golden and crisp.
Riley wakes as I plate the food. She sits up slowly, hair messy and eyes soft with sleep. My borrowed T-shirt slips off one shoulder, exposing smooth skin, and I go still for a beat.
“Morning,” she says, voice husky and cute. “Something smells amazing.”
“Eggs and toast,” I reply, carrying the plates over. “Nothing fancy but it’ll keep you warm.”
She takes the plate with a grateful smile, her fingers brushing mine. That small contact sends heat straight through me. We eat together at the small table, the storm still raging outside. Her presence fills the cabin completely. Sweet. Soft. Tempting.
I watch her over my coffee, knowing the next days and weeks are going to test every bit of control I’ve got left. Riley Thompson’s dangerous in ways the Moretti family could never be.
She’s going to wreck me.
And I’m not sure I mind.