7. Riley
Riley
The cabin door slams shut behind us with a heavy thud that cuts off the screaming wind, but the storm still rages in my ears like an echo I can’t shake.
Snow melts off my hair and drips down my neck in icy trails that make me shiver hard.
My borrowed t-shirt clings to my skin, soaked through and freezing, the fabric heavy and cold against my breasts and stomach.
My bare feet are numb from the snow I ran through to help Mason, and every step leaves wet footprints across the wooden floor. My stomach twists with worry.
Mason stands just inside the door, his big body tense, blood still dripping steadily from the gash on his left arm onto the floor.
The bright red drops stand out stark against the dark wood.
His jacket’s torn at the sleeve and soaked with snow and blood.
He looks powerful even hurt, shoulders broad and jaw set tight, but I can see the pain etched in the lines around his eyes.
“You’re bleeding,” I say, my voice shaky but determined as I step closer. “We need to look at your arm right now. Take off your jacket so I can clean it properly.”
He doesn’t seem to hear me. Those piercing eyes lock onto me instead, scanning my wet hair and soaked clothes with intense focus. Snowflakes still cling to my lashes and melt on my cheeks, and the cold seeps deeper into my bones with every second.
“You’re soaked through,” he growls, voice filled with worry. “You’re going to get sick or freeze if we don’t get you dry. Sit down.”
“But your arm?—”
“Riley.” His tone leaves no room for argument. He moves past me toward the shelf by the bed. He grabs a thick towel. It looks soft and clean, probably one of the few spare ones in the cabin. “You’re more important right now. Come here, little one.”
My heart does a funny little flip at the way he says it.
Little one. Protective and commanding all at once.
I like it more than I should, especially after everything that’s happened.
I’ve never had someone put me first like this.
Not really. Not the way Mason does, like my comfort matters more than his own bleeding wound.
I move toward him slowly, my wet feet making soft squelching sounds on the floor.
The heat from the wood stove washes over me in waves, but it’s not enough to chase away the deep chill from the snow.
Mason turns me gently so my back is to him, then drapes the towel over my head.
His large hands start working through my hair, rubbing the fabric in slow, careful circles to soak up the water.
The towel feels warm and soft against my scalp, and his fingers press just firm enough through the material to send little sparks down my spine. His body emits heat behind me, solid and reassuring. Every brush of his hands makes my breath catch.
“You ran out into the storm without even shoes,” he mutters, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me. “What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking you were hurt,” I whisper, leaning back into his touch despite myself. “I couldn’t just sit there and watch you struggle.”
His hands pause for a second, then continue drying my hair with even more care.
The towel moves down to the ends, squeezing gently.
Water drips onto the floor between us, but I barely notice.
All I can focus on is the way his fingers occasionally brush the back of my neck, rough calluses against my sensitive skin.
It sends heat pooling low in my belly, a contrast to the cold still clinging to my body.
“You’re freezing,” he says, voice tighter now.
He steps even closer, his chest brushing my back as he works the towel around to the front.
His arms settle on either side of me. He isn't quite touching me, but the warmth of his body lingers at my back, close enough to make me forget how to breathe.
The towel moves over my shoulders and down my arms, soaking up the moisture from my soaked t-shirt.
Every pass of the fabric makes the wet material cling tighter before he dries it, outlining my breasts and the curve of my waist.
I should feel embarrassed, but I don’t. I feel seen. Taken care of. The way he prioritizes me even while blood still trickles down his arm makes something warm and fluttery bloom in my chest.
This is what having a real protector feels like. A growly mountain daddy who puts you first no matter what.
“Mason, your arm is still bleeding,” I try again, my voice breathier than I intend. “Please let me help you.”
“Not until you’re dry,” he replies firmly.
One of his hands slides the towel down my back, pressing it against my spine.
The pressure feels so good I have to bite my lip to hold back a small sound.
His other hand works through my hair again, fingers combing gently to separate the strands.
The sensation is intimate and soothing, sending tingles across my scalp and down my neck.
The cabin feels smaller with him so close.
The wood stove crackles loudly, warming me up.
The slow rhythm of his breathing brushes against my spine, each inhale lifting me slightly before settling me back into the cradle of his arms. My nipples tighten against the cold wet fabric, visible and sensitive, and I know he can see it. The thought makes my cheeks burn.
“You’re important too,” I murmur, leaning into him more. “I don’t like seeing you hurt because of me.”
His hands still for a moment. Then he turns me around to face him, the towel now draped over my shoulders.
His eyes are darker, heated as they move over my face and down my body.
The wet t-shirt clings to every curve, leaving almost nothing to the imagination.
I should cover myself, but I don’t. I like the way he looks at me.
Like I’m something precious and desirable all at once.
“You’re not the reason I am hurt,” he says, voice rough. “The storm is. And I would walk through worse to keep you out of danger.”
He lifts the towel again and gently dries my face, his thumb brushing my cheek through the fabric.
The touch is so tender for such a big, rough man that tears prick at my eyes.
No one has ever taken care of me like this.
Not with this kind of focused intensity.
His fingers move to my hair again, squeezing water from the strands and letting them fall damp against my shoulders.
Every movement builds the heat between us, slow and undeniable.
The chemistry crackles like the fire in the stove, making the air feel thick and charged.
I reach up and touch his injured arm lightly, feeling the warmth of blood against my fingertips. “Mason, please. Let me look at it now. I can’t stand seeing you bleed.”
He looks down at me for a long moment, saying nothing, but the silence between us feels charged. Then he nods once. “Fine. But you stay close where I can keep you warm.”
He finally shrugs off his heavy jacket, wincing as the movement pulls at the gash.
The shirt underneath is torn and bloody, the fabric dark with moisture.
I grab the first aid kit, my hands shaking slightly as I clean the wound.
The antiseptic stings sharply, and he doesn’t even flinch.
His eyes stay on me the whole time, watching every movement I make with that intense focus that makes my pulse race.
While I work, he keeps one hand on my waist, thumb stroking slow circles through the damp fabric of my shirt.
The touch is possessive and soothing all at once.
His palm settles against me, and warmth spreads through the cold material as though it isn't there at all. Every brush of his fingers sends sparks straight through me. I like this. I like being taken care of by him. I like how he puts me first even when he’s the one injured.
The tension between us keeps building as I bandage his arm.
Our faces are close, breaths mingling in the warm air.
His scent wraps around me, masculine and strong.
I can see the pulse beating in his neck, steady and powerful.
When I finish tying off the gauze, my fingers linger on his skin longer than necessary.
“Thank you,” I whisper, looking up at him through my lashes. “For letting me help. And for drying me off.”
His hand tightens on my waist, pulling me a fraction closer. “You come first, Riley. Always. Get used to it.”
The words settle deep inside me, warm and certain.
The storm continues to howl outside, but in here the air feels electric.
Full of promise and heat and something neither of us is ready to name yet.
I stay pressed against him, letting him take care of me, and for the first time since the nightmare began I feel truly cherished.
Mason Cole is dangerous in the best possible way. And I’m starting to think I don’t want him to stop taking care of me anytime soon.