Chapter Five - Isabella
The hurricane screams outside like a living thing, wind howling through the dense pinelands and slamming against the lodge with relentless fury.
Rain lashes the metal storm shutters in heavy sheets, the sound a constant roar that vibrates through the thick timbers.
Inside, battery-powered lanterns cast flickering golden light across the main room, turning the isolated space into something intimate and cut off from the world.
I sit on the edge of the long leather couch, knees drawn up.
The Salt & Steel safe house feels both secure and impossibly small with Jax occupying so much of it.
He moves with quiet efficiency, checking the wood stove and securing a loose shutter.
His broad shoulders fill the dim space, and every time he passes near me, the air seems to thicken.
He has started calling me Bee, and the nickname feels personal. I find myself waiting for it now, that low rumble of his voice shaping the single syllable.
“Bee,” he says from across the room, voice cutting through the storm’s roar. “You should eat something. Storm’s only getting worse. We need to stay sharp.”
I glance at the small kitchen area where he has laid out supplies. “I brought a few things from home. Leftover Nettie’s biscuits from this morning are still wrapped in my bag. I saw some canned soup in the pantry.”
He nods once, that stoic expression never quite cracking, but I catch the faint softening around his eyes.
He heats the soup while I unwrap the biscuits.
The rich, buttery scent fills the lodge, a small comfort against the wild night.
We settle at the sturdy kitchen table with bowls of steaming soup and the slightly smashed but still delicious biscuits.
The meal feels oddly domestic, given the circumstances of two near-strangers sharing food while the world rages outside.
I dip a piece of biscuit into the soup, savoring the warmth. “This tastes like normal life. Hard to believe we’re trapped out here with a hurricane trying to tear the roof off.”
Jax grunts in agreement, tearing into his own biscuit with strong hands. “Better than MREs. You did well bringing these.”
The compliment lands softly, warming me more than the soup.
We eat in relative silence for a few minutes, the clink of spoons and the howl of wind the only sounds.
But the questions have been building inside me since he first walked into my cottage.
I want to know the man behind the call sign.
The one who stands watch all night and calls me Bee as if it is the most natural thing in the world.
“Tell me something real, Reaper,” I say, setting my spoon down. “You know almost everything about my life now. My work, my collection, the gala, the research into that ledger. I know next to nothing about you except that Cal trusts you with his life and you have a habit of brooding in corners.”
He leans back in his chair, his gaze meeting mine across the small table. Lantern light flickers over the hard planes of his face, highlighting the stubble along his jaw. “Not much to tell. I do the job. That’s it.”
I shake my head, refusing to let him deflect. “That’s not enough. Not tonight. Not when we’re stuck together like this. Why do you do this work? Why Salt & Steel? Why the name Reaper?”
He exhales slowly, staring into his bowl for a long moment. The wind howls louder, rattling the shutters. For a second, I think he will shut down completely, but then he speaks, voice low and rough.
“Cal and I served together. He walked away after a bad op. Lost a teammate. Took the blame even though it wasn’t his fault.
Came home to raise his nephew and built this team from nothing.
I followed because… I owed him. Still do.
” He pauses, fingers tightening around his spoon.
“I protect what needs protecting. People who can’t fight for themselves. That’s the job.”
There is a sliver of something deeper in his words, a protectiveness edged with hard-won discipline. It humanizes this big, stoic man who rarely smiles. I lean forward slightly, drawn in by the quiet revelation.
“You’re good at it,” I say softly. “But you carry a lot, don’t you? The weight of every mission. Every person you couldn’t save.”
His gaze sharpens on me, intense. “Some weights you learn to live with.”
The generator hums on, the lights flicker, dimming and brightening in warning. Letting us know we won’t have it back for long.
I glance toward the bedroom door and then at the long couch that is clearly too short for his tall frame. The tension that has simmered since we arrived now feels impossible to ignore.
I push my empty bowl aside. “You’re not sleeping on that couch, Reaper. It’s barely long enough for me. You take the bed. I’ll take the couch. It’s only fair.”
He shakes his head immediately, jaw set. “No. The couch is mine. You need real rest after last night, and with the injury on your arm. I’ve slept in worse places.”
“Exactly,” I counter, standing up and gathering the dishes. “You’ve sacrificed enough. This isn’t the battlefield. We’re adults. We can share the space fairly. The bed is big enough for both of us if we—”
“Bee.” His voice drops, firm and commanding. “I’m on the couch. End of discussion. I need to be able to move fast if something happens. Bed puts me in the wrong position.”
I set the bowls down harder than necessary, frustration and something warmer mixing inside me. “You’re impossible. Overprotective to a fault. I’m not some delicate flower that wilts in a storm.”
His eyes darken as he stands, towering over me in the flickering lantern light. “The couch keeps me closer to the door and the windows.”
The argument hangs between us, charged with more than just practicality. The storm roars outside, rain pounding the roof in a steady rhythm that matches the quickening beat of my heart. I open my mouth to push back again when his gaze drops to my bandaged arm.
“Come here,” he says, voice gentler now. “Let me check that graze. The wrapping got wet on the way over. Needs to be changed.”
I hesitate for only a second before stepping closer.
He pulls the first aid kit from the supply closet and motions for me to sit on the edge of the couch.
The leather dips under my weight. He kneels in front of me, the position bringing us eye to eye in the low light.
His hands are surprisingly gentle as he unwraps the old bandage, calloused fingers brushing my skin with careful precision.
The graze stings slightly as cool air hits it, but his touch sends a completely different kind of heat racing through me.
He cleans the wound with antiseptic wipes, his focus absolute.
His eyes stay locked on his work, but I feel the weight of his attention like a physical caress.
His fingers linger longer than necessary when he applies fresh gauze, smoothing the tape with slow, deliberate strokes.
Warmth spreads from the point of contact, traveling up my arm and pooling low in my belly.
My breath catches, and when I look up, his gaze has lifted to meet mine.
The generator continues its steady hum, but the air feels thicker, heavier. His thumb brushes just above the new bandage, a touch so light it could almost be accidental. Except nothing about Jax Harlan feels accidental.
“You’re healing clean,” he murmurs, voice rough. “But you need to keep it dry.”
I swallow, suddenly aware of how close his mouth is to mine. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t pull away immediately. His fingers stay on my arm, the heat of his skin searing through the thin sweater. The moment stretches, filled with unspoken tension and the wild roar of the hurricane outside.
My lips part, ready to say something, anything, when his phone vibrates loudly on the table.
He glances at the screen, jaw tightening, but he doesn’t move his hand from my arm right away.
R: Ops update. Power outages are spreading. Police still processing the pier scene, but forensics delayed by the storm. No new sightings of the black van. Stay sharp.
PJ: How’s the babysitting gig going, Reaper? Don’t let the pretty curator distract you from perimeter checks.
Cal: Shut the fuck up. Only use comms when necessary.
Jax silences the phone with a muttered curse, but I catch the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. I laugh softly, the sound breaking some of the heavy tension.
“Your team has jokes,” I say, still feeling the ghost of his touch on my arm. “Babysitting gig? Is that what they call protecting me?”
He shakes his head, finally pulling his hand back, though the heat lingers on my skin. “They’re idiots, but they mean well. Rhea runs a tight ship, and Cal doesn’t put up with any bullshit.”
I lean back on the couch, watching him with open curiosity as the lanterns flicker and the storm continues its assault. “They care about you. That much is clear. And they’re obviously enjoying the idea of you playing protector to the ‘pretty curator.’”
His eyes narrow on me, but there is heat in them now, unmistakable. “They don’t know you buzz around like a bee with too much energy and too much courage for your own good.”
The nickname lands warmly again. I smile, unable to help it. “Careful, Reaper. Keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you actually like having me around.”
He stands slowly, towering over me once more, the lantern light casting dramatic shadows across his rugged features.
The wind howls louder, rain hammering the shutters, but inside the lodge, the real storm feels like the one building between us.
Slow, inevitable, and far more dangerous than anything Sam can throw at the coast.
He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he grabs a blanket from the supply closet and puts it on the edge of the couch. His eyes keep returning to me, to the bedroom door, to the space we now share in this isolated sanctuary.
I’m not afraid of the storm, the men who might be after me, or a hundred other things. I am afraid that one stormy night may be the beginning of something neither of us may be able to control.