Let Go
EIGHT
WYATT
The backup generator skips its regular beat, the low, mechanical hitch vibrating through the timber frame of my bed and settling into the marrow of my collarbone. It’s the only constant in the dark.
Outside, the blizzard has finally spent its fury, leaving behind a silence so thick it presses against the windowpanes like a physical weight.
The temperature is dropping fast. I can tell by the way the pine timbers of the clinic frame groan, shrinking under the tightening grip of the mountain freeze.
I stare at the ceiling. The amber glow of the emergency lights from the corridor slips under my bedroom door, casting a thin, sharp line across the floorboards.
Three inches of pine. That’s all that separates my bedroom from the room down the hall where Jesse’s old quilt is draped over Bella.
I don’t need the wall to know she isn’t sleeping.
Her presence is a physical pull, a low-voltage current that has been humming through the floorboards since she walked out of the kitchen.
I roll onto my side, the springs of my bed creaking in protest. My hand goes to the back of my neck, fingers tracing the jagged line of the scar at the base of my skull—a relic of a mortar blast downrange that aches whenever the weather turns.
It’s a habit I can’t break when the ghosts get too loud.
You think you control anything from a phone headset?
My words taste like ash in my mouth. I shouldn’t have said it. I shouldn’t have pushed her so hard, but her focus on the budget spreadsheet, her stubborn struggle to calculate the value of Jesse’s life in Cascade’s cold corporate dollars, had set something clawing inside my chest.
Or maybe it wasn’t the spreadsheet.
Maybe it was her face in the firelight, her chin held high and her eyes wide with a quiet, devastating grief that matched my own, even as she told me she was leaving.
She’s leaving.
The pass will clear in a day, maybe two. The county plows are probably already working their way up the canyon. She’ll sign the papers, take her payout, and go back to Denver. She’ll return to her headset, her neat boundaries, and her safety.
A board groans in the hallway.
It’s a tiny sound, the softest whisper of weight on the old tongue-and-groove pine, but it pulls me upright before my brain can process it. I sit on the edge of the bed, my bare feet flat on the cold, frozen boards, my heart hammering a sudden, heavy rhythm against my ribs.
I listen. The silence returns, heavy and expectant, holding its breath.
Then the brass handle of my bedroom door clicks. It turns, slow and deliberate, the latch releasing with a soft, metallic snap.
The door swings open.
Bella stands at the threshold. The amber emergency light behind her outlines her shape, casting her face in soft shadow.
She’s wearing the grey wool sweater I gave her.
It’s huge on her, the hem falling to the middle of her thighs, her hands completely swallowed by the long sleeves.
Her legs are bare, pale and slender against the dark wood of the corridor.
She’s shivering. The tremors are small but constant, a rapid vibration running through her shoulders and down her legs.
I stand. The difference in our sizes is stark in the narrow doorway.
My body is broad, hardened by years of tactical deployments and brutal manual labor on this mountain, while she is small and delicate.
Standing there in the amber light, she looks impossibly soft—a quiet, fragile contrast to the grit and blood I’ve spent a lifetime wading through.
I step forward, my chest nearly touching hers, my voice a low rumble. “Go back to your room, Bella.”
She doesn’t move. Her fingers curl tighter into the oversized cuffs of the sleeves, anchoring herself.
“My room is too quiet. The wall... your breathing carries through the wood. Every creak of the springs. I spent an hour trying to pretend I was in my apartment, but I’m not.
I’m here. And I’m tired of sleeping alone in the dark. ”
“Go back to bed.” I close the remaining distance until my shadow swallows her. I want to protect her, but more than that, I’m terrified of what will happen if I don't send her away right now.
Her chin lifts, that stubborn defiance flashing in her eyes.
“Don’t tell me what to do. Everyone always tells me what to do.
Jesse told me he had to leave. My aunt and uncle said I had to be the strong one just once, that I had to hold everyone else up.
Don’t tell me to go back to bed. But if you do... don’t make me go back alone.”
My jaw tightens, a hard pulse beating in my temple. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”
“I know exactly what I’m asking for.” She takes a half-step closer, her warm, shallow breath dusting across my bare chest.
My hand wraps around her wrist. My palm is massive against her small bones, my grip firm, checking her, waiting for any hint of hesitation or retreat.
“I’m not like other men, Bella. I don’t do soft. I don’t do easy. I don’t hold back. Do you understand what that means?”
“I’m not scared of that.” Her pulse races wildly against my palm, a frantic, trapped-bird rhythm, but she doesn’t flinch. She doesn't pull away.
“You should be.” I lean down, my face inches from hers, pressing the weight of my presence against her, pushing past her defenses.
“I’m not.” She steps directly into my space, her chest brushing against my ribs.
The last of my restraint snaps. I back her up hard, her feet sliding over the wood until her spine meets the heavy wooden frame of the door.
I take both of her hands, guiding them up until they’re pinned against the wood high above her head.
One of my large hands locks around both of her small, fragile wrists, anchoring them effortlessly against the doorframe.
“Are you sure?” My voice drops to a rough, gravelly whisper. “Because I don’t know how to do this halfway, and I don't want to break you.”
“I don’t think you could ever hurt me.” She arches her back slightly against the wood, a tremor running through her entire frame.
She has spent her life being the caretaker, holding the weight of everyone else’s pain. Under the heavy, dominant lock of my hand, she doesn't look trapped—she looks relieved.
“I’m going to take care of you, but we’re doing it my way. I need you to tell me that you’re okay with that.” I tilt her chin up with my free hand, my voice firm, leaving no room for doubt.
She lets out a quiet whimper, a deep shudder vibrating through her as I lean down and let my teeth gently graze the soft, sensitive skin just beneath her jaw. Her head tilts back, exposing the long, delicate line of her throat to the cold draft and my hot breath.
“I’m okay with that,” she whispers, her throat clicking as she swallows, her gaze locked onto mine.
I slide my hand down her throat, over the soft knit of the sweater, and slip it beneath the hem.
My calloused palm drags slowly up her bare waist. The heat of her skin is shocking against the cold room.
I freeze for a fraction of a second, my eyes searching hers in the amber gloom, reading the silent consent written in her dilated pupils.
I want this. I want it with a sudden, violent intensity that makes my head spin. It’s a hunger that has been building since the second she stepped out of the storm and onto my porch, a quiet, inevitable collision we’ve both been running from.
“Do you like that? Do you like me touching you?” My palm slides up her ribcage, slow and deliberate, capturing the rapid flutter of her heart before I cup the soft fullness of her breast.
“Yes.” Her breath catches in her throat, her chest rising instinctively to meet my hand.
“Tell me.” I pinch the peak of her nipple between my thumb and forefinger, putting a firm, demanding pressure on the hard bud.
“I like it... I like it a lot.” She winces slightly, a soft, breathless gasp slipping past her lips as she lifts up on tiptoe, pressing her breast harder into my palm, begging for the friction.
I lean down and kiss her, cutting off the rest of her words.
My tongue claims her mouth with an aggressive force, setting a relentless pace.
My hand slips from her wrists, letting them go, my fingers tangling in the soft knit of the sweater as my other hand kneads her breast, then slides down over her flat stomach, traveling lower.
I break the kiss, leaving her panting, and slide my hand between her thighs. She’s already slick, her heat burning hot and wet against my fingers. I slip two fingers inside her, slowly, then begin an agonizingly slow rhythm that makes her whimper.
Her face is flushed in the amber light, her eyes fluttering closed as her hips make a blind, desperate jerk upward, searching for my hand, searching for release.
I work her up, bringing her closer and closer to the edge, her breath hitching in rapid, shallow pants as her internal muscles tighten around my fingers.
Just as she arches, on the very brink of shattering, I slide my fingers out, holding her still.
“Please...” She whimpers, her head tossing back in frustration against the wood.
“Not yet.” I guide her small, trembling fingers down my chest, over the hard ridges of my stomach, until I press her palm firmly against my length, strained to the limit against my jeans.
“I don’t need you to be gentle,” she whispers, her fingers curling around the thick, pulsing heat of me, her eyes locking onto mine with a fierce, desperate intensity. “I just need you to touch me.”
“Are you sure?” I squeeze her hip, my fingers sinking into her skin, anchoring her against the door.
“Yes, show me. I’m not afraid of you.” She leans up, her chest pressing flat against my ribs.