Chapter 2
Silas
Her boots scrape the pavement as she steps down from the plane, and her knees buckle like the ground just decided to betray her.
I'm already moving.
I close the distance in two strides, my hands finding her waist—firm, unyielding—catching her before gravity can claim her.
She's trembling so violently I feel the aftershocks ripple straight through my coat into my palms, her adrenaline finally crashing now that the wheels are down and the nightmare is supposed to be over.
She grabs fistfuls of my jacket like I'm the last solid thing between her and oblivion.
Maybe I am.
"You're safe," I growl low, my mouth close enough to her hair that I catch the faint scent of jet fuel, sweat, and something sweeter underneath—something that's hers. "I've got you."
A sob rips out of her, and then she tries to choke it back, like showing weakness in front of me is a crime.
Don't.
Not with me.
Around us the tarmac is pure chaos: medics shouting vitals, stretcher wheels squealing, red and blue lights strobing across every surface. The instructor's limp form is hauled out of the cockpit and rushed toward the ambulance. I don't look away from her. She doesn't look at any of it.
Her eyes—wide, glassy, dark—are locked on mine like I'm the only anchor left in the world.
I know that stare. I've seen it on survivors who clawed their way back from places they shouldn't have survived.
Her breaths come too fast, too shallow. I slide one hand to the nape of her neck—not forcing, just holding—my thumb brushing the soft skin there.
"Breathe," I murmur, voice gravel-rough. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Slow."
She tries. Fails. Tries again. Each exhale shudders against my chest. A hard gust slices across the runway and she flinches, every muscle locking like she's bracing for the next impact.
Instinct takes over. I haul her in tighter—possessive, immediate, no permission asked.
My arms cage her against me and my whole damn body ignites.
Heat roars through my veins, my pulse thundering in my ears, my skin prickling like I've just been hit with a live current.
Every nerve ending wakes up screaming the same primitive word.
Mine.
It’s the kind of claim that says this woman is under my protection now, and God help anything that tries to touch her.
I force my voice steady even though my blood is roaring. "You did it."
Her lips tremble open. "I thought I was going to crash."
"You didn't." My grip tightens just enough to remind her I'm here. "You flew that plane. You landed it. You saved him."
Her gaze flicks toward the ambulance for half a heartbeat—then snaps right back to me. "Is he…?"
"Alive," I tell her. "They've got him."
Another violent shiver racks her frame. She's hanging on by threads.
I catch the lead medic's eye, give a sharp jerk of my chin—get him out of here.
Then my focus narrows back to the woman in my arms. I steer her away from the flashing lights, away from the frantic voices and the smell of burning brakes.
She follows because her legs don't know where else to go.
We reach the squat airport building—peeling paint, flickering fluorescent bulb over the door—and the second we're inside, the roar of the world dulls enough for her to hear her own ragged breathing.
That's when the crash really hits.
Her hands shake harder. Her teeth chatter. Color drains from her face so fast I can almost watch the adrenaline gutter out.
I catch her elbow before she folds. "Sit."
She collapses into the nearest plastic chair like someone cut her strings.
I yank open the mini fridge behind the counter, grab a water, twist the cap off with a sharp crack. I press the bottle into her shaking fingers. "Drink."
She stares at it blankly for a second—like the concept is foreign—then brings it to her lips. One sip. Another. The simple act gives her trembling hands something to focus on besides shattering.
Good girl.
I drop to a crouch in front of her, putting my eyes level with hers. "Look at me."
Her lashes lift slowly.
Christ.
Those eyes—huge, haunted, rimmed with smudged mascara, lashes clumped with tears—are going to ruin me.
Her cheeks are flushed from cold and fear, a loose strand of dark hair plastered to her skin, lips parted and trembling like she's still trying to remember how lungs are supposed to work.
She's wrecked. Raw. Beautiful in a way that punches me square in the chest.
My body reacts before my brain can veto it—heart slamming, blood heating, every muscle coiling like I'm about to fight or claim or both. Instalove is bullshit. This isn't bullshit. This is bone-deep, primal, now.
"What's your full name?" I ask.
"Hannah Monroe," she whispers.
"Hannah Monroe." I taste the words, and lock them down deep. "I'm Sheriff Silas James."
Right now she needs safety with a badge on it. But I'm not just the badge. I'm the man whose hands are itching to shield her from whatever put that older fear in her eyes.
"You hurt?" My voice comes out rougher than I mean.
Quick head shake. "No. Just… shaky."
"Normal." I study her closer, cataloging every tremor. "Anyone I should call?"
Her gaze drops to her lap—too fast, too guarded.
My instincts snarl. "Hannah." Gentle, but steel underneath. "You got someone?"
Long pause. Then another small shake. "No." Her answer tells me all I need to know. She’s a woman who's learned what happens when she admits weakness.
My jaw clenches so hard I feel the muscle jump. "Where you staying tonight?"
Her breath hitches. She looks up and there it is—the deeper fear, the one that didn't start in that cockpit. The one with history. Names. Scars. "I'm… not," she says so quietly I almost miss it.
My teeth grind. "What the hell does that mean?"
"I mean…" She swallows, eyes darting toward the windows like she's expecting shadows to move. "I don't have anywhere. Not right now."
She’s running from something, or someone.
Everything in me goes cold and lethal at once. "You in trouble?"
Her fingers crush the plastic bottle. "I'm fine." Rehearsed. Automatic. The lie people tell when the truth has teeth.
I don't buy it. But I don't hammer her—not yet. She just landed a plane without hours of lessons underneath her belt. So I ease back. Soften the growl without dulling the edge. "Okay." I hold her gaze. "Then hear me clear."
Her eyes lift.
"You're not walking out of here alone."
Her brows pinch. "Sheriff—"
"Silas," I correct, low and deliberate. I need her to see the man, not just the star. "You tell me what's chasing you when you're ready. Or you never tell me. Either way, you're safe."
Her throat works. "Safe from what?"
"From whatever put that look in your eyes and made you say you got nowhere to go."
Silence stretches. She looks ready to fight—used to scrapping for every scrap of control. I respect the hell out of it. But I'm not letting her choose a path that ends in a ditch.
I rise, and extend my hand. "Come with me."
Her gaze flicks to my palm, then back to my face. "Where?"
"Haven 7. Up on Wedding Cake Mountain. Gated rescue compound. Good men. Warm beds. No questions you're not ready to answer."
Her lips part. Something flickers—relief warring with terror. "I don't want to be a burden," she whispers.
"You won't be." No room for argument. "And I'm not asking."
Her eyes widen.
I lean down just enough that my voice is for her alone, rough promise wrapped in gravel. "I talked you out of the sky, Hannah. You really think I'm letting you walk back into hell on your own two feet?"
Her breath snags. For a heartbeat she looks like she'll break open again. Then—slowly—her cold fingers slide into mine.
I close my grip. Steady. Certain. Like I've been waiting my whole life to hold exactly this hand.
"Good," I murmur. I pull her up, guiding her toward the door, toward my truck, toward the dark rise of the mountain.
Every step, my instincts hum louder, sharper, more possessive.
Whatever she's running from just made itself my enemy.
And it's about to learn what happens when you hunt a woman I've already decided belongs under my protection.