Chapter 3
Hannah
The truck’s engine rumbles low beneath me, a steady growl that matches the man behind the wheel.
I keep my hands tucked between my thighs to hide how badly they’re still shaking, but every time Silas shifts gears, my eyes drift to his forearms—corded with muscle, veins standing out under tanned skin, the sleeves of his sheriff’s jacket pushed up just enough to make my stomach flip.
God, he’s sexy. Not in the polished, magazine way.
In the raw, mountain-man, I-will-end-anything-that-touches-you way.
His jaw is clenched like he’s chewing on the same protective instinct that had him hauling me against his chest back at the airfield, and every time he glances over, those dark eyes pin me in place until I forget how to breathe.
I’m so happy he was there. So stupidly, bone-deep grateful that the voice on the radio belonged to him.
If it had been anyone else, I might still be standing on that runway trying not to cry in front of strangers.
But Silas James caught me before I hit the ground, wrapped me up like I was something precious, and now he’s driving me up a twisting mountain road like it’s the most natural thing in the world to rescue a stranger and keep her.
The headlights cut through the dark, catching snow-dusted pines and the occasional reflective marker.
Wedding Cake Mountain looms ahead, black and massive against a star-pricked sky.
I should be terrified—I am running, after all—but the fear feels…
muffled. Like Silas’s presence is a heavy blanket draped over every sharp edge.
I clear my throat, voice still hoarse from the cockpit. “The men at Haven 7… they’re okay with random women showing up in the middle of the night?”
He makes a low sound—half chuckle, half growl—that vibrates straight through my chest. “They’re not random. They’re family. And they’ve seen worse than a pretty pilot who just landed a plane with a dying man in the seat beside her.”
Pretty. He called me pretty. My cheeks heat despite the exhaustion dragging at my bones.
“But will they mind?” I press, because I need to hear it. “I don’t want to be… an imposition. I’ve been imposing on people long enough.”
Silas’s hand leaves the gear shift and lands on my knee—brief, steady, gone again before I can overthink the heat of his palm through my jeans. “Hannah. They run a rescue compound. Their whole purpose is taking in people who have nowhere else. You’ll be the easiest stray they’ve had in months.”
Stray. The word should sting, but the way he says it feels like safety. Like belonging.
I risk a glance at his profile again. The dashboard lights paint shadows under his cheekbones, highlight the silver threading through the dark hair at his temples.
He’s older than me—mid-thirties, maybe forty—and every year looks good on him.
Broad shoulders filling the cab, thighs thick with muscle under worn denim, boots planted like he owns the road.
I can’t stop thinking about how those arms felt around me.
How his voice dropped to that gravelly murmur against my hair.
How my entire body came alive the second he touched me, even while the rest of me was falling apart.
I’m so tired of running. So tired of looking over my shoulder. And here he is, this growly sheriff who smells like pine soap and leather and something warmer, offering me a mountain.
The road narrows, trees crowding close. A heavy iron gate appears, lit by motion-sensor floods. Silas rolls down his window, punches in a code, and the gates swing open with a metallic groan.
“Welcome to Haven 7,” he says, voice softening just for me.
The compound unfolds like something out of a dream I didn’t know I was allowed to have.
Log cabins tucked among the pines, warm golden light spilling from windows.
A central lodge built of massive timbers, smoke curling from its stone chimney.
Snow dusts the roofs, and the air smells like woodsmoke and evergreens when he cuts the engine.
Before I can unbuckle, the front door of the lodge bursts open. People spill out—big, capable-looking men and softer, smiling women, all bundled against the cold. My heart stutters with fresh nerves.
Silas rounds the hood and opens my door before I can reach for the handle. His hand finds the small of my back as I step down, steadying me when my legs threaten to fold again.
“Easy,” he murmurs, close enough that his breath brushes my ear. “They don’t bite.”
A tall man with silver at his temples and a quiet authority in his stance steps forward first. “Silas. You brought company.”
“Rafe,” Silas says, nodding. “This is Hannah Monroe. She needs a place tonight. Maybe longer.”
Rafe’s gaze is kind, assessing, but not invasive. “Then she’s got one.” He offers me a hand the size of a dinner plate. “Rafe Nelson. Welcome to Haven 7.”
Behind him, a woman with soft brown curls and a sleeping toddler tucked against her shoulder smiles at me.
“I’m Harper. This is Poppi—she’s my niece, but she’s ours now.
” The little girl’s dark curls spill over Harper’s arm, thumb in her mouth.
Harper shifts Poppi gently. “You look like you could use some tea and a blanket. Come on inside.”
I follow because Silas’s hand is still at my back, guiding me up the wide porch steps.
Inside, the lodge is all warmth: exposed beams, a massive stone fireplace crackling, oversized leather couches, and the scent of fresh coffee and something baking—cinnamon, maybe.
More people wait, faces open and curious but never prying.
A broad-shouldered man with a neat beard and gentle eyes stands beside a pretty blonde holding a sleepy little boy.
“Gavin,” he introduces himself, voice deep and calm.
“This is Kayley, and her nephew Aidan.” The baby gives me a shy wave, clutching Kayley’s hand.
Kayley’s smile is bright, freckles across her nose.
“We’ve got hot chocolate if you want. Or soup. Whatever sounds good.”
Next to them, a woman with fiery red hair and a no-nonsense ponytail leans against a man who looks like he could bench-press a truck. “Fiona,” she says, extending a hand. “Gavin’s sister. This is Chase.” Chase nods, quiet but kind, his arm loose around her waist.
Harlan’s next—tall, dark-haired, with a scar through one eyebrow that somehow makes him look more approachable.
He offers a simple “Harlan. Nice to meet you, Hannah.” Boyd stands beside him, stocky and solid, with a grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes.
“Boyd. If you need anything fixed—truck, fence, broken heart—I’m your guy. ”
Rhett and Emma come as a pair: Rhett tall and quiet like Silas, Emma with laughing eyes and a soft Southern drawl. “We’ve got extra blankets in the storage cabin,” Emma says, squeezing my arm like we’ve known each other for years. “And cookies. Always cookies.”
Wyatt’s leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, but his smile is genuine. Thorne gives me a respectful dip of his chin, eyes watchful but warm. And then there’s Eli—the medic, I guess—because he’s already moving toward me with a black bag in hand.
“Eli,” he says, voice professional but kind. “I heard you had quite the landing. Mind if I take a quick look? The airfield medics cleared you, but humor me. Altitude, adrenaline, shock—they can sneak up on you.”
I glance at Silas. He gives me the smallest nod, eyes saying I’m safe here.
So I let Eli guide me to a chair by the fire.
He checks my pulse, blood pressure, shines a light in my eyes, listens to my lungs.
His hands are gentle, efficient. “You’re dehydrated and your heart rate’s still elevated, but nothing a night’s sleep and some fluids won’t fix.
No signs of concussion.” He straightens, smiles. “You’re tougher than you look, Hannah.”
Everyone laughs softly, the sound wrapping around me like another blanket.
Harper presses a mug of chamomile tea into my hands—warm, honey-sweet.
Kayley tucks a quilt around my shoulders.
Poppi stirs and reaches a chubby hand toward me.
I let her grab my finger and my chest aches with something soft and unfamiliar.
They’re all so warm. So comforting. Like I’ve stumbled into a family that was waiting just for me.
But even as I smile and thank them, my eyes keep finding Silas.
He stands a little apart, arms crossed, watching everyone interact with me like he’s cataloging threats and allies at the same time.
That growly protectiveness radiates off him, and I realize with a jolt that I still feel safest when he’s close.
These people are wonderful—genuine, kind, the kind of good that restores your faith in humanity—but they’re not him.
They didn’t talk me down from the sky. They didn’t catch me when my knees gave out.
They didn’t say “You’re not leaving here alone” in that voice that made my bones melt.
I want to stay near Silas. Need it, actually. The thought should scare me—I barely know him—but right now it feels like the only solid thing in a world that’s been spinning too fast for months.
After what feels like an hour of gentle questions and offers of food I’m too exhausted to eat, Silas clears his throat. “Hannah’s wiped. I’m taking her to my cabin. She’ll stay with me tonight.”
No one blinks. Rafe just nods once. Harper smiles knowingly. Eli gives me a final once-over and says, “Call if you need anything. I’m two cabins over.”
Silas’s hand finds my lower back again as we step back into the cold night air.
The walk to his cabin is short—gravel path crunching under our boots, moonlight silvering the snow.
His place is the last one, set a little apart, backed by thick pines.
It’s smaller than the lodge but solid: dark logs, wide porch with two rocking chairs, a single light glowing over the door like it’s been waiting.
He unlocks it and holds the door for me. “Home sweet temporary home.”
Inside, it smells like him—leather, woodsmoke, a hint of cedar.
The main room is open-plan: cozy living area with a worn leather couch and a stone fireplace, small kitchen with butcher-block counters, a hallway leading to what I assume is the bedroom and bath.
Everything is neat, masculine, lived-in.
A rifle rests above the mantel, books on wilderness survival stacked on the coffee table, a sheriff’s hat hanging on a peg by the door.
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” he says, voice low. “Clean towels in the linen closet. Fridge has water, milk, eggs—help yourself. Bedroom’s yours if you want it.”
I turn, swallowing. “Only one bed?”
His eyes darken, but his tone stays steady. “Yeah. Or the couch pulls out and you can sleep there. Or, I can take the couch. Whatever makes you feel safest, Hannah.”
The word safest hits me like a warm wave. Because the truth is, both options feel safe when he’s the one offering. But the idea of sleeping in his bed—surrounded by his scent, his sheets—makes something flutter low in my belly that has nothing to do with fear.
“It does,” I whisper. “Make me feel safer. With you. I mean… staying with you.”
His jaw flexes. That possessive growl rumbles in his chest again, soft but unmistakable. “Good.”
He shows me around properly—points out the thermostat, the extra blankets in the chest at the foot of the couch, the coffee maker that’s “fussy but reliable.” He even opens the bedroom door so I can see: king-sized bed with a simple navy quilt, one pillow dented from where he slept last night, a nightstand with a lamp and a worn paperback thriller.
The sight of that single bed sends another rush of heat through me, mixed with bone-deep exhaustion.
We settle on the couch—me under the quilt, him on the other end, giving me space but close enough that I can feel his warmth. He hands me a fresh bottle of water. “Drink a little more. Then sleep. But first… you gonna tell me what you’re running from?”
The question is gentle, not demanding. His big body is angled toward me, elbows on his knees, eyes patient.
I want to answer. I really do. The words are right there—my ex, the threats, the money he says I stole, the way he won’t stop looking— but my eyelids are heavy, my limbs feel like they weigh a thousand pounds each.
The adrenaline that kept me upright for hours is gone, leaving nothing but a deep, aching tiredness that’s been building for months.
“I…” My voice cracks. “He… my ex… he won’t…”
Silas reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his calloused fingers brushing my cheek. The touch is so tender it makes my eyes sting. “Shh. Tomorrow. When you’ve slept. I’m not going anywhere.”
I nod, or try to. The room tilts gently.
The fire pops softly in the hearth—Silas must have lit it while I was blinking.
His voice keeps going, low and soothing, asking easy questions now—favorite color, whether I like dogs, if I’ve ever seen the northern lights—but the words blur together.
My head lolls against the arm of the couch.
The quilt is so soft. His presence is so solid.
I’m safe.
For the first time in forever, I’m safe.
The last thing I register is Silas’s low murmur—“Sleep, Hannah. I’ve got you”—and the feel of a blanket being pulled higher over my shoulders. Then everything fades into warm, dreamless dark.
I don’t even make it to the bed. But I don’t mind. Because Silas is here. And for tonight, that’s everything.