3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Eden
I jolt awake to a deep, thunderous growl that vibrates through the cabin walls.
For a split sleepy second, the sound reminds me of Gage's voice. That same raw power, that same dangerous edge.
But no, it's just the storm throwing its tantrum outside.
Rolling onto my side, I burrow deeper into his sheets. God, everything smells like him. Smoke, whiskey and something so pure man that every breath I draw in makes my toes curl.
I spent the whole night surrounded by his scent, drowning in these oversized clothes he gave me, and it's doing things to my head. To my body.
How the hell did I get here?
I stare at the rough-hewn ceiling, trying to make sense of these new feelings. I mean, this is Gage . The same Gage who used to come over for Dad's famous barbecues, who taught me how to throw a proper punch when I was twelve, who always brought me strawberry milkshakes because he remembered they were my favorite.
Back then, sure, I noticed he was attractive. The same way you notice Chris Hemsworth is attractive. Like it's just a basic fact of the universe, like gravity or that chocolate makes everything better.
But this? This is different.
I press my face into his pillow and groan. The man currently occupying my thoughts isn't the same Gage who sat at our dinner table telling war stories. He's harder now, rougher around the edges. Those storm-gray eyes that used to crinkle when he smiled?
They burn now, especially when they land on me.
My fingers trace the edge of his pillow as I take in his bedroom. Morning light filters through the curtains, the hint of shadows starting to form across the military-neat space.
A worn paperback sits on the nightstand—some thriller I've never heard of. His watch rests beside it, face up, precise. Everything has its place here, just like it was whenever Dad was at home.
The rain picks up, hammering against the roof like gunfire. The sound should be terrifying, especially this far up the mountain, especially alone in a strange bed.
But I've never felt more… protected.
Maybe it's because I know he's just down the hall, probably still grumbling about how I put up a fight and insisted he could share this bed with me. No doubt about it, he'd be drinking coffee as black as his mood right now, that scowl across his eyes staring blankly across the room.
My eyes catch on a small frame near his closet. I squint, making out what looks like an old photo of two soldiers. From here, I can just barely see the edges of desert camo, and my heart clenches. Dad . That has to be from their time overseas together.
The wind howls through the pines outside, rattling the windows, but I'm warm. Safe. Even if the man providing that safety clearly wishes I was anywhere but here.
I swing my legs out of bed, wincing at the cold floorboards under my bare feet. Gage's sweatpants pool around my ankles, and I have to roll the waistband three times just to keep them from falling down.
I tread down the hallway but the cabin's main room is empty when I get there, the fire burned down to embers that are barely glowing in the ashes.
Rain pounds against the windows, creating rivers down the glass as I look around. I'm about to head for the kitchen when the front door flies open with a woosh of wind and a bang.
"Jesus Christ!" I shout, hand flying to my chest in fright.
Gage fills the doorway, rain pouring off him in sheets. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead, water running down his neck and soaking into his shirt. The thin gray fabric might as well be painted on, hugging every hardened muscle, every delicious plane of masculine physique.
I can't breathe.
"You're up." His voice is rough, like he hasn't used it in hours.
His tattoos show through the wet cotton—dark shadows that wrap around his biceps, disappearing under his sleeves. More ink peeks out at his collar, and I find myself wondering how far down it goes.
I manage to nod as he shakes his head, sending droplets flying like some massive wolf emerging from a storm.
In his hand, he clutches what looks like carrots and other vegetables, probably from some hidden garden I haven't seen yet.
His eyes lock on mine. They drop to where his shirt hangs loose on my frame, then snap back up. He swallows hard.
"Where the hell were you?" I cross my arms, suddenly aware of how the cold air makes certain parts of my body react.
"Getting breakfast." He lifts the vegetables, water dripping onto the wooden floor. "Unless you'd rather starve."
Everything about him is overwhelming—his size, his presence, the way water runs down his throat when he swallows.
"You went digging around in that monsoon for vegetables?" I eye the mud caking his boots just as the downpour outside finds another gear. "Surely there's perfectly good food in your kitchen."
"Only if you plan on surviving on canned beans and three-year-old beef jerky." He kicks off his boots, leaving them by the door. "You need real food."
I can't help the smile tugging at my lips.
"Sorry, I didn't realize the military taught farm-to-table cooking between missions."
His jaw grinds. "Feeding yourself is a basic survival necessity. For a girl who found herself trapped in the middle of a snowstorm, perhaps you should wipe that smile off your face and come help me carry these vegetables."
"Right. Sorry." I grab the mud-covered carrots from him and glance at them in my arms. " Yum . Nothing says gourmet like root vegetables excavated from a swamp."
He shoots me a look that would terrify most people. I just grin wider, because weirdly, this feels… familiar. Fun .
"You always this much of a pain in the ass?" he growls.
"Only when someone risks pneumonia to dig up breakfast." I follow him to the kitchen, watching as he dumps the rest vegetables in the sink. "Though I have to admit, it's kind of sweet you'd brave the elements just to feed me."
His shoulders tense. "Don't."
Gage glares at me before I try to focus on washing the muddy vegetables, but it's impossible not to notice how Gage's soaked shirt molds to his chest.
Water droplets trail down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar, and I have to bite my lip to keep from tracking their path.
"Fuck… I need to get dry," he mutters, and before I can process what's happening, he grabs the hem of his shirt and peels it off in one fluid motion.
The wet fabric hits the floor with a splat and when my eyes follow the sound behind me, the carrot I'm washing slips from my hand as my knees give way.
His entire torso is a masterpiece of ink and muscle. Dark designs swirl across his shoulders and down his arms, intricate patterns I want to trace with my fingertips. A tribal design wraps around his ribs, drawing attention to the ridged planes of his stomach where numerous scars are scattered over chiseled abs.
And those abs... dear God.
Each one is perfectly defined, creating valleys and hills of muscle that make my fingers itch to explore. A scattered trail of dark hair starts below his navel, leading down to what I'm pretty sure is the promised land.
" Oh god… " I swallow and shake my head, trying to evert my eyes.
Yeah, that's not happening.
My eyes follow that tempting path to where it disappears beneath his jeans, which hang dangerously low on his hips. The V-shaped cuts of muscle there point like arrows to… Holy mother of God.
I snap my gaze away, face burning, cheeks blushing.
Even through wet denim, there's no hiding the impressive bulge straining against his zipper.
The vegetables.
I need to focus on the vegetables.
Not on how his jeans are sitting so low I can see the band of his black boxer briefs. Not on how water is still running down his chest in rivulets. And definitely not on how badly I want to lick those drops away.
"When's the last time you ate?" His deep voice breaks through my daze.
The sizzle of vegetables hitting a hot pan fills the kitchen as Gage moves with surprising grace, his bare muscles flexing beneath an apron that he wraps around his waist.
My stomach growls at the heavenly smell of garlic and herbs that instantly fills the cabin.
"Yesterday morning. I was too nervous about the interview to eat after that." I lean against the counter, crossing my arms. "Not that it matters now."
"What was the job?" He glances over his shoulder at me and adds something that makes the pan flare up dramatically.
"Preston & Associates. They're this big accounting firm in Denver." I wrinkle my nose. "Dad always said I had a head for numbers."
"But?" His gray eyes flick to mine, catching how my voice wavered.
"But I hate accounting. I've been doing bookkeeping since college and it's..." I wave my hands, searching for words. "Soul-crushing? I only applied because it seemed like the responsible thing to do."
"What do you want to do?"
The question catches me off guard. No one's asked me that before. They just nod approvingly when I mention accounting, like following in my mom's footsteps is the only logical path.
"I love photography. Nature shots, especially. Dad used to take me camping, taught me to track animals..."
My voice trails off as memories surface. Memories filled with the man adding carrots to the pan all those years ago.
We talk about my photography for a while as he cooks, and I find myself sharing dreams I've kept buried. Wildlife shots in Alaska. Following migration patterns of wild bears and wolves.
Things that would make my mother's perfectly plucked eyebrows shoot up in horror.
But Gage just listens, asking questions that make me think he actually cares about the answer.
And soon enough, we're ready to eat. The small round table tucked into the corner of his kitchen wasn't meant for two, but Gage makes it work.
He sets down mismatched plates loaded with what has to be the strangest breakfast I've ever seen - roasted root vegetables glazed in honey, wild mushrooms swimming in herbs, and some kind of leafy green that smells divine.
No eggs. No bacon. Just pure, woodsy decadence that makes my mouth water.
The table's scarred surface holds water rings and knife marks, telling stories of countless solitary meals. But now, with steaming plates and two sets of silverware, it feels different. Intimate.
"Eat," Gage grunts as he stabs at a chunk of carrot.
I take a bite and my eyes go wide. "Holy shit. This is actually good."
He snorts, shaking his head. "What, you think I'd let you starve?"
"I don't know, you seem like the brooding, lives-off-coffee-and-self-hatred type."
I grin at him, taking another bite of the perfectly seasoned stir-fry.
But then I notice his fork hanging in the air. Frozen by my words.
The silence stretches between us, and my smile fades as I watch his darken. My attempt at playful banter hits differently than intended - the truth of my words settling on his silence.
I glance around the cabin, really seeing it for the first time.
The scratches on the table aren't just marks of meals eaten, but of years spent in isolation. That military photo I spotted in his bedroom, placed where he'd see it every morning - a daily reminder of what he lost. Of who he lost.
Dad.
My chest tightens as I notice other details. The single chair at his workspace. The way everything is meticulously organized, like he's running his own private military outpost up here. The bottle of whiskey we drank from yesterday, that one that looks too well-used, too depended on.
He's not just living here. He's hiding .
All these years, we thought he disappeared because he couldn't handle civilian life. But what if it's deeper than that? What if he's been up here, punishing himself for something - maybe Dad's death - and no one's been around to tell him he doesn't deserve it?
The wind howls outside, and I wrap my arms around myself.
I lean forward, resting my chin in my palm, watching him. "So, what's your deal?"
His plate scrapes against the wooden table as he pushes the last bits of vegetables around. "I don't have a deal."
I shrug, keeping my voice light despite the heaviness in my chest. "Why are you up here alone, Gage?"
I see endless shadows passing through his storm-gray eyes, so much pain, so many sleepless nights alone.
"I like being alone."
"Liar." The word slips out before I can stop it. "No one likes being alone."
A strand of my hair falls forward, still damp from the storm, sticking to my bottom lip. But before I can brush it away, his hand reaches across the table like he's been waiting for this moment.
His rough fingers graze my skin as he tugs the strand free and loops it behind my ear ever so gently. With my hair in place, he doesn't pull back, instead, he just stares into my eyes in a way no one ever has before.
His touch lingers, calloused fingertips sliding over my neck, moving back to hover near my mouth. A slow, aching warmth coils in my stomach and my entire body feels like it's locked up.
Then the thought hits me like lightning—I've never been kissed. Not really. Not the way I want Gage to kiss me right now.
"Gage…" I lift my chin, a fraction, just enough to bring our mouths closer.
His name on my lips snaps something inside him. His hand slides to my jaw, fingers spanning the side of my face.
My stomach flips as his grip tightens, just enough to keep me still. He leans across the table, closing the distance until his breath touches my lips, but then…
He stops.
It's his threshold. Out of honor or respect, I see the battle in his eyes. He can't cross this line. Won't cross it.
So I do it for him.
I shift on my seat, press my lips to his, and the world around us explodes.
His grip on my jaw tightens, and a sound rips from his chest that's dark, possessive, animal-like all at the same time.
My hands find his shoulders as he yanks me halfway across the table, scattering plates and silverware to the floor.
This isn't the sweet first kiss I imagined. This is raw need, pure fire. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming every inch. My fingers dig into his hard muscles as he devours me, teaching me exactly what I've been missing.
"Eden." He growls my name against my lips, and heat pools low in my belly. His other hand tangles in my hair, tugging my head back to deepen the kiss.
I whimper, overwhelmed by the taste of him, the feel of his stubble scraping my skin.
My whole body trembles as his teeth graze my bottom lip. Every nerve ending sparks to life. I never knew a kiss could feel like this—like drowning and flying all at once.
His grip becomes bruising, desperate, as if he's trying to mark me. Own me.
And God help me, I want him to.
"Please," I gasp between kisses, not even sure what I'm begging for.
This kiss isn't just passion… it's possession .
Gage's grip on my hair tightens, his breath hot against my lips.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard, our foreheads resting together.
"Eden," he whispers, his voice rough and full of need. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't—"
I shake my head and blink up at him, my heart pounding in my chest.
"No," I say softly. "It's okay, Gage. Maybe skidding off the road and almost losing everything was meant to be."
He looks at me like he's trying to understand what I'm saying, like he can't quite believe it. "You believe in fate, sunshine?"
I nod slowly, feeling the truth of it deep in my bones. "Yeah, I guess I do. If I hadn't crashed, if I hadn't ended up here…"
He cuts me off with another fierce kiss, his hands framing my face as if he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go.
When we finally break apart again, I rest my forehead against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath my cheek.
"I'm glad I'm here," I whisper.