Chapter 21
The Grady Cabin — Next Morning
The light that crept through the flannel curtains wasn’t morning so much as a thinning of the dark. The storm hadn’t cleared; it had only caught its breath. Wind moved across the ridge in long, uneven gusts, rattling the stovepipe before falling quiet again.
Scout was already awake, crouched by the hearth. The coals had sunk to a dull red glow, but he coaxed them back, feeding in kindling, his motions steady and sure. Smoke threaded up the flue, warmth slowly creeping through the room.
Tessa stirred on the bed, the blanket slipping from her shoulders. Her head ached where the bandage pressed her temple. The smell of woodsmoke and coffee pulled her the rest of the way awake.
“What time is it?”
“Couldn’t tell you,” Scout said. “Clouds haven’t lifted since last night.” He glanced toward the window. “Burke won’t make it up here yet—he’ll be taking care of Sylva first: roads, the old folks, power outages.”
“That sounds like him.” She pushed herself upright. “He’ll come when he can.”
“He knows we’re fine,” Scout said. “Knows better than to waste fuel fighting this ridge until it’s worth the trip.”
She drew the blanket tighter. “And he doesn’t know someone shot at us.”
Scout looked over. “No,” he said evenly. “That stays between us until we know what we’re dealing with.”
The silence that followed wasn’t peace. The cabin might’ve been sturdy and warm, but it was still a box in the woods.
Training had wired her for this—alert until the danger was gone—but it didn’t change the truth. They were trapped, and somewhere out there was a sniper who’d already taken one shot.
Scout’s gaze flicked to the frost-laced window every few seconds. For all his calm, she could read the tension in his shoulders.
Tessa padded to the small bathroom, a lantern in hand.
The air in there was colder than the main room; the floorboards bit at her bare feet, and her breath fogged the chipped mirror.
She set the lantern on the shelf above the sink and opened the creaky medicine chest. Inside, amidst aspirin and faded bandages, Marlene had stocked a brush, new hair ties, toothpaste, and a bottle of cheap but comforting lotion.
Simple things—but exactly what she needed.
She unwound the gauze from her temple, winced at the pale split in her skin, then left it uncovered. She brushed her hair, working out tangles patiently, then studied her reflection—messy bun or neatness? She settled for a quick, lopsided knot, stray strands framing the bruise.
She pinched color into her cheeks, scrubbed her teeth with toothpaste on her finger, and dabbed lotion on skin raw from the cold.
Usually, on the job, appearance meant nothing—she’d worked the Caitlin West case with Scout just weeks ago, had the scars to show for it—but here, trapped by weather and silence, she wanted him to see her as something other than a hot mess.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. “Left some hot water for you,” Scout said.
She used it to wash up, relishing the warmth, and returned to the main room.
Breakfast was toast, eggs, and peach preserves—Marlene’s kindness sealed in glass. The sweetness spread through her.
“Tom and Marlene really keep this place stocked,” she said. “Feels more like a home than a hunting cabin.”
“They use it a few weeks a year,” Scout replied, pouring coffee. “But Marlene keeps it ready for anyone who gets caught up here. Says nobody should meet the mountain unprepared.”
Tessa smiled faintly. “That’s a rare kind of kindness.”
“She’s a rare kind of woman,” he agreed, handing her a mug.
They ate quietly by the fire. Her body still hummed from the night before—the echo of adrenaline wouldn’t quit. Every muscle ached from holding still, from listening for a threat that never came.
Scout rinsed the plates in the tin sink, motions steady and unhurried. He told himself it was instinct that made him watch her—habit born of partnership and danger—but that wasn’t the whole truth. He respected her. Always had. She was fierce, level-headed, knew her job cold.
Still, something else had grown in the quiet between them, whether he wanted it or not. He wasn’t proud of it. Not with Sara still out there, depending on them to keep their heads clear.
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, unsettled. Maybe it was just the storm—proximity, adrenaline, too much time to think—but part of him knew better.
After breakfast, Scout pulled a battered deck of cards and a box of matchsticks from a drawer.
The little table in front of the hearth sat between two old rockers that creaked with every shift.
Their service pistols lay side by side—a quiet reminder of the night before and the reasons they couldn’t let their guard drop.
Scout shuffled the cards and divided the matchsticks. “Scout’s rules: loser does dishes. Matchsticks for money. No mercy.”
“No mercy,” Tessa echoed, managing a grin.
The game started brisk and competitive—bluffs, grins, quick retorts. Tessa won an early hand, scooping matchsticks with a smirk. Scout followed with a bigger win—never gloating, just that sly look that made her roll her eyes.
On a pause between hands, Scout’s gaze drifted to her temple. Dried blood darkened the edge of the cut she’d left uncovered. “Let me take another look at that,” he said.
Tessa reached up automatically, fingertips brushing the tender skin. “It’s fine.”
“Humor me.” He was already standing, reaching for the first-aid kit on the shelf above the sink.
She stayed in her chair, letting him come to her. He set the kit on the table, flipped it open, and knelt beside her, close enough that she could see the dark stubble along his chin, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes.
“Turn your head a little.” His voice had gone softer.
She did. His fingers were warm against her chilled skin as he steadied her face. The room seemed to narrow around them, the slow crackle of the fire, his breath brushing her cheek.
“Still looks clean,” he murmured, dabbing gently at the cut with a fresh pad. “You’ll have a mark for a while.”
“Souvenir,” she said, aiming for lightness.
His thumb skimmed just below the bandage, along the edge of a bruise. From this angle, her mouth was right there—too close. His hand shifted, the pad of his thumb hovering for a second near her bottom lip before he caught himself.
She drew in a breath. She didn’t move away.
He drew back a fraction, and made his touch careful again, businesslike. “Sorry.”
He let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh and taped a small bandage in place. “There. You’re good.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Scout pushed to his feet, closed the kit, and reached for the cards again like nothing had happened.
“We were at no mercy, remember?” he said, forcing a little grin.
Tessa curled her fingers around the new hand he dealt her. “Good,” she said. “I’d hate for you to start going easy on me now.”
The matchsticks dwindled. Tessa managed a narrow win, rocking back with a self-satisfied smile. “You’re on dish duty.”
Scout laughed, stacking empty mugs. “Wouldn’t dare break Scout’s rules.”
They rocked in companionable silence as the wind clawed at the shutters.
Evening at the Grady Cabin
“I saw you hobbling around this morning after sleeping in that chair,” she said. “We’re sharing the bed tonight. I mean, we’re adults. We can handle it, right?”
Scout’s mouth quirked. “I’ve survived worse.” But his eyes, when he met hers, were grateful.
They got ready in their own quiet ways. When they climbed in, the covers still folded down, a strange formality hung in the air. For a while, they lay side by side, inches apart, until Tessa made a show of shivering.
“I have to have cover to sleep. It’s non-negotiable.”
“Fine, you win.” Scout tugged the old quilt up over them, tucking them into warmth. Lying so close, he caught the faint scent of her shampoo—something herbal and light. His heart wouldn’t settle, mind tumbling over every small detail of her beside him.
They tried to sleep, both stretched out on the narrow bed with a gulf of anxious silence between them. The storm rattled the old windows, flung handfuls of sleet against the tin roof. In that deep, nervous quiet, every snap and creak made them tense.
Minutes dragged. Muscles ached from holding still. Little by little, the exhaustion of the past days pressed heavier than the fear. Their breathing slowed. The storm faded to background noise.
Sleep finally came.
The crack ripped through the cabin.
They were on their feet in the same breath. Pistols. Flashlight. Firelight flickering.
Window sweep. Snow. Wind.
A maple limb sprawled across the drift below.
They held position another second.
Listening.
When it became clear nothing else was coming, relief hit hard.
Tessa’s breath broke into a laugh — sharp, almost wild. Her hand trembled around the flashlight.
Scout turned toward her.
Hair loose. Temple bandaged. Cheeks flushed. Eyes bright with adrenaline and leftover fear.
The laughter faded.
The look didn’t.
He crossed the space in one stride.
His hand caught her at the waist, fingers digging into the worn flannel.
The kiss wasn’t careful.
It was collision.
Her mouth opened against his instantly, heat slamming through her. Her fingers fisted in his Henley, dragging him closer.
He drove her back into the rough-hewn logs. His body pressed flush to hers—hard, unyielding heat against the cold air leaking through the seams of the cabin.
Her hands slid beneath his shirt, palms dragging over the hard plane of his stomach, over muscle. He made a low, rough sound that went straight through her.
His mouth left hers and moved to her throat—relentless—stubble scraping beneath her ear. She gasped when his teeth grazed that sensitive place below her jaw, pulse hammering against his mouth.
His hand clamped at her hip and hauled her closer.
She wasn’t fragile.
She wasn’t hesitant.
She caught his shirt and dragged him back to her mouth, kissing him harder.
His hands moved with intent. Up her sides, thumbs skimming beneath her ribs before sliding higher, mapping her. She arched into the contact.
He lifted her just enough that her toes left the floor.
The bed frame struck the backs of her legs.
They fell into the mattress together.
The quilt twisted around them.
A single line of sweat broke along his temple, catching the light before slipping down the rough shadow of stubble along his jaw.
He hovered over her for half a heartbeat—breath ragged, eyes searching her face—then came down to her again like he was done fighting it.
His hand slid beneath the flannel, over bare skin—slow at first, reverent, as if giving her a chance to stop him.
She didn’t.
She met him halfway, nails dragging down his back, feeling muscle flex and release beneath her touch. He growled into her mouth and shifted, rolling just enough to bring her with him, flipping her easily so she ended up astride him, knees braced on either side of his hips.
“Tell me you’re here,” he said — not rough now. Not joking. “I thought I lost you,” he said against her mouth. “On that ridge. I thought that was it.”
“I’m here,” she breathed.
For a second the world tipped—cold air on her back, heat blazing everywhere he touched. His hands wrapped around her thighs, anchoring her in place.
Her inhale came sharp, uneven.
He sat up into her, one arm banded around her waist, the other sliding down to hook behind her knee and draw her closer. “Scout—”
Her voice cracked on his name.
He felt it in his chest—how close they’d come to losing this.
He stilled just enough to look at her, eyes dark, wide open.
“This okay?” he asked, low, rough, like the answer mattered more than breathing.
Tessa cupped his face in both hands, thumbs brushing the scar at his jaw. “Yes,” she said. “Stay.”
“Don’t hold back,” she whispered.
“I’m not,” he said. “Not with you.”
Something in his shoulders loosened. The tension that had been coiled there for days—years—finally gave.
He moved with a hunger he didn’t bother disguising—slow only long enough to make her gasp, relentless once she did—until the world narrowed to friction and breath and the sound of her saying his name.
They didn’t hold back.
They didn’t think about morning.
They moved like there might not be one.
After
The fire had sunk low.
Snow whispered against the windows.
He wasn’t gentle because he didn’t care. He was gentle because he did.
Tessa lay on her stomach, breath finally slowing. Scout’s arm draped across her back, hand resting warm at her shoulder.
His fingers shifted, then paused. There — a scar. Thin. Older. Not from yesterday.
He traced it slowly.
She stilled.
He leaned forward and pressed his mouth against it.
Not questioning.
Just there.
“I didn’t plan that,” he murmured into the dim room.
She turned her head toward him.
“Well,” she said softly, “I’m not sorry.”
His mouth curved faintly.
“Good.”
Silence settled between them.
She brushed her thumb along his cheek.
“Why so quiet?”
He looked at the ceiling beams.
“Thinking about Sara.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Me too.”
He shifted closer.
“Tomorrow we start the hunt.”
“We will.”
“She’s still our priority.”
“Always.”
He brushed his mouth against hers again — slower now.
“I’m not sorry either,” he said.
Inside, something had changed.
His hand stayed over that scar long after she fell asleep, as if he’d already decided it mattered.