Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Lucy
The storm rolls in so fast it’s like someone flipped a switch. Ten minutes ago the snow was pretty—storybook flakes drifting lazily across the pines. Now it’s slamming sideways against my cabin windows like the mountain is shaking itself out.
The power flickers.
Once.
Twice.
Then dies.
Everything goes black.
I stand in the middle of my living room wrapped in a blanket, listening to the wind roar like it’s trying to tear the damn cabin off its foundation. My breath comes out in little white puffs.
“Okay,” I mutter, pulling out my phone to use the flashlight. “Not ideal. But we can improvise.”
Except my phone is at 9%.
I rummage around for the emergency headlamp I saw the day I moved in, and after tripping over a box of ornaments I still haven’t unpacked, I find it.
Headlamp: on. Phone: plugged into a portable charger. Socks: thick, fuzzy, and a humiliation I wouldn’t survive if certain grumpy neighbors saw them. The wind howls harder. The cabin groans. And then a pounding knock rattles the door.
I whirl so fast the headlamp flashes across the walls like a strobe light.
“Lucy!”
Ash’s voice. Deep. Rough. Cutting through the storm like a blade.
My heart leaps straight into my throat.
I fumble with the lock, and when the door swings open, he fills the frame like something carved from the blizzard itself—coat dusted in snow, hair damp and mussed, breath coming out in clouds. He’s the last person I should want to see. He’s the only person I want to see.
“Ash?” I squeak. My voice cracks on his name. He stares at me for a beat. Not my face. My headlamp. My blanket. My fuzzy socks with tiny embroidered reindeer. His jaw flexes so hard I’m shocked the bones don’t snap.
“What the hell are you wearing?” he finally mutters.
“It’s called survival.”
“It’s called dangerous.”
I blink. “My socks are not dangerous.”
“They’re killing me.”
Heat slams into my cheeks. He shakes snow from his jacket as he steps inside, shutting the door behind him. The cabin plunges into semi-darkness again, lit only by my headlamp. He looks around, assessing everything in seconds—old chimney, powerless heater, drafty window seams.
“Power’s completely out,” he says, voice clipped. “Temperature dropped ten degrees in the last hour. You can’t stay here.”
“I can manage—”
“No.” The word lands like a command.
I bristle. “Ash—”
“You’re not staying here alone, Lucy.”
“I’ve handled power outages before.”
“Not on a mountain. Not in a poorly insulated rental. Not in a blizzard with wind gusts hitting sixty.”
“I can use the fireplace.”
“It’s not safe.” His voice tightens. “The chimney’s cracked. I told you that on your first day here, remember?”
I do remember. I also remember thinking he was a bossy giant who needed a hobby.
He steps closer. Too close.
The headlamp light catches the edge of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes, the melt of snow on his shoulders. He looks huge in the tiny entryway—towering, bracing one hand on the beam above him like he needs something to keep from touching me.
“Why are you here?” I whisper.
His eyes lock onto mine. The answer is immediate. “Because I heard the power went out.”
“That’s… not a reason.”
“It is to me.”
My breath stutters. He studies me, headlamp glow flickering across his features like firelight. There’s something in his expression—hard, fierce, tense as a pulled wire.
“You’re freezing,” he says.
“No, I’m—”
He touches my cheek with the back of his knuckles.
I flinch. Not because it hurts.
Because it doesn’t. Because it feels like heat punching straight through my skin. He pulls back like he didn’t mean to touch me at all.
“Get your boots,” he says. “You’re coming with me.”
“Excuse me?”
“Lucy.” His voice dips low, dangerous. “I’m not leaving you here.”
“I didn’t say you had to leave. I just said I’m fine.”
He stares at me like I’m made of glass and pure trouble. “You are not fine.”
“Stop being overprotective.”
“Stop giving me a reason to be.”
My stomach flips.
“This is ridiculous,” I say, because my brain is losing to my heartbeat. “You don’t have to drag me off to your cabin like some kind of blizzard caveman.”
His mouth twitches. “I didn’t say my cabin.”
I blink. “Then… where?”
“The firehouse.”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Open it again.
“That’s worse.”
His brow lifts. “Worse how?”
“You expect me to stay in a building full of your firefighter friends? The ones who made bets about us last week?”
His jaw clenches. “They were out of line.”
“They were not wrong.”
Silence detonates between us. Ash looks away first—but only for a second. When his gaze returns, it’s darker. Lower. Like he’s fighting something primal.
“Lucy,” he says, quiet now, “I didn’t come here to argue.”
“You always argue.”
“I came here,” he continues, ignoring that, “because the thought of you sitting in a freezing cabin in the dark made me crazy.”
My breath leaves my lungs in a slow, shaky rush.
He steps closer.
I step back.
My heel hits the rug. I stop moving.
He doesn’t. He towers over me, headlamp light casting his features into sharp lines and shadows.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he mutters.
“Then go.”
His eyes flick to my mouth.
“No.”
“Then stop telling me what to do.”
“Impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because every time I look at you,” he growls, “I forget how to do anything else.”
My pulse slams so hard I feel dizzy. He scrubs a hand through his snow-damp hair, frustrated. “Lucy, please. Just—just put on your coat. Get in the truck. I can’t—” He breaks off, jaw grinding. “I can’t leave you here.”
The wind screams against the cabin, rattling the windows.
I swallow. “Ash…”
His name on my lips makes him go still. Then he steps even closer, slow and deliberate, until his boots touch mine.
“Say yes,” he murmurs.
“Ash…”
“Say it.”
I inhale sharply. “Fine.”
Relief washes through his expression so raw it hurts to look at. But then, he leans in, bracing one arm against the wall beside my head, breath brushing the top of my cheek.
“Next time,” he murmurs, “don’t make me beg.”
Heat shoots through me so fast I almost choke.
“I didn’t make you beg,” I manage.
“You came damn close.”
“That’s your fault.”
“No,” he whispers, voice sliding down my spine. “It’s yours.”
I glare. “You are impossible.”
He smirks faintly. “Good. Now get your coat.”
Ten minutes later, I’m zipped into my puffy jacket, boots on, scarf tangled wrong. Ash watches me while pretending not to, jaw set like he’s preparing for war.
“You ready?” he asks.
“No.”
“Too bad.”
He grabs my duffel bag, slings it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing, and guides me out into the storm with a hand at my back so hot it might as well be a brand. The snow pelts my face. I squint against the wind.
“Stay close,” he orders.
“I’m literally three inches away.”
“Closer.”
I huff. “Maybe just carry me, then.”
He stops walking and turns slowly.
“Don’t tempt me,” he says.
A shudder of pleasure runs through me at the thought.
The drive is a blur of snow and tension.
Inside the truck, the heater blasts warm air.
Snow ricochets off the windshield. The world outside disappears into blinding white.
Ash keeps one hand on the wheel, the other on the console—but close enough that if I moved even an inch, my fingers would brush his. We drive in thick, electric silence.
“Ash?” I ask softly.
“Hm.”
“Why did you really come?”
He doesn’t look at me. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”
“I want this one.”
His grip tightens on the wheel. “Fine,” he mutters. “Because I couldn’t sit at the firehouse wondering if you were okay.”
“Ash—”
“Because the storm got worse faster than it should have, and I panicked.”
“You panicked?”
“I said don’t repeat it.” I bite my lip.
“And,” he adds quietly, “because I didn’t want you scared and alone.”
My chest aches. “Ash…”
“Lucy.” His voice drops again. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“I want to.”
“Then wait until we’re inside.”
The wind howls. The tension in the truck crackles so thick I could reach out and touch it. And for the first time since moving to Devil’s Peak, I realize something terrifying: I trust him.
With everything.
We pull into the parking lot and Ash kills the engine twenty minutes later. Snow swirls under the floodlights. He turns to me. “Inside,” he says softly. “Come on.”
He opens his door, then rounds to my side before I can even manage the handle. Gentlemanly. Bossy. Both. He scoops the duffel off the seat before I can reach for it.
“Ash,” I protest, “I can carry my own bag.”
“Don’t care.”
“You are—”
“Don’t say impossible again,” he warns, voice low. “It’ll start a fight we don’t have time for.”
My cheeks burn. He leads me inside, warm air hitting us immediately. The firehouse is dim, most of the crew on call or already out on storm duty. His hand stays at the small of my back.
“Where am I… sleeping?” I ask.
Ash hesitates. Then points upstairs.
“You can take my room."
My throat closes.
“And you?” I whisper.
“I’ll take the couch.”
“That’s not fair.”
His eyes darken. “I’m not sleeping in a bed while you’re down here alone. Not happening.” My breath shivers out. He steps closer, his voice lowering until it’s barely a growl. “You’re safe here, Lucy.”
I nod.
He doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
The silence stretches between us—tight, charged, dangerous.
Finally, he whispers:
“If you need anything… anything at all… you come find me.”
“Ash…”
“Say you will.”
“I will,” I breathe.
His jaw flexes again—like he’s barely holding something in.
“Good.”
He pulls back.
Leaves the room.
And I stand there, pulse racing, heart pounding, knowing—
The storm outside is nothing compared to the one raging between us.