Chapter Thirty-Five
Fourteen days of quiet. Fourteen nights of safety.
Not without scars, but God—finally, finally—they could breathe.
They’d traded the chaos of Calhoun County for the clean stillness of Ethan’s hunt camp. Tucked against the base of the Appalachian ridge, surrounded by pine and oak and maples turned fire-orange in the fall. No cell service unless you walked half a mile uphill. No visitors but the occasional deer.
The silence was holy.
Amara stirred the cast-iron skillet resting above the fire grate, the smell of onions and sweet potato rising up into the brisk afternoon air.
Her hoodie was tugged down over her hips, her hair tied back with a leather string Ethan had once used for gear.
She liked the way it felt—practical, reclaimed.
The fire crackled. Wind rustled the high canopy.
Somewhere in the woods, a hawk screeched, searching for prey.
Her body still ached sometimes. From the house fire.
From the fear. From all the months of not sleeping, of driving herself to the edge to survive.
But it was less now. She was learning how to rest without guilt.
Every morning she woke with him wrapped around her like a prayer. Every night she fell asleep to the sound of his breath.
She still drove back into town, back to the farm. She wasn’t about to let go of her father’s land. But the hours were more humane now. Ethan had practically laid his body across the driver’s side door and told her she’d kill herself trying to save the world.
So now she worked early mornings, got things done by lunch, and was back here by mid-afternoon, nesting into this strange, sweet new life.
It didn’t feel like giving up.
It felt like choosing.
Finally.
The screen door creaked. She glanced over her shoulder, just as Ethan stepped down from the little cabin’s porch. Shirt half-buttoned, thermos in one hand, that damn mountain-man look that proved he belonged to the trees.
He came toward her slow, boots crunching pine needles, that easy gait like nothing could touch him out here.
“You makin’ that swamp mess again?” he asked, voice still scratchy from a nap.
“It’s a hash,” she corrected, grinning. “And it’s gourmet.”
“You burnin’ it on purpose or just for the aroma?”
She stuck the wooden spoon out like a sword. “Say that again and I’ll make you eat it with a pinecone.”
He laughed—soft, low—and settled down on the log beside her. His thigh brushed hers. Solid. Warm. Present.
For a moment, they just sat.
The fire popped. The skillet sizzled. A breeze lifted the scent of cedar and woodsmoke into the air.
Ethan leaned over, kissed her temple. “Smells good, swamp mess and all.”
Amara smiled. Because even if the world still spun mad, this moment didn’t.
She scraped the crispy edge of sweet potato hash into a tin plate, dropped in a couple extra spoonfuls—because Ethan always claimed to be starving even when he wasn’t—and handed it off to him with a fork that had survived three seasons of weather and one bear scare.
“Bon appétit,” she said, grinning.
He took it like a gift from heaven. “Hell yes.”
And then—like always—he made that noise. That sinful, appreciative groan from the first bite, like it was the best thing he’d eaten in weeks.
“Jesus, baby,” he mumbled with his mouth half full. “You keep cookin’ like this and I’m gonna get real fat and real domestic.”
“You already are halfway there,” she teased. “Domestic and feral, at least.”
He grinned, shaking his head.
She sat back beside him on the log, watching him chew with that satisfied look he got when his belly was full and his girl was near. He looked at her as if she was already his wife. Then, casually, like it was the weather or the cost of lumber, he said, “Brock’s got ideas, by the way.”
She raised an eyebrow. “About?”
“Cabin expansion. Says we could build it up proper. Good bones here. Add a second room, real bathroom. Fix the roof. Get solar in. Put in a septic line.”
She blinked. “You really want to build this place out?”
He shrugged, still eating. “’Course. Gotta be ready.”
“Ready for what?”
He looked up then. Grinned around a forkful. “When we start havin’ kids.”
She stared. “Kids.”
“Mmhm.” He chewed. Swallowed. “Why else you think I’m planning heat and a tub? Little feet need warm floors and bubble baths.”
Amara blinked again. “I didn’t think you were serious.”
He kept eating like he hadn’t just dropped a life-altering statement. Then he shrugged and said, “Look, why else would I shack up with some young fertile thing if not to make myself a litter?”
Amara’s mouth dropped open. “You son of a—”
She launched at him, chasing him around the firepit, both of them laughing as he ducked away, the plate still in his hand, hash flying into the grass.
“Say that again and I’ll bury your fertile ass under a pine tree,” she shouted, swatting at his shoulder.
He tossed the plate onto the table and sprinted for the cabin, Amara hot on his heels. “You haven’t even asked, you dick!”
He burst through the door, and she followed, breathless and grinning—only to skid to a halt.
The room was dark, lit only by a few oil lanterns on the wall, flickering warm light across the space.
The old sleeping bag had been replaced by a quilt.
The table was set with the two tin mugs they always used, but there were wildflowers in one, sprigs of goldenrod and thistle and one stubborn little daisy.
And on the quilt, centered like it had been there all along, sat a small wooden box.
Amara blinked. “Ethan…”
He turned, all faux innocence. “What? Thought I’d wait ’til you were done chasin’ me.”
Her breath caught.
And for once in her life, Amara James had nothing smart to say.
Only tears in her eyes.
And a hand pressed over her heart.
Because that mountain man wasn’t kidding.
He really meant it.
He was building her a life.
He reached over and picked up the box, holding it up to her. Maybe he lasted for half a second more before he ruined the whole thing with that crooked smile and one gruff little line, “You asked.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You—Ethan Kane, I swear to God—”
But she never finished the threat because he had already cracked open the box, holding it up to her without ceremony.
And all her breath left her lungs.
It was simple. No frills. No gaudy flourishes or glittering mess of overdone romance. Just one round-cut diamond set in white gold, smooth and clean and undeniably expensive—but quiet about it.
It looked like him.
It looked like her.
It looked like forever.
She stared.
He didn’t say a damn word. Just stared down at her with those ridiculous green-gold eyes like he was waiting to get in trouble, or to get kissed. Maybe both.
And then—while she was still in shock—he slipped the ring onto her finger with precision.
“Ethan—”
But he was already moving, tugging her by the hips, spinning her into his arms and down into his lap as he sat on the edge of the bed. Her legs instinctively wrapped around him, straddling, her hands on his shoulders, her heart still trying to catch up.
He kissed her neck, slow and possessive, his rough jaw scraping her skin.
“You gonna say yes or just keep lookin’ at it like it’s poisoned?”
She gasped out a breathless laugh, gripping tighter to him. “I— God, yes, you asshole.”
He growled into her collarbone. “That’s more like it.”
Then, between kisses and the way his hands roamed under her hoodie, he muttered against her skin, “Should probably start showin’ you exactly how I plan on makin’ these kids.”
Her breath caught.
Her hips rolled.
If this was her life now, she’d take every messy, heated, brilliant second of it.
His mouth brushed her jaw. Her cheek. The corner of her lips.
Not demanding.
Not greedy.
Just reverent.
She was straddling his lap, her knees pressed into the bed on either side of him, her hands fisted in the collar of his flannel shirt like if she let go, he might disappear again.
But he wasn’t going anywhere, not this time.
His hands skimmed her waist, slipped beneath her hoodie, and he pulled it over her head with a gentleness that undid her completely. He kissed the skin just beneath her throat, then lower, his stubble scraping over the rise of her chest where her heart was beating too loud and too fast.
“Ethan,” she whispered, hands cupping his face. “Say something.”
He looked up at her. Really looked.
Those impossible eyes—green rimmed in gold, wildfire and meadow and something older than both—pinned her in place.
“I love you.”
Her breath caught.
“I love you, Amara. And I’m in love with you.”
She blinked, tears welling before she could stop them. He kissed them from her cheeks like he’d been waiting to do it his whole life.
“I love how you fight,” he murmured into her skin.
“How you don’t flinch when shit gets hard.
How you look out for everybody but still act like you’re on your own.
” His hands ran along her ribs, learning her all over again.
“I love that you never give up on your mama, no matter how rough things get.” His lips traced the slope of her shoulder.
“I love that when I’m around you, I forget how to be cold. ”
Her bra joined the hoodie somewhere behind them, tossed aside like nothing else mattered but the skin underneath it.
He didn’t grope, didn’t rush.
Just cupped her like she was fragile and holy, because this—this—was his altar.
“I love that when I picture my life,” he said hoarsely, “you’re the only thing that makes sense in it.”
She kissed him, desperate and soft, her tears mixing with the taste of him.
And he kissed her back.
Like every scar on her body was a story he wanted to rewrite with his mouth.
And suddenly she couldn’t take it anymore. The need to show him—not just tell him—what he meant to her was bone-deep.
“You always take care of me,” she whispered, her palms skimming down his chest, feeling the steady thunder of his heart. “Let me take care of you.”
She slid down from his lap.