Chapter 6
chapter six
Brock
I sit at the kitchen table with Sadie across from me, insurance papers spread out between us. She frowns at one of the forms and taps her pen against the table. I reach over and slide a fresh cup of coffee closer to her hand. She takes it without looking up and murmurs a thanks.
I watch her read the fine print, her brow still furrowed. I hate seeing her stress over any of this.
“Need help with that section?” I ask.
She nods and turns the paper toward me. “They want a list of everything that was lost. I keep forgetting things. It’s like my brain just... blocks it out.”
I pick up my own pen and start adding items from memory.
The clothes she wore that night. Her toiletries.
The laptop she mentioned. She watches me for a moment, then adds a few more things in her neat handwriting.
We work through the stack together, and every time she sighs, I rub her shoulder until she relaxes again.
Later that morning, the fire investigator calls. I put him on speaker so Sadie can hear. His voice comes through clear and professional.
“The cause was neglected maintenance on the chimney liner combined with faulty repairs from the previous owners. No accelerants. No signs of tampering. Purely accidental.”
Sadie lets out a long breath. I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine. Her fingers squeeze back tight.
“Thank you,” she says. “That makes the insurance process easier, at least.”
The investigator gives us a few more details and hangs up. Sadie leans back in her chair and closes her eyes. I stand and move behind her, massaging her shoulders until the tension finally drains away.
“Repairs will take time,” I tell her. “But we’ll handle it. Step by step.”
She turns in the chair and looks up at me. “You keep saying ‘we.’”
“Because it is we.” I kiss her forehead. “You’re not doing any of this alone.”
Over the next few days, I make calls while she’s in the shower or reading on the porch.
I talk to the contractor I trust and get quotes and timelines.
I keep her updated on everything but never make decisions without her input.
She chooses the new materials for the cabin.
She decides how much she wants to invest in repairs versus selling.
I support whatever she picks. At night, I hold her close and let her talk through her options until she falls asleep against my chest.
In the quiet moments, I start thinking further ahead.
I picture her selling the cabin and staying here permanently.
Clearing out more space in the closet for her clothes.
Building a bigger deck together so we can sit outside and watch the lake in all seasons.
I see her at the station barbecues every summer, her things mixed with mine in every room.
The thoughts settle warm and solid in my chest. I want a future with her. I want it badly.
One afternoon I come home from a shift and find flowers on the porch. A bouquet of red roses wrapped in paper sits right by the front door. I pick them up and find a small card tucked inside. It has Sadie’s name on it. No sender. No message. Just her name in block letters.
My stomach tightens. I carry the flowers inside and set them on the counter. When Sadie walks in from the bedroom, she stops short.
“Those are pretty. Did you get them?”
I shake my head. “They were on the porch when I got home. Card has your name.”
She steps closer and reads it. Her face changes, some of the color drains away. “I didn’t order these.”
I pull her against me. “We’ll throw them out. Probably just a mix-up at the flower shop.”
She nods, but I feel how stiff she’s gone in my arms. I toss the bouquet in the trash outside and wash my hands twice. That night I hold her a little tighter.
The next evening I’m out front splitting more firewood when I notice a car parked down the road, half-hidden by trees.
Someone’s inside. I can’t see clearly, but the shape of the person faces our house.
I set the axe down and start walking toward it.
The car pulls away fast before I get close.
I stand there for a long time, watching the empty road.
I don’t mention it to Sadie right away. Don’t want to worry her unless I have to. But I start paying closer attention, checking the locks twice each night, keeping her inside when I can.
Two days later I catch the truck. Same one.
Dark color. Tinted windows. It crawls past the house.
Too slow. I’m in the driveway working on my own truck when it passes the third time that hour.
I step out into the road and stare it down.
The driver speeds up and disappears around the curve. My hands clench at my sides.
I go inside and find Sadie in the kitchen making sandwiches for lunch.
I wrap my arms around her from behind and rest my chin on top of her head. “Everything okay?” she asks.
I nod against her hair. “Just thinking about you.”
She turns in my arms and kisses me. I kiss her back harder than I mean to, needing to feel her solid and safe.
We end up against the counter. Her hands slide under my shirt.
Mine grip her hips. We forget about lunch for a while.
Afterward, I hold her close and breathe her in, telling myself I’m imagining things.
That the truck and the flowers mean nothing.
But the fear’s still there, coiling in my gut, making my hands shake with the need to protect her. To keep her safe. To make damn sure she knows she’s mine and no one else’s.
I kiss her harder, deeper, my tongue claiming her mouth.
She moans against my lips and the sound breaks something loose inside me.
I lift her onto the counter in one motion.
She gasps and wraps her legs around my waist. I step between her thighs and press against her.
She can feel exactly how hard I am through my jeans.
“Brock,” she breathes against my mouth.
“I need you,” I growl. My hands slide up her thighs, pushing her dress higher. “Right now. I need to feel you.”
Her eyes are dark with desire, but there’s something else there too. Understanding. She knows what I’m feeling, the fear underneath the need. She cups my face with both hands and kisses me softly, grounding me.
“Then take me,” she whispers. “I’m yours.”
Those words undo me completely. I yank her dress over her head and throw it aside.
She’s wearing simple white underwear. I make quick work of both pieces.
When she’s naked on my kitchen counter, I step back just to look at her.
Auburn hair tumbling over her shoulders.
Blue eyes watching me with trust and want.
Curves that make my mouth water. Mine. All mine.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I tell her, my voice rough. “And you’re mine, Sadie. No one else gets to have you. No one else gets to touch you. Just me.”
“Just you,” she agrees breathlessly.
I lean down and capture one nipple in my mouth.
She arches into me with a cry. I suck hard, then move to the other breast, giving it the same attention.
My hands roam her body possessively, every curve, every inch of soft skin.
I need to touch all of her. Need to memorize her.
Need to brand her as mine so deeply that no threat could ever shake what we have.
"He'll never have you," I murmur against her skin. "That bastard watching the house, he'll never touch you. You're mine."
"Yes," she gasps as my hand slides between her thighs. She's already wet. So wet for me. I circle her clit with my thumb and she bucks against my hand.
"Say it," I command, sliding two fingers inside her. "Tell me you're mine."
"I'm yours," she moans. "Only you, Brock. Only yours."
I work her with my fingers, curling them to hit that spot that makes her see stars. My thumb keeps circling her clit. She's panting now, her hands gripping the counter's edge. Her pussy clenches around my fingers.
"That's it," I murmur. "Come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel you."
She shatters with a cry, her whole body shaking. I work her through it, drawing out every wave of pleasure. When she finally goes limp, I pull my fingers out and bring them to my mouth, tasting her. Her eyes go wide.
"Fuck," she breathes.
I strip off my shirt and jeans, kicking them aside. My cock is hard and leaking. I need to be inside her. Need to claim her completely. I pull her to the counter's edge and position myself at her entrance.
"Look at me," I order.
Her eyes lock on mine. I thrust inside her in one deep stroke. She cries out, her back arching. I'm buried to the hilt, her tight heat surrounding me. I pause for just a moment, letting her adjust. Then I start to move.
I fuck her hard on the counter. Each thrust is deep and deliberate. Skin slaps against skin, filling the kitchen with sound. She's moaning with every stroke, her nails digging into my shoulders.
"You feel so good," I groan. "So tight. So perfect. Mine."
"Yours," she gasps. "God, Brock, don't stop."
I have no intention of stopping. I grip her hips hard enough to leave bruises.
Good. I want her marked. Want her to see the evidence of my possession tomorrow.
I lean down and bite her shoulder, not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to leave a mark.
She cries out, and her pussy clenches around me.
"You like that?" I growl against her ear. "You like being marked as mine?"
"Yes," she whimpers. "Yes, please."
I pull out suddenly, and she makes a sound of protest. I flip her around so she's bent over the counter, her ass in the air. The sight of her like this, spread out and ready for me, nearly makes me come right there.
"Stay just like that," I tell her.