Chapter 6
Wyatt
The storm doesn’t arrive politely.
It comes in like it owns the mountain—wind punching the trees, snow coming sideways, the kind of weather that makes sane people lock their doors and pray the power holds. I’ve seen blizzards swallow roads and turn cabins into coffins if you’re stupid enough to underestimate them.
Ellie is sitting on the couch, Jake’s head in her lap, with my flannel wrapped around her like she’s trying to pretend she isn’t cold. She’s stubborn like that—won’t complain, won’t ask, won’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her need something.
Her hair is down now, falling over her shoulders in messy waves. She looks too soft in my living room. Too tempting. Too much like something I should not have.
I toss another log into the stove and shut the door with a hard click.
“Power’s going to flicker,” I say.
Ellie lifts her eyes from the mug in her hands. “That supposed to calm me down?”
“It’s supposed to prepare you,” I answer.
She snorts. “You’re allergic to comforting.”
I turn, lean my hip against the counter, and watch her. “I’m good at what matters.”
Her mouth tightens like she wants to argue, but the wind howls against the cabin and she flinches anyway.
“Still think I’m dramatic?” I ask.
“I think you like being right,” she says.
I push off the counter and cross the room, stopping a few feet from her. Not close enough to touch. Close enough to make her aware of exactly how much space I’m choosing not to take.
“You’re shaking,” I say.
“I’m not,” she lies, chin lifting.
“You are.”
She narrows her eyes. “Stop paying attention to my body.”
My gaze drops to the way her fingers are curled around the mug, knuckles pale, then slides back up to her face. “No.”
Ellie’s breath catches, quick and annoyed, like she hates that word in my mouth. “God, you’re bossy.”
“I’m in charge here.”
“Why?” she challenges. “Because you have a beard and a cabin?”
“Because you came to me,” I say, and my voice goes low without asking permission. “Because you’re under my roof. Because there’s a storm outside and a man out there who thinks he can track you.”
Her face tightens at the reminder. She looks away, jaw clenched. “I didn’t come to you. I came to… an address.”
“And the address was mine.”
“I didn’t know,” she mutters.
I crouch in front of her, not touching, just lowering myself into her space until she has to look at me. Her eyes flicker down to my mouth and back up like she caught herself.
Good.
“Now you know,” I say.
Her lips part, then press together. “You don’t have to keep saying it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like it’s… fate.”
I almost laugh, but it comes out as a low exhale. “Fate doesn’t post ads.”
Ellie’s brows lift. “So this is your fault?”
“It’s my decision,” I correct. “Big difference.”
The lights flicker once overhead—quick, warning.
Ellie’s shoulders tense.
“See?” I say. “Flicker.”
She rolls her eyes, but her mouth tightens. “Congratulations. You predicted weather.”
I stand, reach for the lantern on the shelf, and set it on the coffee table. Then I grab the battery pack and the emergency flashlight like I’m laying out tools for a job.
Ellie watches, trying to look unimpressed. “Do you always turn storms into a performance?”
“I always turn storms into preparation.”
“Same thing,” she says.
I glance down at her. “You hungry?”
“No.”
“That means yes,” I say.
She gives me a look. “I’m not a child.”
“You keep saying that like I care,” I tell her, and her cheeks flush even though she’s trying not to react.
I move into the kitchen, pull out a pot, and start heating soup. Something simple. Warm. Real food. The kind of thing a body needs when it’s cold and stressed and pretending it’s fine.
Ellie follows, leaning in the doorway with her arms crossed. The flannel is too big on her, sleeves hanging past her wrists, hem hitting mid-thigh. It’s my shirt, my scent, my cabin. The possessive part of me hums low and satisfied.
I hate that part of me.
I also don’t.
“You’re staring,” she says.
I don’t look away. “I’m allowed.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am in my kitchen.”
Her eyes narrow. “That is not how ‘allowed’ works.”
I lift a brow. “It does with me.”
Ellie makes a frustrated sound and pushes off the doorway, stepping closer. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet you’re still here,” I say, and the words come out with more meaning than they should.
She stops too close to me. The air between us tightens. I can feel her heat through the flannel. I can smell that faint chocolate note still clinging to her skin.
Ellie’s gaze flicks to the pot. “You’re cooking.”
“Yes.”
“Who are you?”
I smile without warmth. “A man who doesn’t let his wife starve.”
The word wife lands heavy.
Ellie’s breath stutters. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I ask, voice calm.
“Don’t call me that like it’s real,” she snaps, but her voice is thin around the edges.
“It is real,” I say. “On paper.”
Ellie’s eyes flare. “Exactly. On paper.”
“Paper matters,” I tell her. “Especially to men like him.”
Ellie’s jaw tightens. “Don’t talk about him.”
I set the ladle down with controlled care. “Then give me something else to talk about.”
Her gaze locks onto mine. “Like what?”
I take a slow step toward her until her back hits the counter. Not hard. Just enough to make a point. Her hands lift automatically, palms pressing to the edge behind her.
Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn’t move away.
I lower my voice. “Like the way you keep trying to pretend you’re not affected.”
“Affected by what?” she challenges, breath quick.
“By me,” I answer, blunt.
Ellie’s cheeks flush. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“Am I wrong?”
Her mouth opens, then closes. A beat. Two.
The lights flicker again—longer this time. The cabin dips into a dim, unsteady glow.
Ellie swallows, eyes darting toward the lamp overhead like she can will it to stay on.
“Wyatt,” she says, and it isn’t a joke now.
“I’ve got it,” I say.
The power cuts.
Everything goes silent for half a second—no hum of the refrigerator, no overhead light buzz—just wind and the low crackle of the stove.
The lantern on the coffee table kicks in with a soft glow, the flame inside steady and warm. Shadows jump across the walls.
Ellie’s breath catches. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I echo, calm.
She points toward the window like the dark outside is personally offending her. “It’s… really coming down.”
“Yeah.”
“And we’re snowed in?”
“Possibly.”
Her eyes narrow. “Possibly.”
I step away from her and pour soup into two bowls like I’m not acutely aware of her body pressed to my counter in my shirt with only lantern light between us.
“Eat,” I say.
Ellie takes the bowl, still glaring. “Stop ordering me around.”
“Stop giving me reasons.”
She huffs, then takes a bite—and I watch her face despite myself. The way her shoulders loosen a fraction. The way warmth hits her system and she tries not to show relief.
She catches me watching. “What.”
“Nothing.”
“You always say ‘nothing’ when you’re thinking something,” she accuses.
I sip my own soup. “You’re observant.”
“I’m not stupid,” she says.
“I know.”
The wind slams against the cabin again, louder. Something thuds on the roof—branches, snow load, whatever the mountain is throwing at us.
Ellie flinches and tries to hide it.
I take her empty bowl from her hands when she finishes, fingers brushing hers for half a second. Static jumps. She stills.
“You’re cold,” I say.
“I’m fine.”
“Ellie.”
Her eyes flash. “Stop saying my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you own it.”
I lean in close, voice low. “I own the paper.”
Her breath catches again, and she hates herself for it. I can see the war in her eyes: fear, anger, attraction, the desperate need to stay in control.
I don’t give her control.
Not here.
I gesture down the hall. “Bedroom.”
Her brows lift. “I’m not—”
“You’re sleeping in the bed,” I cut in. “That part isn’t negotiable.”
“And you?” she challenges, crossing her arms again like it’s armor.
“Couch.”
She snorts. “Sure.”
I tilt my head. “You want me in the bed with you?”
Her face goes red in the lantern light. “No.”
“Then don’t challenge me.”
She opens her mouth to fire back, but another gust hits the cabin and the temperature seems to drop. Her shoulders hunch slightly, the flannel doing its best but not enough.
I take a step closer. “Go.”
Her eyes flare. “Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop acting like you’re not…” She trails off, jaw tight.
“Not what?”
Ellie swallows. “Not tempted.”
I let my mouth tilt, just slightly. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m tempted.”
Her breath stutters. “Then why are you acting like you don’t want me?”
The question hangs there, raw and reckless, like she threw it without thinking.
The lantern light catches the wet shine in her eyes, the flush on her cheeks, the way her lips are parted like she’s waiting for me to ruin her.
I step in close, close enough that the front of my shirt brushes the flannel. Close enough that her body goes still like it’s listening.
My voice drops to a rough whisper. “I’m acting like I won’t ruin you.”
Ellie’s throat works. “Ruin me.”
“You’re already cracked,” I say, honest and sharp. “Someone’s been squeezing you until you thought you had to run. If I touch you the way I want to, you’re going to shatter.”
Her eyes flare with anger. “Don’t talk to me like I’m breakable.”
I lean closer, letting my breath fan over her mouth. “You’re not breakable. You’re volatile.”
Her fingers curl on the counter behind her. “Wyatt…”
I don’t touch her. I make her feel it anyway.
“You want me?” I ask.
Her eyes flick down to my mouth. Back up. “No.”
I smile, slow and dark. “Liar.”
Ellie’s chest rises sharply. “I’m not your—”
“My wife?” I finish for her, and the word is a blade and a promise all at once.
She hates how it lands between us.
“I’m not,” she whispers.
“You are,” I say, and I let my gaze drag down her body in my shirt. “You’re wearing it like you belong here.”
Her cheeks burn. “It’s a shirt.”
“It’s my shirt.”
She makes a frustrated sound. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re here,” I repeat, quieter now. “In my cabin. In my dark. Asking me why I don’t want you.”
Ellie’s eyes sharpen. “I didn’t ask—”
“You did.”
A beat passes.
Then she pushes off the counter abruptly and walks toward the hallway like she’s fleeing her own words.
“Fine,” she snaps over her shoulder. “I’m going to bed.”
I watch her go, jaw tight, forcing myself not to follow too close. Not yet. Not when she’s wound up like this, when she’s half fear and half heat and she doesn’t know which one to feed.
She stops in the bedroom doorway and turns back.
In the lantern light, she looks like trouble in flannel. Bare legs. Messy hair. Eyes too bright.
“Are you coming?” she asks, voice sharp.
I lift a brow. “To the bedroom?”
She glares. “To— to check the windows. The locks. Whatever you do when you pretend you’re not… you.”
My mouth tilts. “I’ll check.”
She nods too quickly and disappears into the bedroom.
I move through the cabin with quiet steps, checking the doors, the windows, the lock on the back entry. I tug the curtains shut, scan the black outside. The storm turns everything into a white blur. Visibility’s garbage.
I should be focused on that.
Instead, my mind keeps snapping back to her voice.
You’re acting like you don’t want me.
I exhale through my nose, jaw clenched. Want isn’t the problem. Want is easy. Want is simple.
Restraint is the problem.
I kill the lantern in the living room and take the smaller one down the hall, stopping outside the bedroom door. I don’t go in. I’m not going to be that man.
I knock once, soft.
Ellie’s voice comes through the door. “What.”
“I’m on the couch,” I say. “If you need anything, you call my name.”
A beat.
Then, quieter, “I don’t need anything.”
I lower my voice. “Ellie.”
Silence.
Then I hear it—her breath, shakier now. “Okay.”
I turn away, take two steps toward the couch, and the sound hits.
Metal against wood.
Not inside the cabin.
Outside.
The back door. The frame. A scrape that shouldn’t exist in a storm.
Every muscle in my body locks.
My hand goes to the gun before I’m fully conscious of moving.
I stand perfectly still, listening.
The wind howls.
And then it comes again.
A careful, deliberate clink—like someone testing the lock.