7. Skye
Chapter seven
Skye
Twelve hours left.
The number glows on my phone screen, and my hands won't stop shaking.
The cabin walls feel closer than they did yesterday, the ceiling lower, like the space is shrinking around the impossible math of orders and time.
I set down the custom cover I've been trying to assemble for the third time in ten minutes, watching metallic foil catch the weak morning light streaming through the windows.
The cover slides through my fingers and hits the worktable with a soft thud, landing crooked on top of a stack I spent twenty minutes organizing.
The bin of rose gold accessories tips over when I reach for it, and tiny clips and rings scatter across the table in a cascade of metallic sound, some rolling and bouncing, some disappearing into gaps between the floorboards where I'll never be able to retrieve them.
I drop to my knees and claw at the wood, splinters catching under my nails, and the futility of it makes something wild climb up my throat.
"Fuck." The word is harsh on my tongue as I scramble to catch what's left, palms slapping against the floorboards. My hip collides with the table corner hard enough to send pain radiating down my thigh, and more accessories bounce off my unsteady fingers.
Hunter freezes. The air pressure shifts as his focus locks onto the back of my neck. My shoulders hunch, trying to shield the vulnerability he’s already found. I stare at my feet and pray for the shadows to hide me.
"Skye." His voice cuts through the spiral starting in my ribcage, calm and steady and completely at odds with the chaos spilling across the worktable.
"I'm fine." I search the floorboards for lost accessories, fingers scraping against the wood. "Just clumsy. I've got it."
"Stand up."
The command in those two words makes my pulse kick hard against my ribs, authority wrapped in concern, and my body wants to obey before my brain catches up.
I stay on the floor instead, searching gaps between boards with hands that won't hold still.
Three rose gold clips. One charm. A tiny ring wedged so deep I can't reach it.
"Skye. Look at me."
"I said I've got it." My voice comes out sharper than intended, defensive walls slamming into place. "Just give me a second to clean this up, and I'll get back to work. We're fine. Everything's fine."
Footsteps cross the cabin floor, and then Hunter's crouching beside me with one hand extended palm-up. "Give me what you found. I'll finish this. You need to stop."
"I don't need to stop. I need to finish these orders." I clutch the recovered accessories against my ribs. "Twelve hours, Hunter. We have twelve hours and ninety-three orders left, and I just wasted ten minutes dropping supplies because my hands won't work right."
"Your hands are shaking because you've been working for six hours straight without a break.
" He reaches for the accessories, and I pull back, protective instinct flaring hot and irrational.
His jaw tightens, the muscle jumping beneath his beard, but his voice stays level. "Do you need a snack or coffee?”
"I don't know. Sure?" I try to recall whether I even ate breakfast. Time has blurred. Was it two hours ago or four? I can't remember. "What matters is finishing these orders before the deadline hits and I lose everything I've spent years building."
"What matters is making sure you don't collapse before we get there.
" He shifts closer, crowding into my space with the warmth I've come to associate with safety, and his palms cup my jaw, broad enough that his fingers reach my temples.
He tilts my face up with gentle pressure that doesn't allow me to look away.
"Look at me, Skye. Actually look at me."
I force my gaze up to meet his, and the intensity there steals my breath. He's worried. The words are almost a band around my ribs, and the trembling in my hands spreads to my shoulders.
"I can't stop," I whisper. "If I stop, if I let myself feel how tired I am or how scared I am that this won't be enough, I won't be able to start again."
"You're already breaking." His other hand finds my wrist, fingers pressing against the rapid flutter there. "You're pushing past your limits because you think you have to do this alone."
The words unlock the dam I've been holding behind the fa?ade.
"What if it's not enough? What if we finish the orders and they're not good enough and customers leave bad reviews and my business dies anyway?
What if I came all the way up this mountain and worked myself into the ground and let you—" My voice cracks, and I swallow hard against the burn building in my throat.
"What if I let you in and it still doesn't matter? "
Hunter's hands frame my face, forcing me to hold his gaze while tears I didn't know were building spill hot down my cheeks. "Then we'll figure it out together."
"I don't know how." The admission comes out broken, surrender wrapped in four words. "I don't know how to stop holding everything together."
He pulls me against him, and I go, collapsing into his arms with a sound that's half sob and half exhale.
His arms come around me, one hand cupping my head while the other spreads wide across my spine, and he just holds me.
He doesn't tell me to stop or offer empty platitudes.
He anchors me until the sobs quiet to shaky inhales.
When I finally pull back, he’s looking at me like I'm the only thing that matters.
"Better?" he asks, and I nod even though my throat still burns.
"Yeah. Sorry. I don't usually—"
"Don't." His thumb catches a tear still clinging to my jaw, wiping it away attentively. "You don't apologize for being human. Ever."
He helps me, positioning himself behind me at the worktable, arms bracketing mine as he picks up the custom cover I dropped. "Show me what this one needs."
My hands are steadier with his surrounding them. We work like that for the next hour, close enough that I smell the scent of him.
The pile of completed orders grows steadily. By the time the deadline counter hits six hours, we're down to thirty-two orders.
"Break," Hunter says, and this time I don't argue.
We eat sandwiches at the kitchenette, his hip pressed against mine. He catches me staring and smiles.
"What?"
"Nothing. Just—thank you. For not letting me fall apart alone."
"You're not alone anymore." He sets down his sandwich and turns me to face him, hands finding my hips. "You get that now?"
"Yeah." Rising on my toes, I press my lips to his in a kiss. "I get it."
His arms wind around me, pulling me against him, and the kiss deepens into hunger. When we break apart, we're both flushed, and the wanting builds between us thick enough to taste.
"After," he says, voice heavy with barely restrained desire. "After we finish the orders, I'm keeping you."
We complete the final thirty-two orders in four hours. When I seal the last package and add it to the shipping stack, the deadline counter reads one hour and seventeen minutes.
We made it.
I turn to Hunter with tears streaming down my face, and he catches me when my knees give out.
"You did it." He lifts me, his hands gripping my waist as he carries me toward the bedroom. "You built this, and you fought like hell to keep it."
"We did it," I correct, and he kicks the bedroom door open.
Golden afternoon light streams through the window when he lays me down. He stands at the foot of the bed looking at me with an expression that makes heat flood my pussy, and when he reaches for the hem of his flannel shirt, I forget how to breathe.
He strips it off, revealing broad shoulders and a defined torso. Muscle shifts under his skin as he moves, and my fingers itch to touch, to map every ridge and plane.
"You're staring," he says, mouth quirking up at the corner.
"You're worth staring at." My voice comes out breathier than intended.
He climbs onto the bed and settles over me, bracketing me with his arms, and lowers his mouth to mine. The kiss is slow and deep and thorough, tasting like something uniquely him, and I arch up into him with a sound that's half gasp and half plea.
His hands find the hem of my shirt, fingers brushing against bare skin in a touch that makes my stomach muscles jump. "Can I?"
"Yes." I lift my arms above my head, and he pulls my shirt off, then my bra. His gaze lingers on my breasts, my nipples already hard and visible through the thin fabric. "Beautiful," he murmurs, then lowers his head to take one nipple into his mouth.
The wet warmth of his tongue sends a pulsing sensation sparking straight to my pussy, and my hands find his hair to hold him close.
He takes his time with first one side then the other, circling and sucking my nipples until I'm writhing beneath him.
His hand slides down my stomach to the button of my jeans, and he looks up at me.
"You with me?"
"Yes." The word is barely above a whisper. "I'm with you."
I lift my hips, and he slides my jeans and underwear down, leaving me completely bare beneath him.
His fingers stroke up the soft skin of my inner thighs as his thumbs trace the crease of my upper thigh. He’s teasing close enough to my pussy that my hips lift up in silent demand.
He spreads me wider, exposing every slick inch. The cool air brushes my heated pussy, and my pulse hammers hard at my throat. Vulnerability mixes with sharp need.
His head lowers, mouth sealing over my pussy in one hot, open claim as his tongue drags slowly and broadly from my entrance to my clit.
The wet heat steals every thought. He explores my pussy with ruthless focus as his lips suck my labia and his tongue circles my clit with firm, steady pressure.
He flicks rapidly, precisely against me where I need him the most, reading every gasp, every broken moan.
He adjusts instantly, always finding the exact rhythm that makes my thighs shake against his ears.