Maddie
The door slams shut behind him, the lock clicking into place with a finality that settles deep in my chest, and just like that, I am alone again. Ethan is doing a final circle of the cabin before we go to bed.
My hand stays pressed against the wood longer than it should, my palm flat against the surface like I might still feel him through it, like I could somehow track where he went or how far he has already moved into the dark.
I cannot.
The silence swallows him too quickly, leaving nothing behind but the echo of his presence.
“Stay inside,” I mutter his last command under my breath, mocking him even as it lingers in my head. “Lock the door.”
I do it anyway.
I check it twice, my fingers testing the handle before I step back, and then I start pacing, crossing the small space again and again, my boots striking the floor harder with each pass as the tension builds.
This is worse.
Waiting is worse.
Not knowing is worse.
I’ve never felt so vulnerable and protected at the same time.
Every sound outside feels sharper now, branches scraping against each other, the wind pushing through the trees, something shifting just out of sight that I cannot see but cannot ignore either.
“Come on,” I whisper, dragging a hand through my hair.
I grab my camera without thinking, my fingers tightening around it like it is something solid, something real, something that can keep me grounded when everything else feels like it is slipping.
I move toward the window, instinct pulling me forward, and then I stop.
Backlit.
His voice echoes in my head, steady and certain.
Step away from the window.
I glare at the glass anyway, my jaw tightening, but I do not step closer.
I hate that I listen to him.
I hate even more that he is usually right.
Another sound cuts through the dark, closer this time, and my pulse jumps as I strain to hear, forcing myself to stay still long enough to make sense of it.
Then I hear voices.
Male.
Low.
More than one.
My stomach drops.
That is new.
That is not just him.
I move before I can think better of it, grabbing the handle and unlocking the door in one quick motion, the decision made before doubt has a chance to catch up with me.
Cold air hits me the second I step onto the porch, sharp and biting, pulling a breath from my lungs.
“Ethan?” I call.
Boots crunch somewhere in the distance.
More than one set.
Shadows shift between the trees, larger now, broader, no longer trying to stay hidden as they move toward the cabin.
My pulse spikes hard enough that I feel it in my throat.
“Ethan.”
He steps into view first.
Of course he does.
Controlled. Focused. Moving like nothing out there could touch him.
But something about him is different now, something tighter, more sharpened, like whatever he found out there has locked into place inside him.
And behind him, more men emerge from the trees, spilling into the open like the mountain itself sent them.
They are big, solid, quiet in a way that feels intentional, like they know exactly how to move without being heard.
Dangerous.
I take a step back without meaning to.
Ethan notices immediately, his gaze snapping to me.
“Inside,” he says.
“I’m not—”
“Inside.”
The edge in his voice cuts through everything else, and this time I do not argue.
I step back into the cabin as they approach, my eyes tracking each of them as they come into the light, taking them in one by one.
One is tall with sharp, assessing eyes, scanning the space like he is already mapping it in his head.
Another is broader, heavier, with a half-smirk that feels like he already knows something I do not.
A third is lean and watchful, his gaze flicking between me and Ethan like he is putting something together piece by piece.
And then more follow, each one carrying that same quiet, controlled energy that tells me they belong out there in the dark just as much as they do in here.
“Damn,” one of them mutters as he steps inside, his gaze landing squarely on me. “You weren’t kidding.”
I cross my arms instinctively. “About what?”
His mouth curves. “Trouble.”
I glare at him. “That seems to be the theme.”
A low chuckle moves through the room, but it fades quickly as Ethan steps in behind them and shuts the door with a solid thud.
“Focus,” he says.
The word lands like a command, and the shift is immediate.
The man with the sharp eyes nods once. “Tracks?”
“East ridge,” Ethan replies. “Moving in tighter.”
“How close?” another asks.
“Close enough.”
Silence follows, heavy and purposeful, and I watch them, trying to piece it together, trying to understand what I have just stepped into.
This is not casual.
This is not a favor.
This is something else entirely.
A unit.
“Who are they?” I ask.
Ethan’s gaze flicks to me. “Backup.”
“That’s not an answer.”
The one with the smirk steps forward, offering his hand. “Hudson.”
I do not take it.
He does not seem offended.
“Flint,” the sharp-eyed one adds with a short nod.
“Zane.”
“Slate.”
They introduce themselves like this is normal, like men walking out of the woods in the middle of the night is something I should not question.
I glance at Ethan. “You always call in an army?”
“Only when it matters.”
That answer lands differently this time.
He is not just talking about the threat.
I can feel it.
Hudson leans toward Flint, not lowering his voice enough to keep it private. “You feel that?”
Flint does not look away from Ethan. “Yeah.”
“Interesting,” Ethan adds, his gaze flicking between us.
My brows pull together. “Feel what?”
No one answers.
Of course they do not.
Ethan steps forward, cutting through it. “She stays inside.”
My head snaps toward him. “Excuse me?”
Hudson’s mouth twitches, Flint’s gaze sharpens, and the others notice everything, every shift in tone, every look that passes between us.
“She stays inside,” Ethan repeats.
“I’m right here,” I snap. “You can talk to me.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re not. You’re making decisions for me.”
His eyes lock on mine, steady and unyielding. “Because you’re not thinking clearly.”
Anger flares fast and sharp. “I’m thinking just fine.”
“Then act like it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I fire back. “Did I miss the part where I asked you to take over my life?”
The room goes quiet, too quiet, and I feel all of them watching now, not the woods, not the threat, but us.
Ethan does not break eye contact. “You asked me for protection.”
“And I didn’t realize that meant giving up control.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It feels like it.”
The silence stretches, and then Hudson mutters, “She’s got a point.”
“Not helping,” Slate adds under his breath.
Flint watches us with something almost amused in his expression.
“You done?” Ethan asks.
“Not even close.”
I step forward, closing the distance between us, ignoring the weight of the room and the fact that five other men are watching this unfold.
“You don’t get to control me,” I say.
There it is.
The line drawn between us.
Ethan steps closer, because of course he does, and the air tightens again, charged and heavy.
“You’re still standing here,” he says quietly.
“That doesn’t mean—”
“It means you made a choice.”
My breath catches.
“And you don’t get to twist that into something it’s not.”
“I’m not twisting anything.”
“Then what are you doing?”
His gaze drops slowly to my mouth, then lifts again. “Protecting what’s mine.”
The words hit like a spark, sharp and dangerous, and the room shifts around us.
Behind him, I feel it in the others, the way they react, the way they understand exactly what he just said.
Hudson lets out a low whistle. “Well, there it is.”
“Took you long enough,” Flint adds.
“Knew it,” Ethan mutters.
Heat floods my chest, a mix of anger and something else I do not want to name.
“I’m not yours,” I say.
Ethan does not flinch. “Not yet.” A beat passes. “But you’re mine to protect.”
My breath stutters, the weight of it settling between us, something deeper than just duty, something darker, something that feels like it could consume everything if I let it.
“Focus,” Flint says finally, breaking the tension.
Ethan’s gaze lingers on mine for a second longer before he steps back, the space between us opening but not easing anything.
“Perimeter,” Ethan says.
The men move immediately, slipping back into motion like they never stopped.
Hudson pauses on his way out, glancing at me with a smirk. “You’re trouble.”
“I’ve heard.”
He grins. “You’re going to fit right in.”
Then he is gone, the others following, disappearing back into the dark like they were never there.
Leaving just me and Ethan.
Alone again.
The silence stretches, thicker now, heavier with everything that was just said.
He watches me.
I watch him.
Neither of us moves.
Neither of us speaks.
But something has shifted.
Cracked open.
“You don’t get to say things like that,” I say finally.
His brow lifts slightly. “Like what?”
I gesture between us. “That.”
He steps closer, slow and deliberate.
“You’re still here,” he says.
That answer again.
It should not hit the way it does.
But it does.
Every time.
“And you’re still not leaving,” he adds.
My breath catches because he is right.
Because I have not.
Because despite the danger, the tension, and the way he looks at me like he already knows how this ends, I am still standing here, right in front of him.
And I do not move.