Ethan
Something’s wrong the second I open the door.
It’s not subtle, not the kind of feeling I have to stop and question. It hits fast and hard, a clean instinct that settles into my bones before my mind can catch up, the same instinct that’s kept me alive on this mountain longer than most men last.
The cabin’s too quiet.
I step inside and close the door behind me slower than usual, my gaze sweeping the room in one controlled pass. “Maddie.”
No answer.
My jaw tightens. She was here. She should still be here.
I move deeper into the cabin, my boots silent against the floor as my eyes track every detail automatically, the couch, the table, the kitchen counter, each space registering in a fraction of a second. The glass I gave her earlier is still there, half full, untouched.
“Maddie.”
Still nothing.
The air shifts, something cold sliding down my spine, and then I see it. The note. Folded once and placed in the center of the table like she knew I’d find it immediately, like she wanted me to.
I don’t reach for it right away because I already know I’m not going to like what it says, but I pick it up anyway because there isn’t a version of this where I don’t.
I won’t be the reason you get hurt.
That’s it. No explanation, no plan, no indication of where she went or how far. Just that.
My hand tightens on the paper, crumpling it slightly before I force it flat again, dragging in a slow breath and holding it there until the edge of anger settles into something colder, something more useful.
“She ran,” I mutter.
I turn and scan the room again, sharper this time, looking for anything else out of place. Her bag is gone. Her camera too.
She didn’t panic. She planned this.
That makes it worse.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I say under my breath, already moving.
I grab my jacket, my keys, my rifle, and head for the door. The cold hits hard the second I step outside, biting through the heat already building under my skin, but I barely register it. All I feel is the shift, the way this has changed.
This isn’t protection anymore. This is a hunt.
And she just made herself the easiest target on the mountain.
“Damn it, Maddie.”
I drop low immediately, scanning the ground, reading the dirt, the thin layer of snow, the slight impressions left behind. Her tracks are easy to find, too easy. She didn’t even try to hide them, which tells me everything I need to know about her state of mind.
“She’s scared,” I mutter.
And scared people make mistakes. Big ones.
I follow the tracks into the tree line, my focus narrowing until the rest of the world fades out, every broken branch, every disturbed patch of ground, every shift in the terrain feeding me exactly what I need.
She’s moving too fast. She’s not pacing herself. She’s running.
“Slow down,” I mutter, even though I know she can’t hear me, and even if she could, she wouldn’t listen.
That’s the problem.
Then I see it. A second set of tracks cutting across hers.
My body stills, not from panic, but from something colder, sharper, more precise. I recognize the pattern immediately.
He’s here. He’s been here. And now he’s following her.
“Bad move,” I say quietly, not to her, but to him.
I pick up the pace, not reckless, never reckless, but faster now, more direct. I don’t need to be careful anymore. I just need to get to her first.
The forest thickens as I move, the light fading as the trees close in, the air growing heavier, quieter, until every sound carries farther than it should.
Then I hear it. A branch snapping ahead, close, too close.
I move faster, closing the distance in seconds, my eyes tracking, scanning, locking onto movement as it breaks through the trees.
Then I see her.
Maddie stumbles into a small clearing, her breath ragged, her movements uneven like she’s pushed herself too far and refuses to slow down.
“Stop,” I call out.
She spins, eyes wide, panic flashing across her face before recognition hits. “Ethan—”
“What are you doing?” I snap, crossing the distance between us.
“I had to—”
“No, you didn’t.”
Her jaw tightens, defiance flaring even now. “You don’t get to tell me what I—”
“You ran,” I cut in. “Alone, in the dark, with someone tracking you.”
“I’m trying to keep you out of it.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“Yes, it is,” she fires back, her voice breaking now as the fear finally comes through. “He’s after me, not you. If I leave—”
“He follows you,” I say, stepping closer. “Which is exactly what he wants.”
She shakes her head and backs up a step. “No, he wants me isolated.”
“You’re more isolated now than you were in my cabin. Fuck—my cabin has a military-level security system, Maddie.”
That stops her, at least for a second, and then the guilt hits, settling into her expression, sharp and heavy.
“I’m not dragging you into this,” she says, quieter now. “I won’t.”
“Too late.”
“I mean it, Ethan.”
“So do I.”
We’re close now, the space between us tight with tension, but this time it’s not just about attraction. It’s about control, about fear, about the fact that she almost got herself hurt because she thinks she has to do this alone.
“You don’t get to make that call,” I say.
“Yes, I do.”
“No.”
Her eyes flash. “It’s my life.”
“And it’s my land.”
“That doesn’t mean you own—”
“I don’t own you,” I cut in, my voice lowering. “But I’m not letting you walk into something like this alone.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I already did.”
The words land hard between us, and she stares at me, her chest rising too fast, her hands clenched like she’s trying to hold onto something that’s slipping.
“You don’t understand,” she says.
“Then explain it to me.”
“He’s obsessed,” she says, the word catching slightly. “And now he’s seen you. If he thinks you’re in the way—”
“He already does.”
“That’s exactly my point.”
“And you think running fixes that?”
“I think it gives him what he wants,” she snaps. “Me. Not you.”
My jaw tightens. “That’s not happening.”
“You can’t stop him.”
“I can stop you from making it easier.”
Silence drops between us, heavy and tight, and she looks at me like she doesn’t know whether to argue or give in.
“I can’t,” she starts, her voice breaking again. “I can’t be the reason something happens to you.”
That hits deeper than anything else she’s said, because it’s real and because it matters.
I step closer again, slower this time, my voice dropping with it. “You’re not.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“How?”
“Because I’m not letting it happen.”
Her breath catches, her gaze searching mine for doubt, but there isn’t any.
“There’s always a risk,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“And you’re just fine with that?”
“No.”
“Then why—”
“Because you’re not doing this alone. He may be obssessed with you, Maddie, but he’s not nearly as obssessed as I am about keeping you safe.”
The words come out rough, certain, final, and something in her expression shifts. Not fear, not defiance, something closer to relief.
She exhales slowly, her shoulders dropping just enough to give it away. “You’re impossible,” she mutters.
“Yep.”
“And stubborn.”
“Hell yeah.”
“And completely overstepping.”
“Definitely.”
Her lips press together, but I see it now, the edge of something softer breaking through.
“You scared me,” I add, quieter.
Her eyes snap back to mine. “Good,” she says automatically.
I shake my head. “Not like that.”
That lands, and she sees it in my expression, in the shift in my tone, in something I don’t give easily.
“I didn’t,” she starts, then stops, because she did.
“Don’t run again,” I say.
It’s not exactly a command, but it’s close.
She hesitates, then nods once, small but real. “Okay.”
For now, that’s enough.
Behind us, the forest shifts again, something moving deeper in the trees, reminding us both that this isn’t over, not even close.
But this time, she’s not facing it alone.
And neither am I.
I reach out before she can say anything else, my hand catching her chin lightly, not forcing, just enough to hold her there. Her words stop instantly, her eyes flicking to my mouth, then back up.
“You don’t get to pretend you don’t feel it,” I say quietly.
Her lips part against my thumb. “I can pretend whatever I want.”
“Not with me.”
The words come out rougher than I intend because my control is thinning, and I can feel it in the way I don’t move my hand away, in the way I stay exactly where I am.
“You think you’re the only one with control here?” she asks, her voice softer now, but still challenging.
I almost smile. “No. I think you’re trying to hold onto it.”
“And you’re not?”
“No.”
Her breath stutters. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t need to.”
That hits her, and I see it in the way her shoulders shift, the way her gaze sharpens even as her body leans just slightly closer.
“You’re a lot to handle,” she mutters.
“You haven’t handled me yet.”
Her eyes flash. “Maybe I don’t want to.”
I lean in just enough that our breaths mix again. “That’s not what your body says.”
Her inhale is sharp. “Cocky.”
“Honest.”
Silence falls between us again, heavier now, not uncertain, just waiting, waiting for her to push me away.
She doesn’t.
Instead, her hand lifts, slower this time, deliberate, her fingers brushing my wrist before settling lightly against my hand where it still holds her chin. She doesn’t stop me and she doesn’t pull away, she just stays there.
“You always this sure of yourself?” she asks.
“Only when I’m right.”
“And you think you are now?”
I hold her gaze. “Yeah.”
Her lips part again, her pulse jumping under my eyes, and for a second I think she’s going to close the distance herself. I almost let her.
Then something shifts outside, a faint sound most people wouldn’t notice, but I do, and everything in me stills.
Her hand tightens slightly. “What?”
“Stay here,” I say, stepping back at last.
The loss of contact is immediate and sharp, and we both feel it.
“I am here,” she says, her voice edged again, but there’s something underneath it now, something reluctant.
“Stay,” I repeat.
“I’m not—”
“Maddie.”
She exhales sharply. “You don’t get to just—”
“I do when it’s him.”
That stops her, because she knows I’m right and because she felt it too. This isn’t over, not even close.