Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 35133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
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.
Chapter 10
Ethan
Idon’t like how quiet it gets after they leave.
It isn’t the natural kind of quiet, not the soft hush of wind through the trees or snow settling into the ground. This feels different, tighter somehow, like the mountain itself is holding its breath and waiting for something to break.
Maddie feels it too.
She does not say it out loud, but I see it in the way she lingers near the window without fully stepping into the light, in the way her fingers keep brushing the edge of the counter like she needs something solid beneath them, something she can anchor herself to.
“You’re pacing,” she mutters.
I glance at her. “You’re watching the door.”
“Because you keep looking at it.”
“Because something’s off.”
Her jaw tightens. “You’ve been saying that since I got here.”
“And I’ve been right.”
That lands. I see it in the flicker of her eyes before she looks away.
I move toward the door, grabbing my jacket as the cold outside presses against the cabin like something alive, something heavy and closing in.
“I’m checking the perimeter,” I say.
“I’m coming with you.”
“No.”
Her head snaps toward me. “You don’t get to just decide that.”
“I do,” I say, stepping closer, my voice lower now. “Not out there. Not right now.”
“I’m not staying inside like I can’t handle this.”
“Like someone who wants to stay alive?” I counter.
Her eyes flash. “You’re not the only one who can handle it.”
“I didn’t say I was.”
“Then stop acting like it.”
I stop in front of her, close enough that she has to tilt her head back again, the tension between us snapping tight and immediate.
“You want to come?” I ask quietly.
“Yes.”
“Then you stay behind me. You don’t move unless I tell you to. You don’t argue. You don’t hesitate.”
Her lips part, ready to push back.
“Or you stay here,” I add.
Silence stretches between us, heavy and charged. She glares at me, heat flashing across her face, but underneath it something else flickers now, something quieter and harder to ignore.
Fear.
“Fine,” she snaps. “But you don’t get to—”
“Stay behind me,” I repeat.
She exhales sharply. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re still coming.”
That shuts her up.