Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 29299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
He’s probably right when he says if I knew what’s good for me I’d leave Devil’s Peak and never look back. For the first time I wonder if maybe leaving would be the safest way forward for all of us, even if it would kill me to do it.
My entire body aches with wanting him. I’m distracted and flustered and confused with the push and pull between us.
If he doesn’t ruin me soon, I might combust first.
Chapter 11
Sawyer
Iknow something’s wrong after my shift the next evening before I even open the door.
The porch light is on.
The cabin feels different.
Too quiet.
I step inside, shrugging out of my jacket, calling out, “Tess?”
No answer.
Lacee’s bedroom door is cracked open, light off. Good. She’s asleep.
Then I hear it. A soft sob upstairs.
My pulse spikes.
I take the stairs two at a time. Her door is open and she’s folding clothes into a suitcase on the bed.
The sight detonates something inside my chest.
“What are you doing?”
She doesn’t jump. Doesn’t scramble.
Just smooths a sweater flat and lays it inside her suitcase like this is any other night.
“Packing.”
The word hits harder than a punch.
“For what?”
She looks up at me then.
Calm. Composed.
And it scares me more than if she were crying.
“I know where I’m not wanted,” she says quietly. “And I don’t want to be a complication for you. Not after everything you said yesterday.”
The air leaves my lungs. “You’re not fired.”
“I know.”
“Then what is this?”
She zips one side of the suitcase and meets my eyes.
“This is me refusing to be your almost.”
My jaw tightens.
“You think that’s what you are?”
“I think you care about me. I think you feel something you’re trying to cage.” Her voice doesn’t rise. “And I think,” she continues, “that if I stay much longer without you deciding, I’ll start shrinking to make it easier for you and that will hurt both of us.”
The words slice clean.
“I would never ask you to shrink.”
“You don’t have to ask. You just step back. You go cold. You call me ‘Tessa’ instead of Tess. You build walls and expect me to live inside them.”
“That’s not—”
“It is.”
Silence stretches tight. The suitcase sits open between us like a line drawn.
Her gaze doesn’t waver. I step into the room fully now. “You’re not leaving.”
She exhales slowly. “You don’t get to command me.”
“I’m not commanding you.”
“It sounded like it.”
My eyes drag over the suitcase again. Clothes neatly folded. Shoes lined at the bottom. No drama. No mess.
She planned this.
“When?” I ask.
“In the morning.”
My stomach drops. “Lacee knows?”
“No.”
The relief is sharp and immediate. “She adores you.”
“I adore her too.”
“Then don’t walk out.”
“I’m not walking out on her,” she says firmly. “I’m walking away from something that’s hurting me.”
My chest tightens. “You’re hurting?”
“Yes.”
The honesty hits harder than accusation.
“You don’t get to look surprised,” she continues. “You pull me close and then you push me away like you’re afraid I’ll burn you.”
“Maybe I am.” The admission lands heavy between us.
Her expression shifts—not soft. Not pitying. Understanding.
“I’m not the fire that took her,” she says gently.
I close my eyes for half a second. “I know.”
“Then stop treating me like I am.” The silence hums. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” she presses.
“Enlighten me.”
“You stand close enough to feel me. You touch me like you’ve already chosen me. But you never say it.”
I swallow.
“Say what?”
“That you want me.”
My pulse slams. “You know I want you.”
“Do I?” she challenges.
I step closer. “You feel it every time I look at you.”
“That’s not the same as hearing it.”
The space between us evaporates.
“You want words?” I ask quietly.
“Yes.” Her chin lifts.
“Because I deserve them.”
God. She’s right.
“You think I haven’t been fighting this?” I ask.
“I don’t want to be fought.”
I reach out, grip the edge of the suitcase, push it closed.
She inhales sharply. “Don’t.”
“I’m not done.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“No,” I agree. “But I get to speak before you walk out.”
She stills. “Then speak.”
My chest feels raw.
“You’re not my almost,” I say.
“Then what am I?”
I step closer until her back nearly hits the dresser.
“You’re the woman I think about when I wake up,” I say. “The one I watch in my kitchen like she belongs there.”
Her breath catches.
“You’re the reason this house doesn’t feel like a museum anymore.”
Her hands press lightly to my chest—not pushing.
“You’re the one my daughter laughs with in a way she hasn’t in years.”
Her fingers curl slightly in my shirt.
“And you’re the one I want in my bed every night.”
Her inhale is sharp.
“I don’t say it because when I say it,” I continue, voice rough, “it becomes real.”
“It already is.”
I slide my hand into her hair.
“You don’t understand what that means for me.”
“Then tell me.”
My forehead lowers to hers.
“It means I stop hiding behind grief,” I admit. “It means I stop pretending duty is enough.”
“And?”
“It means if I lose you,” I say quietly, “it’ll wreck me.”