Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 39414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 158(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 158(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
I lift my brows. “That’s not a rule. That’s a hostage situation.”
He steps closer again, until I can smell him properly. My pulse stutters like it’s tripping over its own feet.
“You’re not a hostage,” he says. “You’re protected.”
“By you.”
“By me.”
The way he repeats it makes my stomach flip. I tilt my chin, refusing to let him see it. “Second rule?”
“You stay where I can find you,” he says.
I blink. “That’s the same rule.”
“It’s not,” he says, patient like he’s talking to a child. “First rule is about leaving. Second rule is about disappearing.”
My spine goes stiff. “I’m not disappearing.”
He watches my face like he’s reading a lie I don’t want to admit. “Not on purpose, you’re not.”
I push the words out with a smirk because if I don’t, they’ll come out trembling. “Are you always this controlling, or is this your special mail-order bride personality?”
His eyes narrow. “Third rule. You don’t go into the woods behind the cabin.”
I gesture toward the window. “We’re literally in the woods.”
“You know what I mean,” he says.
I cross my arms. “What’s out there? Bears? Serial killers? Your secret bunker where you keep all the women who didn’t follow your rules?”
He steps in close enough that my back nearly hits the kitchen counter. His voice drops. “Don’t test me, Ellie.”
The sound of my name in his mouth is a problem. It hits too deep, too familiar, too intimate, and I hate that my body reacts before my brain can throw up a wall.
I force a laugh. “You’re not that scary.”
His eyes slide down my body again, slower this time, like he’s taking inventory of everything I’m trying to pretend isn’t happening. “You sure?”
Heat climbs my neck. I uncross my arms and grab my backpack strap instead. It’s safer to hold on to something.
“I’m sure,” I say, even though my voice comes out slightly breathless.
Wyatt’s mouth tilts into something that isn’t a smile, exactly. It’s a promise. “Good.”
Then he steps back like he didn’t just turn the air into fire.
I exhale, annoyed, and yank my backpack up again. “Fine. Your rules. Whatever. Where am I supposed to—”
“Down the hall,” he says, pointing. “Bedroom. Bathroom. Kitchen’s yours. Don’t touch the locked drawer in the desk.”
My brows shoot up. “Now who’s the serial killer?”
His gaze doesn’t flicker. “Fourth rule. Don’t touch what I tell you not to touch.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re allergic to fun.”
“Fun gets people hurt,” he says, flat.
That lands sharper than the flirtatious edge we’ve been skating on. For a second, I see it—something old and hard behind his eyes. Something that doesn’t joke.
Then it’s gone, replaced by that steady, confident Wyatt who thinks he can command the world into behaving.
I toss my backpack onto the bed in the small bedroom, then glance at the dresser like it might magically contain my clothes.
It doesn’t.
Because my clothes are locked inside my shop with a foreclosure notice taped to the glass.
I swallow the lump in my throat and walk back out, trying to keep my face neutral.
Wyatt is standing by the wood stove, arms folded, watching me like he can tell the exact second my pride starts to crack.
“What,” I say, too sharp. “Are you going to lecture me about packing better?”
“You didn’t pack at all,” he says.
“I packed,” I argue. “I have—” I unzip my bag and show him the sad contents: a travel toothbrush, a phone charger, a pair of flipflops, and a chocolate bar I stole from my own shop last week before I went for a hike along the Phantom River.
Wyatt’s gaze drops to the chocolate bar. Something like irritation flashes across his face.
“Really?” he says.
“What?” I snap. “It’s an emergency.”
“It’s sugar.”
“It’s survival.”
His mouth twitches. “Fifth rule. You eat real food.”
I laugh. “You can’t make a rule about my diet.”
“I can make a rule about anything in my cabin.”
I glare at him. “You’re enjoying this.”
His eyes sweep over me, lingering on my mouth again. “No. If I was enjoying it, you’d know.”
My breath catches.
He holds my gaze, unfiltered, like he’s daring me to understand what he just implied.
My cheeks burn hot. I straighten my shoulders. “Okay. Great. Super normal conversation. Anyway—clothes. I need clothes.”
Wyatt turns toward the hall closet and yanks it open. He reaches in, pulls out a folded flannel shirt, and tosses it at me.
I catch it against my chest.
It’s heavy. Warm. Smells like him.
My stomach does something stupid.
I lift it between two fingers like it’s suspicious. “This is… yours.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not wearing your shirt.”
Wyatt’s brows lift slightly. “Then you can wear the socks and the toothbrush. Those seem to be the only other options.”
I scowl. “I could go back to town and buy clothes.”
His gaze goes hard. “No.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“No,” he repeats, like he’s talking to his dog. “You’re not going into town alone.”
“I’m not a child.”
His eyes flick down my body, then back to my face. “You keep saying that like it changes anything.”