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)
“You’re supposed to be protecting me,” I say, trying to anchor myself.
“I am,” he says.
“And this is… protection?” I gesture between us.
Wyatt’s gaze darkens. “This is me having self-control.”
A knock hits the door.
Hard.
Both of us freeze.
Wyatt’s head turns first, instincts snapping into place. His whole body shifts, going still and lethal in a way that makes my skin prickle.
He holds a finger up at me—silent, commanding—then moves toward the front door.
I stay where I am, heart thudding, the flannel suddenly not cozy at all.
Wyatt opens the door a crack.
Cold air spills in along with two familiar voices.
“Routine check,” a man says—calm, official.
“Wyatt,” a woman adds, amused. “Please tell me you didn’t finally murder someone.”
Wyatt opens the door wider.
Ethan stands there in a ranger jacket, tall and composed, eyes scanning the cabin with practiced calm. Beside him is Maddie—blonde hair tucked under a beanie, smile sharp, gaze already locked on me.
Her eyes flick down the flannel.
Then back up to my face.
Maddie’s mouth quirks. “So… you’re doing mail-order brides now?”
I feel my face ignite.
Wyatt doesn’t even flinch. “Routine check?” he asks, voice flat.
Ethan nods once. “Backcountry cabins. Just making sure everything’s good. Storm’s coming.”
Maddie steps inside without waiting to be invited, the way women do when they’ve decided the rules don’t apply to them. She circles me once like I’m a display at a market, then stops and looks at Wyatt.
“You’re in trouble,” she says calmly.
Wyatt’s eyes narrow. “Why?”
“Because she’s wearing your shirt,” Maddie says, like she’s delivering a weather report, “and she looks like she wants to bite you.”
I choke. “I do not.”
Maddie’s gaze slides to mine. “You do.”
Wyatt’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “She needed clothes.”
“Uh-huh,” Maddie says. “And the mail-order bride ad?”
My pulse spikes. I glare at Wyatt. “You didn’t tell them?”
“I didn’t tell anyone,” Wyatt says.
Ethan’s eyes sharpen. “Mail-order bride ad?”
Wyatt’s gaze stays steady. “Drop it.”
Ethan’s jaw flexes. Then he nods once like a man who understands when something is a security issue.
Maddie, however, is not a man.
She looks at me. “You okay?”
I force my chin up. “Define okay.”
Maddie’s eyes soften just a fraction. “Got it.”
Ethan turns toward the window, scanning the treeline. “Wyatt. Can I see around the property line?”
Wyatt nods, already moving. “Yeah.”
They head outside together, leaving Maddie in the cabin with me.
Maddie looks me up and down again, then sighs. “You’re really doing this.”
“I’m not doing anything,” I snap. “I’m just—temporarily… here.”
“Temporarily,” Maddie repeats, gaze sliding toward the door Wyatt exited through. “Sure.”
I open my mouth to argue.
A crunch of boots on snow outside.
Then Ethan’s voice—tight, alert.
“Wyatt.”
My stomach drops.
Wyatt’s voice answers, instantly sharp. “What?”
Ethan says, “These prints aren’t yours. And they’re not Ellie’s.”
My blood turns cold.
Maddie’s gaze snaps to mine, all humor gone.
Outside, Wyatt’s voice goes quiet and dangerous. “Where?”
Ethan answers, “Circling the cabin. Like someone’s been watching.”
And behind Maddie, the front door clicks—Wyatt stepping back inside with a look on his face I’ve never seen before.
Not irritation. Not control.
Something else.
Something that says the rules just changed.
Chapter 4
Wyatt
Idon’t like bringing trouble into the station.
The station is sacred ground. It’s where we eat, sleep, bleed, and keep each other alive. It’s where you can be a bastard all day and still trust the guy next to you with your back in a burning hallway. Devil’s Peak Fire & Rescue doesn’t do drama. We do calls. We do duty. We do the quiet kind of loyalty that doesn’t need an audience.
Ellie changes that the second she steps through the bay doors.
Not because she’s loud. Because she’s Ellie. Because half the station knows her from her chocolate shop, and the other half knows she’s Wade James’s sister, which means the men who don’t have brains know to keep their mouths shut and the men who do have brains know to watch my face.
And I’m not in the mood to be watched.
She’s in my flannel again because she’s stubborn and because she’s still got no clothes, and the sight of her in it flips something possessive low in my gut that I keep locked down with the same discipline I use when a roof is collapsing. I walk her in front of me anyway, one hand light at the small of her back as we cross the concrete, guiding her without asking.
She stiffens at the touch, then doesn’t move away.
Good.
She looks around the station with her chin up and her eyes too bright. That’s her “I’m fine” face. It’s the face she uses when she’s balancing too much and refusing to set any of it down.
She’s not fine.
The bay smells like diesel and coffee and the faint metallic tang of equipment that’s been cleaned a thousand times. Radios murmur. Someone laughs near the kitchen. The air is warm, dry, safe.
Ellie’s phone is in her hand like a weapon.
“Why are we here?” she asks, quiet but sharp, like she doesn’t want anyone listening.