Scout looked over. “No,” he said evenly. “That stays between us until we know what we’re dealing with.”
The silence that followed wasn’t peace. The cabin might’ve been sturdy and warm, but it was still a box in the woods.
Training had wired her for this—alert until the danger was gone—but it didn’t change the truth. They were trapped, and somewhere out there was a sniper who’d already taken one shot.
Scout’s gaze flicked to the frost-laced window every few seconds. For all his calm, she could read the tension in his shoulders.
Tessa padded to the small bathroom, a lantern in hand. The air in there was colder than the main room; the floorboards bit at her bare feet, and her breath fogged the chipped mirror. She set the lantern on the shelf above the sink and opened the creaky medicine chest. Inside, amidst aspirin and faded bandages, Marlene had stocked a brush, new hair ties, toothpaste, and a bottle of cheap but comforting lotion. Simple things—but exactly what she needed.
She unwound the gauze from her temple, winced at the pale split in her skin, then left it uncovered. She brushed her hair, working out tangles patiently, then studied her reflection—messy bun or neatness? She settled for a quick, lopsided knot, stray strands framing the bruise.
She pinched color into her cheeks, scrubbed her teeth with toothpaste on her finger, and dabbed lotion on skin raw from the cold.
Usually, on the job, appearance meant nothing—she’d worked the Caitlin West case with Scout just weeks ago, had the scars toshow for it—but here, trapped by weather and silence, she wanted him to see her as something other than a hot mess.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. “Left some hot water for you,” Scout said.
She used it to wash up, relishing the warmth, and returned to the main room.
Breakfast was toast, eggs, and peach preserves—Marlene’s kindness sealed in glass. The sweetness spread through her.
“Tom and Marlene really keep this place stocked,” she said. “Feels more like a home than a hunting cabin.”
“They use it a few weeks a year,” Scout replied, pouring coffee. “But Marlene keeps it ready for anyone who gets caught up here. Says nobody should meet the mountain unprepared.”
Tessa smiled faintly. “That’s a rare kind of kindness.”
“She’s a rare kind of woman,” he agreed, handing her a mug.
They ate quietly by the fire. Her body still hummed from the night before—the echo of adrenaline wouldn’t quit. Every muscle ached from holding still, from listening for a threat that never came.
Scout rinsed the plates in the tin sink, motions steady and unhurried. He told himself it was instinct that made him watch her—habit born of partnership and danger—but that wasn’t the whole truth. He respected her. Always had. She was fierce, level-headed, knew her job cold.
Still, something else had grown in the quiet between them, whether he wanted it or not. He wasn’t proud of it. Not with Sara still out there, depending on them to keep their heads clear.
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, unsettled. Maybe it was just the storm—proximity, adrenaline, too much time to think—but part of him knew better.
After breakfast, Scout pulled a battered deck of cards and a box of matchsticks from a drawer. The little table in front of the hearth sat between two old rockers that creaked with every shift. Their service pistols lay side by side—a quiet reminder of the night before and the reasons they couldn’t let their guard drop.
Scout shuffled the cards and divided the matchsticks. “Scout’s rules: loser does dishes. Matchsticks for money. No mercy.”
“No mercy,” Tessa echoed, managing a grin.
The game started brisk and competitive—bluffs, grins, quick retorts. Tessa won an early hand, scooping matchsticks with a smirk. Scout followed with a bigger win—never gloating, just that sly look that made her roll her eyes.
On a pause between hands, Scout’s gaze drifted to her temple. Dried blood darkened the edge of the cut she’d left uncovered. “Let me take another look at that,” he said.
Tessa reached up automatically, fingertips brushing the tender skin. “It’s fine.”
“Humor me.” He was already standing, reaching for the first-aid kit on the shelf above the sink.
She stayed in her chair, letting him come to her. He set the kit on the table, flipped it open, and knelt beside her, close enough that she could see the dark stubble along his chin, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes.
“Turn your head a little.” His voice had gone softer.
She did. His fingers were warm against her chilled skin as he steadied her face. The room seemed to narrow around them, the slow crackle of the fire, his breath brushing her cheek.
“Still looks clean,” he murmured, dabbing gently at the cut with a fresh pad. “You’ll have a mark for a while.”
