I’m just starting on a second batch when the front door opens. Cold air rushes in. Mason steps inside with a pile of wood, his broad shoulders filling the doorway, snow dusting his dark hair and the shoulders of his flannel shirt. He sets the chopped wood next to thedoor. He looks... worried. Something in his expression has gone hard and distant, his eyes darkened in a way that makes my stomach drop.
I set the spoon down and wipe my hands on the towel again, leaving more flour streaks across the fabric. “Hey, you. You look like you just fought the entire mountain and the mountain won. What’s wrong?”
He closes the door behind him, the latch clicking softly. Snow melts from his boots onto the wooden floor in small dark puddles. He runs a hand through his hair, sending a few flakes drifting down. For a second he just looks at me, like he’s trying to find the right words.
“The Moretti family’s in Montana,” he says finally, his voice dropping to a rough-edged murmur. “Two vehicles crossed the border. Jax and Colt are already heading that way to track them.”
I stiffen instantly, the warm cookie-scented air suddenly feeling too thick to breathe. My hands grip the edge of the counter, flour still clinging to my fingers. The cheerful hum of the oven timer feels out of place now, too bright against the cold rush of fear flooding my veins. “Do they... do they know where I am?”
Mason crosses the kitchen in a few long strides, his boots thudding heavily on the floor. He stops right in front of me, towering and solid and so wonderfully warm. “Theydon’t think so. Not yet. But they’re getting closer. We may need to move you early once the roads clear.”
The words hit me like ice water. I feel my breathing pick up, shallow and fast. My fingers tighten on the counter until my knuckles turn white. The sweet smell of the baking cookies suddenly feels too strong, almost cloying. I can picture it again, the man in the alley, the blood, the cold eyes of the killer who saw me. My legs feel shaky. “How do they know I’m in Montana?”
Mason doesn’t hesitate. He moves closer and wraps his strong arms around me, pulling me against his chest. His flannel shirt is cool from being outside but his body underneath is warm, radiating heat that chases away the sudden chill racing through me. One big hand strokes slowly up and down my back, the other cradling the back of my head, fingers threading gently through my hair.
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out. Everything’s going to be okay, Riley,” he murmurs against the top of my head, his voice deep and steady. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting anything happen to you. Jax and Colt are the best. They’ll figure out what the Morettis are doing. And until then, you’re safe right here with me.”
I press my face into his chest, breathing in the scent of him, pine and snow and that deep masculine warmththat always makes me feel grounded. His heartbeat is strong and steady under my cheek, a reassuring rhythm that slowly helps my own racing heart calm down.
“I’m scared,” I whisper against his shirt, my voice muffled. “I don’t want to leave this cabin. I don’t want to leave you.”
His arms tighten around me, one hand still stroking my back in slow, soothing circles. “I know, little one. I don’t want you to leave either. But we will figure it out. One day at a time. Right now, just breathe. The cookies smell incredible, by the way. You’re turning my cabin into a bakery.”
I let out a watery little laugh, the sound shaky but real. “Stress baking. It’s my specialty. If the mafia does find us, at least they’ll have fresh cookies before they... you know.”
Mason chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through his chest. “They wouldn’t stand a chance. Your cookies could bring world peace.”
We stay like that for a long time, wrapped up together in the warm kitchen while the cookies bake and the storm outside continues to fade. His hands keep moving over my back, gentle and protective, and I let myself lean into him completely. The fear is still there, lingering at the edges, but in his arms it feels smaller. Manageable.
The timer on the oven dings brightly, pulling us apart. I wipe at my eyes and give him a small, determined smile. “Cookies are ready. You should try one while they’re still warm.”
Mason looks down at me, his eyes softer than I’ve ever seen them. He reaches out and brushes a streak of flour from my cheek with his thumb. The touch lingers, warm and tender.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” he says again, quieter this time. “I promise.”
I believe him. Even with the Moretti family closing in, even with the uncertainty of what comes next, I believe him. Because when Mason Cole makes a promise, he means it with every rugged, protective inch of himself.
And right now, that’s enough.
20
Mason
The cabin feels smaller tonight, even with the generator humming steadily in the background and the wood stove throwing off steady waves of dry, comforting heat. The scent of Riley’s fresh baking still lingers thick in the air, warm chocolate and vanilla and buttery dough mixing with the rich, resinous pine smoke from the logs I split earlier this morning. I sit across from her at the small wooden table, the surface scarred and worn smooth from years of use. I watch as she pushes her spoon slowly through the bowl of chicken noodle soup I reheated for dinner. Her movements are slower than usual, almost mechanical, her shoulders slightly hunched like she’s trying to make herself smaller. Every few seconds her eyes flick nervously toward the boarded-up windows, asif she expects shadows to come crashing through the glass at any moment.
She’s scared. I can see it in the faint tremble of her fingers when she lifts the spoon to her lips, in the way her breathing stays just a little too shallow. The fear is quiet but real, and it twists something deep inside me into a violent knot. I want to protect her more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. More than that, I want to destroy every single threat that dares to make her feel even an ounce of this terror.
I wish I could leave right now, track down every last Moretti crime boss, and put a bullet between their eyes before they even know I’m coming. I wish I could keep her holed up in this cabin forever, safe behind these thick logs, and murder anyone who gets too close to her. The thought is dark and possessive and completely honest. She belongs here with me. Not out there in a world full of monsters that want to hurt her.
But I know I can’t do that. I’m a US Marshal, not some vigilante operating outside the law. And she deserves so much more than a life spent hiding in the woods with a broken man like me. She deserves sunlight and freedom and a future where she doesn’t have to look over her shoulder every second of every day. The knowledge sits heavy and cold in my gut, making the warm soup in front of me taste like nothing but ash and regret.
Riley looks up at me across the table, her cornflower-blue eyes soft but shadowed with worry. The firelight from the stove flickers across her face. She tries for that bright, quirky tone she usually has, but it comes out quieter tonight, a little strained.
“This is really good,” she says, forcing a small smile. “You make a mean chicken noodle soup, Marshal Cole.”
I grunt in response and take another bite, the broth warm but completely flavorless on my tongue. The fire crackles loudly in the stove behind her, sending flickering orange light dancing across the wooden walls and her soft features. Her hair is still slightly messy from earlier, and there is a faint dusting of flour on the sleeve of my oversized shirt that she’s wearing. She looks so damn beautiful it physically hurts to look at her. I want to reach across the table, pull her into my lap, and hold her tight until every trace of fear disappears from those pretty eyes. Instead I stay where I am, gripping my spoon a little too tightly, the metal digging into my palm.
The satellite phone on the table vibrates suddenly, the low, insistent buzz cutting through the quiet like a warning. I pick it up immediately, recognizing Kane’s number. Riley watches me closely, her spoon pausing halfway to her mouth, eyes wide with fresh tension.
