I work as fast as I can, stacking split logs against my chest. The physical labor feels good at first, a distraction from the thoughts swirling in my head. Riley’s innocent face when she asked about the war. The way she backed off immediately when I shut down. She deserves better than my ghosts. Better than the nightmares that still wake me up sweating and reaching for a rifle that isn’t there. The desert sand burning under my boots. The blood on my hands. The friends I carried home in pieces. She doesn’t need any of that darkness touching her light.
A particularly violent gust of wind slams into me from the side without warning. I stagger, boots slipping on the icy ground beneath the snow. My balance shifts and I crash hard against the sharp edge of the woodpile. Pain explodes through my left arm as something jagged slices deep into the flesh just above my elbow. A broken branch or frozen metal shard. The cut burns hot and immediate, blood welling up fast and soaking through my sleeve.
“Fuck,” I growl through clenched teeth. The wind steals the word away instantly. Blood drips down my arm, hot at first then freezing against my skin as the storm whips around me. The pain throbs in time with my heartbeat,sharp and relentless. I grab as many logs as I can with my good arm, the axe feeling heavier now, the handle slick with melting snow and a little blood.
I fight my way back toward the cabin door, each step a brutal battle against the deepening snow and the howling wind. I glance at the cabin and Riley stands there in the doorway, eyes wide with panic. Snow swirls in around her, instantly soaking her hair and the oversized t-shirt. She steps out into the storm without hesitation, bare feet sinking into the deep snow.
“Mason!” she cries, her voice nearly lost in the wind. She rushes toward me, small hands reaching out. Snow pelts her face and melts in her dark hair, making strands cling to her cheeks. Her bare legs are already turning red from the cold as she wades through the powder toward me.
“Get back inside,” I shout, but the words get torn away by another gust. She reaches me anyway, slipping one arm around my waist to help support me despite the logs and the axe. Her body presses against my side, warm even through the freezing snow soaking her clothes. The contrast of her softness against the brutal storm hits me hard.
“You’re hurt,” she says, voice trembling but determined. Snow sticks to her eyelashes and melts on her lips. “I saw you fall from the window. Let me help.”
We struggle back to the cabin together, her small frame surprisingly strong as she helps bear some of my weight. The wind pushes against us the whole way, snow stinging our faces and soaking through every layer. By the time we reach the door we’re both breathing hard. I push the door open with my shoulder and we stumble inside, bringing a rush of freezing air and snow with us.
The warmth of the cabin hits us immediately, the wood stove throwing off waves of heat that make the snow on our clothes start to melt. Water drips onto the wooden floor from Riley’s soaked hair and t-shirt. The fabric clings to her body now, outlining every soft curve. Her nipples are hard from the cold, visible through the thin material. Blood from my arm drips steadily onto the floor, bright red against the wood.
Riley doesn’t let go of me. She stays pressed against my side, shivering but determined, her small hands gripping my jacket like she’s afraid I might fall again. My injured arm throbs with every heartbeat, but all I can focus on is how she came out into the storm for me. How she looks right now, soaked and brave and so damn beautiful it hurts.
We’re barely back inside, door slammed shut against the howling wind, when she looks up at me with those wide, worried eyes.
7
Riley
The cabin door slams shut behind us with a heavy thud that cuts off the screaming wind, but the storm still rages in my ears like an echo I can’t shake. Snow melts off my hair and drips down my neck in icy trails that make me shiver hard. My borrowed t-shirt clings to my skin, soaked through and freezing, the fabric heavy and cold against my breasts and stomach. My bare feet are numb from the snow I ran through to help Mason, and every step leaves wet footprints across the wooden floor. My stomach twists with worry.
Mason stands just inside the door, his big body tense, blood still dripping steadily from the gash on his left arm onto the floor. The bright red drops stand out stark against the dark wood. His jacket’s torn at the sleeve and soaked with snow and blood. He lookspowerful even hurt, shoulders broad and jaw set tight, but I can see the pain etched in the lines around his eyes.
“You’re bleeding,” I say, my voice shaky but determined as I step closer. “We need to look at your arm right now. Take off your jacket so I can clean it properly.”
He doesn’t seem to hear me. Those piercing eyes lock onto me instead, scanning my wet hair and soaked clothes with intense focus. Snowflakes still cling to my lashes and melt on my cheeks, and the cold seeps deeper into my bones with every second.
“You’re soaked through,” he growls, voice filled with worry. “You’re going to get sick or freeze if we don’t get you dry. Sit down.”
“But your arm?—”
“Riley.” His tone leaves no room for argument. He moves past me toward the shelf by the bed. He grabs a thick towel. It looks soft and clean, probably one of the few spare ones in the cabin. “You’re more important right now. Come here, little one.”
My heart does a funny little flip at the way he says it.Little one.Protective and commanding all at once. I like it more than I should, especially after everything that’s happened. I’ve never had someone put me first like this.Not really. Not the way Mason does, like my comfort matters more than his own bleeding wound.
I move toward him slowly, my wet feet making soft squelching sounds on the floor. The heat from the wood stove washes over me in waves, but it’s not enough to chase away the deep chill from the snow. Mason turns me gently so my back is to him, then drapes the towel over my head. His large hands start working through my hair, rubbing the fabric in slow, careful circles to soak up the water.
The towel feels warm and soft against my scalp, and his fingers press just firm enough through the material to send little sparks down my spine. His body emits heat behind me, solid and reassuring. Every brush of his hands makes my breath catch.
“You ran out into the storm without even shoes,” he mutters, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me. “What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking you were hurt,” I whisper, leaning back into his touch despite myself. “I couldn’t just sit there and watch you struggle.”
His hands pause for a second, then continue drying my hair with even more care. The towel moves down to the ends, squeezing gently. Water drips onto the floor between us, but I barely notice. All I can focus on is theway his fingers occasionally brush the back of my neck, rough calluses against my sensitive skin. It sends heat pooling low in my belly, a contrast to the cold still clinging to my body.
“You’re freezing,” he says, voice tighter now. He steps even closer, his chest brushing my back as he works the towel around to the front. His arms settle on either side of me. He isn't quite touching me, but the warmth of his body lingers at my back, close enough to make me forget how to breathe. The towel moves over my shoulders and down my arms, soaking up the moisture from my soaked t-shirt. Every pass of the fabric makes the wet material cling tighter before he dries it, outlining my breasts and the curve of my waist.
I should feel embarrassed, but I don’t. I feel seen. Taken care of. The way he prioritizes me even while blood still trickles down his arm makes something warm and fluttery bloom in my chest.
This is what having a real protector feels like.A growly mountain daddy who puts you first no matter what.
“Mason, your arm is still bleeding,” I try again, my voice breathier than I intend. “Please let me help you.”
