Page 18 of Rowan: His Exception

One moment, I'm pressed against Rowan on a ledge barely wide enough for the two of us, his body shielding mine from wind and rain while the flood rages thirty feet below. Then he pulls back, scans the canyon wall above us, and points.

"There." His voice is rough. "See it?"

I follow his gaze. Higher up, maybe forty feet, something juts from the rock. Angular. Man-made.

"What is it?"

"Mining cabin." He's already climbing, finding handholds, pulling himself up. "Come on. Before this ledge washes out."

I follow, fingers numb, arms shaking, every muscle screaming. He boosts me onto a wider shelf, then to flat ground where a dirt road cuts through the trees. The cabin sits back from the edge, wood sagging under decades of neglect, windows dark with grime.

We run up the rickety porch, where Rowan kicks the door in.

We stumble inside. The air is stale, but it’s dry. So quiet, my ears ring at the sudden silence. Dust covers everything …a tipped-over chair, a rusted lantern, a table with one short leg propped on a folded piece of tin. The fireplace is full of old ash and a bird's nest that’s turned gray with age.

Rowan kicks the door shut behind us and wedges a broken chair under the handle.

We’re alone. Really alone.

No group. No Dave. No storm screaming in our ears, only the muffled roar of the storm through the walls and the sound of our breathing, harsh and synchronized.

His back is to me, shoulders heaving, hands braced on the door like he's holding it closed through sheer will.

"Rowan."

"Don't, Claire." His voice is raw. "Don't say my name like that."

"Like what?"

He turns, and the gray light filtering through dirty windows makes his face all shadows and hunger, his tough guy masks finally stripped away. "Like you want me to do something I'll regret."

I step toward him. My clothes are soaked, heavy, clinging to every curve. I should be freezing. But I'm not. I'm burning, and have been since he first looked at me in that diner with those dead eyes that weren't dead at all.

"What does that mean anyway?" I ask, and my voice doesn't shake. "Something you'll regret. And why did you say what you said before?"

"Because it's true." He pushes off the door, taking one step toward me before stopping like he's hit a wall. "All of it."

"You don't even know me."

"Claire, I know your type." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You’re used to men who ask permission. Who checks in, who makes your life comfortable…safe."

A laugh escapes from me, sharp and bitter. "Safe." I step closer, my voice dropping. "My ex-husband made me feel safe, alright. Up until he chose his mother over me. Every single time. I was never a priority, Rowan. I was an option. The thing he settled for when she didn't need him." I tilt my head, standing my ground. "So don't tell me what kind of men I like. I don't even know what I like. I only know what I've survived, what I deserve. And Daniel sure as hell wasn’t it."

He's quiet for a long moment. When he finally speaks, his tone is low, rough. "I'm worse than that."

"How?"

"I spent time in places where the only thing that mattered was surviving until dawn. Where you eliminate every threat. Everything soft, everything human, or you die." He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "That shit doesn't just go away because I'm back in the world. I don't sleep through the night. I don't trust anyone. And when I want something, I don't negotiate. I take it."

"What if I want you to take me?"

"You don’t know what you’re asking, Claire. You'd hate me by morning."

"How about you let me decide that?" I step toward him, “I'm so sick of people telling me what I should want. What I should feel. My ex-husband spent our whole marriage deciding what was best for me.” My voice rises, "So don't you stand there and tell me I'd hate you by morning. Don't tell me what I can handle. I'm the only one who gets to decide that. Me. Not you. Not anyone."

He's staring at me, the silence stretching between us, thick and charged.

"Claire…"