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I step closer.

Not rushed.

Deliberate.

Close enough to make her hold still.

“You know what I enjoy?” I ask quietly. “Women staying alive.”

Her breath catches slightly.

Good.

Because she should understand exactly how serious this is.

Outside, the wind slams against the cabin hard enough to rattle the windows.

The storm’s here now.

I glance toward the darkening road outside. “Rain’s getting worse.”

“I’m not helpless.”

“I know.”

“Then stop treating me like I am.”

I close the remaining distance between us slowly, stopping close enough to feel the heat coming off her despite the cold.

“You wanna know what your problem is?” I ask.

Her brows lift. “This should be interesting.”

“You think independence means refusing help until things get dangerous enough to kill you.”

Anger flashes across her face instantly. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know somebody broke into your cabin while you were at the auction.” My voice lowers. “I know he’s following you closer every day. I know he’s getting comfortable.” I glance toward the photograph still clenched in her hand. “And I know he wants you scared.”

Something flickers in her expression then.

Not fear.

Recognition.

Because she knows I’m right.

“I hate this,” she mutters.

“Good.”

Her eyes flash. “Good?”

“Means you’re finally taking it seriously.”

“I was already taking it seriously.”

“No,” I say flatly. “You were hoping it would go away.”