Page 14 of Trusting Her Mate

Chapter Five

Boone

My cabin is me, down to the bones. Solid. Silent. Built to keep people out. Ugly if you catch it at the wrong angle, but nobody’s ever called these walls welcoming. They’re just here to hold back the world.

She waits at the bottom of my porch steps, knuckles white around her duffel like she’s drowning and it’s the only thing keeping her afloat. I should leave her out there, let her sweat, but I’m not that cruel. My place sits on the edge of everything, half-swallowed by trees, firewood stacked with military precision, two chairs lined up like sentries. No flowers. No wind chimes. No welcome mat. Nothing soft. Nothing that says home, just four walls and a roof to keep the rain off and somewhere to drop your boots when you’re too tired to care.

I unlock the door, and she breaks the silence. “This is bleak.”

I grunt. “It’s a cabin.”

She studies me, eyes sharp. “It’s a masculine cave with windows.”

I shrug. “It has electricity.”

She snorts. “High praise.”

“And running water.”

“Be still, my heart.”

She never stops talking. “You complain a lot for someone getting free lodging.”

Her smile is pure trouble. “I process fear through commentary.”

That hits harder than I want to admit. I hate the way she laughs about fear, like it’s something you can joke away. Or maybe I hate that she’s not joking at all.

She glances at the porch chairs. “Are those measured to be exactly six inches apart?”

“No.” I don’t give her the satisfaction.

“Seven?”

“Inside.” I hold the door, and she slips past me, careful, like I might bite. I won’t. Not with her this close, not with her scent curling around me—wild, stubborn, and sharp enough to make me forget my own name.

She looks around, and I know what she sees, clean lines, dark wood, the fireplace, everything in its place. The couch, the shelves, the knives. Yeah, actual knives. Sue me.

She points. “Decorative murder wall?”

I grunt. “Tools.”

“For murder?”

“For hunting. Utility. Defense.”

“So murder-adjacent.”

It shouldn’t be funny. Maybe it is. I reach for her duffel, but she clings to it like I’m about to rip away her last lifeline. My eyes catch on her hand, tight on the strap, then drag up to her face.

“Sorry.”

I fucking hate that word. “Don’t apologize for surviving.”

I watch her throat tighten, see the apology stick in her throat. I feel it, too, an ache I can’t shake loose. It tightens, and I look away, focus on the room, not her. She’s still talking.

“Your house has too many weapons and not enough cushions.”

“I have cushions,” I say, gesturing at the couch. There are two. That’s enough for anyone with a spine. “How many do you need?”