Page 228 of Blackthorn Ridge

His tall, immense frame stayed steady as he rose and walked to the railing, boots quiet on the frost-dusted cedar planks. The wood was warm from the heated floor beneath, a small luxury against the biting air that now nipped at his exposed skin.

The last few days since Isabelle and Michael left had been good. Really good.

Lazy mornings tangled in sheets, snowball fights that ended with Sage pinned beneath him in the snow, breathless laughter turning into hungry kisses.

Evenings by the fire where she read to him in that soft voice while he traced lazy circles on her thigh.

Nights filled with her soft gasps and his low groans, learning every inch of each other like they had all the time in the world.

But time wasn’t endless. Not with the truth still sitting between them like an unlit fuse.

Cal could tell Sage sensed it. She’d asked a few gentle times over the last few days, and he’d brushed it off with a soft kiss to her temple. But she was sharp. Smart. Terrifyingly so — and that small, proud smile tugged at his mouth even now.

They’d gone into town the other day, the first real outing since Isabelle and Michael left. The little mountain town had been dusted in fresh snow, Main Street lined with glowing shop windows and strings of warm white lights that twinkled against the pearl-gray sky. Pine boughs heavy with snow arched over the sidewalks, and the air smelled of woodsmoke, fresh evergreen, and distant chimney fires. People waved like they belonged there now — like they were part of the fabric of this place.

Sage had glowed.

She loved it. The belonging. The friends. The family they were quietly building. It made his chest ache in the best way.

He thought back to yesterday, when they’d stopped at Lila’s bakery for lunch. The little storefront was warm and fragrant, filled with the rich, buttery scent of fresh-baked bread, cinnamon rolls still steaming from the oven, and dark roast coffee. Golden light poured through frost-laced windows onto worn wooden tables. The lunch crowd bustled around them — locals laughing, silverware clinking, the soft hiss of the espresso machine.

Cal had been in his usual winter gear: black Stetson, thick dark-green flannel over a black thermal, worn jeans hugging his massive thighs, heavy boots, and that leather trench coat that made his already enormous frame look even broader. Sage, tucked against his side, was pure temptation in a soft black turtleneck sweater that clung to her full, heavy breasts and the soft curve of her belly, paired with snug dark leggings that hugged her wide hips and thick, juicy thighs. Her dark hair spilled over one shoulder, and every sway of those curvy hips as she walked had him fighting not to drag her back to the cabin.

They’d just settled at a corner table with Lila’s legendary sandwiches when Cal felt it — eyes on him. His survival instincts, honed by decades of training, snapped awake as easy as breathing. His posture shifted, shoulders squaring, jaw tightening. The gentle giant vanished. In his place sat the apex predator.

Sage froze mid-bite, eyes widening as she watched the transformation.

“Cal? Is everything⁠—”

He held up one big hand, eyes scanning the room with lethal calm as he tracked every face, exits, entry points. Then the tension melted as he spotted his old high-school history teacher watching him from two tables over, just curious.

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low and reassuring again. “Thought I sensed something off.”

Sage stared at him, face awed, lips slightly parted, her tongue ring shining.

Cal looked back at her, normal once more, and grinned. “What? Do I have mustard on me?”

“Holy fucking shit…” she whispered, voice trembling with something he couldn’t place.