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Chapter 4 – Vincent
I wake before dawn, like always. Years of solitude have trained my body to rise with the mountain, but today feels different. The cabin isn't empty. She's here.
Sadie.
The storm that chased us up the mountain last night is still raging, rain pelting against the windows like tiny fists. Thunder rolls through the valleys, and lightning turns the world outside briefly white before plunging it back into darkness.
Perfect weather for staying inside, which is exactly what I don't need right now.
Because she's sleeping on my couch, curled up under the old wool blanket I gave her last night. At some point, she kicked off half the cover, revealing one bare foot and the curve of her hip in my sweatpants.
Her golden hair spills across the cushion like honey, and her face... damn. Her face in sleep is something else entirely. Soft. Vulnerable. Young.
Something tightens in my chest, and I force myself to look away. This isn't what I do.
I don't take in strays, especially not beautiful ones with sad eyes and curves that make my hands itch to touch. I learned my lesson about trust and vulnerability the hard way before, and I've got the scars to prove it.
But watching Sadie sleep, seeing how she trusted me enough to let her guard down completely in a stranger's home... it does something to me. Makes me want things I shouldn't.
The cabin feels too small suddenly, too intimate. The air is thick with the scent of woodsmoke and rain and her—that subtle feminine fragrance that's already starting to seep into my furniture.
Into my head.
I need to get out of here.
Moving quietly—a skill learned from years of tracking game in these mountains—I pull on my boots and grab my axe. The wood pile could use restocking anyway, and maybe the physical labor will clear my head of thoughts I shouldn't be having.
Outside, the rain is cold enough to sting, but I welcome it.
The repetitive motion of splitting wood is familiar, grounding. Each swing of the axe helps push away the memory of how she looked in my flannel shirt last night, how it hung loose on her frame but couldn't hide the softness of her curves.
How her eyes had followed me around the kitchen while I cooked, like she was trying to solve a puzzle she couldn't quite figure out.
I'm on my twentieth log when I hear movement inside the cabin.
Through the window, I catch glimpses of her moving around, running fingers through that mess of golden hair, stretching in ways that make my grip tighten on the axe handle.
"Get it together, Monroe," I mutter to myself, splitting another log with perhaps more force than necessary. The crack of wood echoes across the clearing like gunfire.
When I finally head back inside, my arms aching pleasantly from the work, she's standing by the window.
The morning light, gray and diffused through the storm clouds, catches on her profile, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
She's still wearing my clothes, but somehow they look different in the daylight. More intimate. The flannel shirt hangs to mid-thigh, and she's rolled up the sleeves, revealing delicate wrists that make my hands look massive in comparison.
"Morning," I manage, setting the axe by the door.
Water drips from my hair onto the wooden floor, and I realize I'm soaked through. Her eyes track the movement of water down my neck, and something hot unfurls in my stomach.
"You're drenched," she says, taking a step toward me before catching herself. Her voice is still rough with sleep, and Christ, that doesn't help at all. "Isn't it a bit early for..." She gestures vaguely at the axe.
I shrug, stripping off my wet flannel shirt before I can think better of it. "Wood needed splitting."
Her sharp intake of breath makes me look up. She's staring at my chest, her cheeks flushed pink, and I suddenly remember I'm half-naked.
The scars from the accident are visible—angry lines across my ribs that never quite healed right. Sadie's eyes trace them, and something like understanding crosses her face.
"I'll, uh, get changed," I mutter, grabbing a dry shirt from the hook by the door.
