The rain hadn't stopped for hours. Sheets of water fell from the sky like the heavens were determined to drown the world, and the wipers on the black SUV could barely keep up. The driver—a quiet, broad-shouldered man named Marcus—kept his eyes fixed on the road, while beside him, the Don sat in silence, his jaw hard, his gaze locked on the endless dark ahead.
I sat in the backseat, my arms wrapped tightly around myself. The air inside the SUV was thick, the kind that felt like it could choke you if you let it. My thoughts were loud, crashing against the inside of my skull.
We'd left the mansion in a hurry. No explanations, no warning—just him bursting into my room, tossing me a coat, and telling me to move. My questions had been met with nothing but a look, the kind of look that brooked no argument.
Now, three hours later, the SUV pulled off the main road, following a narrow dirt path through thick woods. My pulse quickened.
"Where are we going?" I asked, my voice breaking the silence.
"Somewhere safe," he said, his tone clipped.
Safe. Right. That word meant different things to different people. For him, it probably meant surrounded by men with guns. For me, it meant anywhere but here.
The vehicle stopped in front of a low, two-story cabin tucked into the trees. It looked like something out of a survivalist's dream—a stone fireplace, a wide porch, and a single dim light burning inside.
"This is it," Luca said, stepping out first.
He opened my door without a word and gestured for me to follow. I didn't move right away. "I don't understand why—"
"Inside," he said, not raising his voice, but somehow making it sound like a command carved in stone.
The wind whipped at my hair as I stepped out into the rain. I was shivering by the time we got through the door.
The interior smelled faintly of cedar and smoke, with a warmth that seeped into my skin. My eyes darted around—one large main room, a small kitchen, and a hallway that led deeper into the cabin.
"There's only one bedroom," Marcus said, as if he'd just realized the potential problem.
My head snapped toward him. "What?"
"One bedroom. One bed," he clarified, glancing between us like he wished he'd kept his mouth shut.
"That's fine," the Don said without hesitation.
"It's not fine," I said, my voice sharp. "I'll sleep on the couch."
"It folds out," Marcus offered helpfully.
The Don turned his gaze on me, slow and deliberate, like a predator deciding how much effort a kill was worth. "You're not sleeping out here. It's too exposed."
"It's a cabin in the middle of nowhere. What am I exposed to? Deer?"
"Bullets," he said flatly. "Windows are thin. The bedroom's at the back—only one point of entry. Easier to protect."
I stared at him. "So what? You expect me to just share a bed with you?"
His mouth tilted in a humorless smile. "You think I'm interested?"
The words stung more than I wanted to admit. My face burned, and I turned away before he could see it. "Fine. But I'm building a pillow wall."
He didn't answer—just brushed past me and headed down the hall.
The bedroom was small but warm, with a massive wooden bed covered in a thick quilt. A single lamp cast soft light over the room. He was already there when I walked in, pulling off his jacket, revealing the black T-shirt beneath. His shoulders looked like they'd been carved from stone.
I told myself not to look, not to notice, but my gaze betrayed me.
He glanced up, catching me mid-stare. "Something on your mind?"
"Only wondering if you're capable of not being an arrogant jerk."
His smirk was infuriating. "You'll have to let me know if I improve."
I busied myself by dragging every pillow I could find into the middle of the bed, stacking them into a fortress. He watched, amused.
"You really think that's going to stop me if I want to cross over?"
I froze for a fraction of a second, heat creeping up my neck. "You won't."
He didn't say anything, but the gleam in his eyes made me wonder if he'd just accepted a challenge.
That night, the rain intensified, drumming hard against the roof. I lay on my side, facing the wall of pillows, listening to his slow, even breathing. I should have been relieved—he was keeping his distance, after all. But instead, I felt… unsettled.
I didn't want to admit it, but the truth slithered in anyway: part of me felt safer with him there.
Sometime past midnight, a loud crack split the air. I jolted upright.
He was already out of bed, gun in hand, moving toward the window without a sound. My heart pounded as I crawled to the edge of the bed.
"What is it?" I whispered.
"Stay down," he ordered.
A moment later, the tension eased from his shoulders. "Tree branch," he muttered, lowering the gun.
I let out a shaky laugh. "So much for bullets."
He turned, his eyes catching mine in the dim light. "I don't take chances with you."
The words hit harder than they should have. I swallowed and looked away, but my pulse was still racing—not from fear, but from something else entirely.
The rest of the night passed in fragments of uneasy sleep. At some point, I woke to find the pillow barrier gone, his arm draped loosely over my waist. I froze, torn between pushing him away and… not.
His warmth seeped into me, steady and solid, grounding me in a way I hadn't felt in weeks. I lay there, motionless, listening to the sound of his breathing until sleep pulled me under again.
When morning came, the space between us was back, as if nothing had happened. But I knew. And judging by the unreadable glint in his eyes when he handed me a mug of coffee, so did he.