Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 39414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 158(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 158(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
I point down the hall. “Go put your bag in the bedroom. Make yourself a tea. Eat something. You look like you’ve been running for days.”
Her eyes narrow. “And what if I don’t want to be told what to do?”
I tilt my head. “Then you can argue with me after you do it.”
She glares. “That’s not how arguing works.”
“It is with me.”
Her mouth opens, ready with another bite, another shield.
Then her shoulders sag a fraction, and she exhales. “Fine. But I’m not… I’m not your bride.”
I hold her gaze, steady and dark.
“Not yet,” I say.
Her eyes flare, and she spins on her heel before I can see what that does to her face.
She walks down the hallway with stiff, determined steps, backpack bouncing against her shoulder. Halfway down, she glances back at me like she can’t help it.
Like she needs to know I’m still there.
I’m still there.
I watch her disappear into the bedroom, then I turn my head to the window and scan the treeline again, jaw tight.
Because Ellie’s in my cabin now.
And whatever put fear in her eyes?
Whatever “difficulties” she won’t name?
It’s going to learn something.
No one touches what’s under my roof.
No one.
And if a man thinks he can scare Ellie James into disappearing again, he’s about to find out what a firefighter does when the thing he wants to protect is threatened.
I move toward the door, checking the locks, checking the sightlines, already planning the next steps.
Then I hear her voice from the hallway, sharp and breathless.
“Wyatt?”
I turn.
“Yeah?”
She’s standing in the doorway with her backpack still on, hair a mess, eyes too bright. “If I’m here… what exactly am I supposed to pretend?”
My mouth goes dry.
Because the answer comes too easily.
My wife.
My bride.
Mine.
I keep my voice steady anyway. “You’re supposed to pretend you belong to me.”
Her breath catches. Her eyes flicker.
“And if I’m not good at pretending?” she asks, like she hates herself for asking.
I take one step toward her, slow and sure, letting the heat in my gaze do what my hands aren’t doing yet.
“Then you better learn fast,” I say. “Because someone out there is watching.”
Her face goes pale.
And the air between us tightens, charged and dangerous, like a match struck in a room full of gas.
Chapter 3
Ellie
Wyatt’s cabin smells like pine, coffee, and the kind of clean that comes from a man who does not tolerate clutter or weakness.
It also smells like him—woodsmoke and soap and something darker under it that makes my skin feel too tight. Like my body knows it’s standing in the middle of a bad decision and would like to make it worse.
I drop my backpack by the couch and stare at him like he’s a problem I’m not sure how to solve.
Before I can open my mouth a dog, black and white and fluffy and full of energy bounces into the room, tail wagging.
“Oh! Who is this?” I bend, scratching the dog behind the ears.
“This is Jake. He’s full of trouble and will lick you into submission. I hope you like dogs.”
“I love them!” I gush as Jake rolls over and exposes his belly for rubs. I spend a few minutes giving him all the puppy love and then giggle when he licks my cheeks in thanks.
Wyatt just stares at me like he’s already solved me.
“So the rules,” he says, and it isn’t a suggestion.
I blink. “Your dog gives a warmer welcome than you do.”
His gaze slides over me, slow, controlled, rude. “You want a warm welcome, you can go back down the mountain. You want safe, you listen.”
The way he says safe should not make heat curl low in my belly, but it does. I shift my weight, annoyed at myself, and make my mouth do something sharp. “Do you talk to everyone like they’re one wrong move from getting grounded?”
“Yes,” he says immediately. “And it works.”
I scoff. “I’m not a kid, Wyatt.”
His mouth twitches like he’s amused by the fact I said his name. He steps closer, not in a threatening way—worse. In a confident way. Like he knows I’m going to hold my ground because I always do, and he’s counting on it.
“You’re not a kid,” he agrees, voice low. “That’s the problem.”
My throat tightens. “Excuse me?”
He tilts his head, eyes dark. “You’re in my cabin, wearing that look that says you’d rather chew glass than admit you’re scared, and you think I’m going to play nice?”
“I don’t think you play nice with anyone,” I shoot back.
His gaze flicks to my mouth. “Careful.”
“Careful?” I repeat, laugh too bright. “You’re the one who posted a mail-order bride ad like you’re a grumpy pioneer.”
His jaw shifts. The control on his face holds, but I see the strain at the edges. The way his hand flexes once at his side like it wants to grab something.
Me, probably.
He doesn’t. He just says, “First rule. You don’t leave this property without telling me.”