Chapter 3.
927 Words
Chapter 3
Breakfast was eggs, toast, and more coffee. Marcus cooked like a soldier—efficient, no wasted motion. He slid a plate in front of me without asking if I was hungry. I was. Starving, actually.
We ate at the small wooden table by the window. Outside the rain had turned to a soft mist that clung to the pines. Inside it was quiet except for forks on plates and the low crackle of the fire.
I watched him while he ate. He ate like everything else he did—methodical. Focused. When he caught me staring he raised one eyebrow.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Just… you’re different up here.”
“How?”
“Calmer. Less…” I searched for the word. “Pissed off.”
He gave a short laugh. “You bring out the pissed-off part.”
“Funny. I was going to say the same about you.”
He leaned back in the chair, arms crossed over his chest. The T-shirt stretched tight across his shoulders. “We’ve always been good at pushing each other’s buttons.”
“Yeah.” I poked at the last piece of toast. “Why do you think that is?”
He looked at me for a long second. “Because we’re the same kind of stubborn. And because neither of us likes admitting we care.”
My stomach did a small flip. I tried to cover it with a shrug. “I don’t care about you.”
“Liar.”
The word came out soft. Almost fond.
I felt heat climb my neck. I stood up too fast, carried my plate to the sink. He followed, standing behind me while I rinsed it. Not touching. Just close. I could feel the warmth coming off him.
“You ready?” he asked.
“For what?”
“Lesson one.”
I dried my hands. Turned. He was right there—close enough that I had to tilt my head to meet his eyes.
“Lesson one is how to get out of a grab,” he said. “Someone comes up behind you, wraps an arm around your neck. What do you do?”
I thought about it. “Elbow them?”
“Sometimes. Depends.” He stepped around me. “Let’s do it slow. I’m going to put my arm around your throat. Not tight. Just enough so you feel it. You try to get free. Okay?”
My heart kicked up. “Okay.”
He moved behind me. His left arm came around my neck—slow, careful. His chest pressed against my back. Solid. Warm. I swallowed.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.”
His grip tightened just a fraction. Not enough to hurt. Enough to make my pulse jump.
“Now. What do you do?”
I grabbed his forearm with both hands, tried to pull it down. Nothing. He was too strong.
“Wrong,” he said against my ear. His breath was warm. “You’re using arm strength against arm strength. You’ll lose.”
“Then what?”
“Use your body weight. Drop low. Fast. Like this—”
He showed me. One second I was standing, the next I bent my knees, dropped my hips, and twisted hard to the side. His arm slipped off. I spun away.
He nodded. “Better. Again.”
We did it five more times. Each time he let me win a little easier. Each time his hands lingered a second longer when he reset the hold. Each time my skin felt hotter.
On the sixth try I dropped, twisted, then instead of stepping away I turned into him. My hands landed on his chest. His heartbeat was fast under my palms.
We both froze.
His eyes were darker than before. “You okay?”
I nodded. Couldn’t speak.
He didn’t move back. Neither did I.
“Elena,” he said quietly. “This is dangerous.”
“I know.”
“You sure?”
“No,” I admitted. “But I’m tired of pretending.”
Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe relief. His hand came up slow, fingers brushing my cheek, then sliding into my hair.
“I’ve wanted to do this since the first time you told me to go to hell,” he murmured.
I laughed, shaky. “That was at Thanksgiving. Three years ago.”
“Four,” he corrected. “And I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”
Then he kissed me.
Not soft. Not careful. Hungry. Like he’d been holding it back too long. I kissed him back the same way—fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer. His hands slid to my waist, lifted me onto the counter. I wrapped my legs around him without thinking.
When we broke apart we were both breathing hard.
“Still think I’m an arrogant asshole?” he asked, forehead against mine.
“Sometimes,” I whispered.
He smiled—real, small, rare. “Good. Keeps things interesting.”
I touched the scar on his jaw. “You’re going to protect me, right?”
“Always.”
“And you’re going to let me fight too?”
He nodded once. Serious. “Yeah. But you don’t fight alone anymore.”
I leaned in, kissed him again. Slower this time. Sweeter.
Outside the mist kept falling. Inside the cabin felt like a different world.
One where maybe—just maybe—we didn’t have to hate each other to feel something real.
- Writer
