Page 14 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

More importantly, how would he react to the knowledge that his reluctant houseguest was not only documenting his existence for literary gain but also harboring the secret of imagining him taking her own virginity?

The thought chilled my overheated skin. He'd feel doubly betrayed—by my professional deception and by my personal inadequacy. The wounded warrior and the fraud who exploited him for creative material she wasn't even qualified to write.

I turned onto my side, pulling his pillow against my chest as substitute comfort. Tomorrow, I resolved, I would focus on maintaining appropriate distance. Professional objectivity. Emotional boundaries. I couldn’t let my fantasies run away with me.

But as sleep finally claimed me, my treacherous mind conjured one final image: Mack nestling between my legs, hands cradling my face, his lips a breath away from mine.

And in that dream-state between consciousness and slumber, one undeniable truth crystallized—whatever inspiration I'd sought in Montana's wilderness, I'd found something far more dangerous in its keeper.

Chapter Six

Mack

Sleep had never come easily to me since returning from overseas. This night proved no different, my mind refusing to quiet. I'd spent hours on the couch, staring at the ceiling before finally giving up around 4am. Maybe checking the creek level would settle my restlessness. The water should be receding by now, and I needed to know if tomorrow might finally bring an end to this forced cohabitation.

I pulled on my boots and jacket silently, careful not to wake Brynn. Scout raised his head from his spot near the fireplace, ears perked in interest.

"Stay," I whispered, not wanting his claws clicking on the hardwood to disturb my houseguest. He sighed dramatically but complied, settling back down with resigned acceptance.

Outside, the rain had finally stopped, though the world remained saturated. I moved carefully through the darkness, headlamp illuminating a path down to the creek that marked theboundary of my property. The water level had dropped several inches since yesterday but still rushed high enough to make the access road impassable. Another day, maybe two, before we could drive out.

The thought provoked an unexpected conflict. On one hand, I desperately needed my space back, my routines, my solitude. On the other...

I shook off that dangerous line of thinking. The woman was leaving as soon as possible. End of story.

By the time I returned to the cabin, weak dawn light filtered through the trees. I entered quietly, removing my muddy boots at the door. Scout greeted me with a silent tail wag, padding over for a scratch behind the ears before heading to the back door, clearly communicating his need to go out.

"Give me a minute," I murmured, heading to the bedroom to grab dry socks.

The door stood slightly ajar, and I paused, listening. Brynn's deep, even breathing suggested she remained asleep. I pushed the door open just enough to slip through, intending to retrieve clean socks from the dresser without disturbing her.

In the gray morning light, I could make out her form beneath the quilt, dark hair splayed across my pillow, one hand curled near her face in unconscious vulnerability. Something twisted in my chest, and I looked away, turning toward the dresser.

That’s when I saw it—her notebook, lying open on the floor beside the bed. It must have fallen while she slept. I moved to pick it up, intending only to close it and place it on the nightstand.

But my eyes caught a phrase in the dim light, my own name written in her flowing script.

Mack embodies everything I've tried to create in my fictional heroes—strength marked by vulnerability, capability tempered by damage. The scars he bears, both visible and hidden, form the perfect canvas for redemption.

I froze, my brain struggling to process what I was reading. Against every instinct for privacy, I carefully lifted the notebook, angling it toward the window.

His military bearing reveals itself in subtle ways—the sharpness of his movements, the vigilant awareness of his surroundings, the discipline evident even in mundane tasks. Classic heroic potential trapped in self-imposed isolation.

My jaw tightened as I flipped to an earlier page, something cold and sickening spreading through my chest.

The scarred ex-Marine presents the perfect case study. Brooding, damaged, yet undeniably attractive. Readers respond to controlled strength, to the fantasy of being the one woman who penetrates those carefully constructed defenses.

And then, most damningly:

How would it feel to be touched by him? What sounds would escape his mouth in his moment of ecstatic release? Be sure to incorporate these sensory details to elevate the manuscript beyond Jillian's criticism, bringing veracity to scenes that previously read as hollow.

Realization crashed over me like icy water. I wasn't a person to her—I was research. A convenient specimen for herto study and dissect, my past and present nothing more than colorful fodder for her writing.

"Mack?"

I looked up sharply. Brynn had awakened, propping herself on one elbow, confusion giving way to horror as she registered what I held in my hands. Blood drained from her face.

"Oh God," she whispered.

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