Page 14 of Claimed By the Lumberjack

We stay like that for a long time. Just me holding her, breathing, her heartbeat eventually steadies against mine.

The tension doesn’t fade, but it does change. Her hands move. One slides up my back, the other over my shoulder, fingertips curling around the nape of my neck. Her breath brushes my skin—faint, shallow. My pulse jumps.

I pull back just enough to look at her. Her eyes are glassy. Lashes wet. Mouth slightly parted. So close. I shouldn’t, but her hand slides to my cheek, and I’m gone.

I lean in, slow and unsure. Her eyes close. Her lips part, and then our mouths meet. The kiss is soft, just a brush, a question. She answers.

Her lips press into mine, hungry and fragile all at once. I deepen the kiss, my hand sliding into her hair, her body pressing into mine like she’s trying to crawl into my skin.

Just as fast as it starts, it stops. She pulls back, eyes wide, lips red, and breath shaky.

“I—” She doesn’t finish.

I nod, just once, backing away, giving her space. My chest is a mess, heart slamming, blood roaring.

We don’t say anything, not for a long time. Eventually, she sits and curls into the corner of the couch, legs pulled up under her. She looks out the window like the forest might whisper answers through the glass.

I sit across from her, rifle in reach, eyes on the trees. But my mind? It’s still on the feel of her mouth on mine. The way she trembled against me like she belonged there, and the terrifying, undeniable truth that I don’t just want to protect her. Ineedher safe.

If something happened to Tessa, I don’t think I’d come back from it.

Chapter Seven

Tessa

The wind howls like something out of a nightmare. It rattles the windows and groans through the trees, making the cabin feel like a boat caught in the middle of a storm-tossed sea. The fire’s the only light now, crackling softly behind the grate while shadows dance along the wooden walls.

Then, just as I finish pouring water into the kettle—click. Everything goes dark. The lights blink out. The fridge hum dies. The soft buzz of Sawyer’s ancient overhead bulb vanishes.

I stand frozen in the silence, holding the kettle in both hands.

“Power’s out,” I say uselessly.

Sawyer is already up, flashlight in hand, checking the window like he expects to see something more than darkness and wind.

“It happens,” he mutters. “Lines are probably down up the ridge.”

I set the kettle aside. “What now?”

He shrugs. “Candlelight. Fire. Blanket fort.”

I raise a brow. “You build blanket forts?”

“No. But you look like the kind of woman who demands ambiance in a blackout.”

I laugh despite the nerves twitching in my belly. “You’re not wrong.”

He disappears into the kitchen, and a few minutes later returns with three thick candles and an old oil lantern that throws golden light across the room in soft, flickering waves.

We sit in the quiet, listening to the wind and the occasional creak of the old wood cabin adjusting to the weather. It should be cozy. Itiscozy, but under that comfort is something sharp and coiled and too hot for this fire alone.

Thick and humming, building between us like a slow burn, is undeniable tension. I feel it every time he looks at me. Every time he shifts a little closer. Every time he speaks in that low, gravelly voice that drags across my skin like smoke.

I shouldn’t want this, but I do. God help me, I do.

I stand abruptly, needing movement, space, something. “This place is unreal,” I mutter, pacing toward the window. “Like a fairytale.”

“You mean nightmare,” Sawyer says behind me.

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