Page 5 of Forbidden Passions

Not after everything. Not with the nightmares that still jolted me awake most nights. Not with the scars that mapped my body like testament to all the ways I’d barely survived. Not with the parts of me that still felt broken.

Up here, I’m not a man. I’m a ghost with a heartbeat. A self-exiled shadow living in the wreckage of a life.

Touch is dangerous. Wanting is worse. And I’ve got enough scars—on my body, in my head—to send most people running before they ever get close enough to see what’s underneath.

The physical ones were easy enough to hide under clothing. The jagged line across my ribs, the puckered circle on my shoulder, the surgical scars on my back. It was the invisible ones that made relationships impossible—the hypervigilance,the insomnia, the moments when a sound or smell catapulted me back to places I’d rather forget.

I set the clothes down and strode back to the kitchen, annoyed at myself.

Max had taken up residence on my rug, apparently unconcerned by the strange circumstances or the storm still raging outside. Lucky dog. No complicated thoughts running through his head.

The kettle whistled, and I busied myself making tea, adding honey to both mugs because I couldn’t be bothered to ask how she took hers. The cabin suddenly felt too small, the air too thick with the knowledge that I wasn’t alone anymore.

I tried to remember the last time I’d had a conversation with anyone that wasn’t the clerk at the general store or the occasional park ranger. Months, at least. By choice. After what I’d seen, what I’d done, people were the last thing I wanted. Their questions, their expectations, their needs—I’d had enough of all of it to last several lifetimes.

And yet here was Callie Winters, with her defiant eyes and stubborn chin, invading my sanctuary because of a dog and a storm and the absolute worst luck I’d had in years.

The bathroom door opened, and I braced myself before turning around.

She stood in the doorway, my clothes hanging ridiculously large on her frame. Well, in certain places. The front stretched across her breasts and my sweats hugged her curvy ass.

Something stirred in me that I thought had died in the desert—a pull, a want, a need that went beyond the physical. For a moment, I glimpsed what normal might feel like again, and it terrified me more than any firefight ever had.

I wasn’t built to handle softness like this. Not when she wore it on her fucking sleeve like a badge of honor.

But it was the vulnerability in her eyes that caught me off guard. For just a moment, she looked uncertain, like she was suddenly aware of the strangeness of her situation—alone in a cabin with a man she’d just met, miles from anyone who might help if I turned out to be a threat.

Something protective stirred in my chest, an instinct I thought I’d left behind with my uniform.

She had every right to be wary. She didn’t know me. Didn’t know that despite everything, the core of who I was—the part that would sooner die than harm an innocent—remained intact. The mountain hadn’t taken that from me and neither had my service to my country.

“Tea’s ready,” I said, my voice threaded with some of the emotions running through me. “Might help warm you up.”

Her face relaxed into a small smile. “Thanks.” She crossed to the kitchen, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor. When she reached for the mug, our fingers brushed briefly.

I pulled back as if burned, nearly spilling the tea.

“Sorry,” she murmured, though I wasn’t sure which of us she was apologizing to.

Max chose that moment to let out a loud, satisfied sigh as he sprawled more comfortably on my rug.

“Looks like someone’s made himself at home,” she said with a forced lightness.

I looked from the dog to his owner, standing in my kitchen wearing my clothes, bringing chaos into my carefully ordered existence. “Yeah, well. At least one of us is happy about this arrangement.”

She sipped her tea, studying me over the rim of the mug. “You’re being a great host.”

Her expression was bland except for the small smile curving her full lips. That only pissed me off more. Because I wanted to taste them. “I don’t have guests.”

“Ever?”

“Not if I can help it.”

She shook her head, a curl escaping to fall across her forehead. “You know, most people would be climbing the walls from the isolation.”

“I’m not most people.” I took my own mug and moved to the living area, putting distance between us. “And I’m not isolated. I chose to be alone. There’s a difference.”

Alone means no one sees the cracks. No one witnesses the moments when the past bleeds into the present. No one has to carry the weight of your broken pieces alongside their own.

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