Page 21 of Mountain Protector

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“Yes, it does.” She pushes her chair back abruptly and stands up. “My life is being threatened. My apartment was just violated. This isn’t the time to?—“

She cuts herself off and shakes her head.

“To what?” I press, needing to hear her say it.

Her eyes meet mine, defiant and vulnerable all at once. “To want things I shouldn’t.”

The confession hangs in the air between us, raw and honest.

Every instinct in my body screams to go to her, to close the distance, to show her exactly how much I want her too. But I force myself to remain still, giving her the space she needs.

“I should take a shower,” she says suddenly, breaking the tension. “It’s been a long day.”

I nod toward the hallway, not trusting myself to speak immediately. The image of Ruby naked in my shower threatens to shatter what remains of my self-control.

“Bathroom’s that way,” I finally manage. “First door on the right.”

ChapterFive

RUBY

Steam curlsaround me as I stand in Clay’s bathroom, clutching a fluffy white towel to my chest. My skin still tingles from the hot shower, but it’s nothing compared to how it burns whenever Clay looks at me.

I splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection in the mirror.

What the hell am I doing here?

I’ve known this man for less than twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours that turned my life upside down—my apartment broken into, my safe space violated, and suddenly I’m whisked away to this mountain cabin with a man who makes my heart race with just a glance.

A man my father hired to protect me. A man I should absolutely not be thinking about the way I am right now.

I grip the edge of the sink, trying to steady myself.

That moment in the storage room of my shop keeps replaying in my mind. The heat of his body so close to mine, the intensity in his eyes, the way my breath caught when his fingers brushed against my skin. I’d felt an instant connection that defied logic, and it terrifies me.

I’ve spent years building my independence brick by brick. Left my family’s expectations behind, built my tattoo business from nothing, created a life entirely on my own terms. And now here I am, feeling things for a virtual stranger that make me want to throw caution to the wind.

It’s not that I don’t date. I do. Sort of. Coffee meetups that never go anywhere. Dinner dates that end with polite handshakes. My focus has always been my career, my art, my independence. I’ve never let anyone close enough to disrupt the life I’ve carefully constructed. Never given anyone the power to make decisions for me or tell me what to do.

And I’ve certainly never let anyone close enough to see me vulnerable, to touch me in ways that would make me lose control. That kind of intimacy has always seemed like a risk I couldn’t afford to take.

But Clay... there’s something about him that feels different. Dangerous. The way he looks at me makes me feel seen in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying.

I turn to my overnight bag, rifling through the clothes I threw together in a panic. My fingers pause over the sensible cotton pajama set I packed, then deliberately move past it. Instead, I pull out a pair of black sleep shorts that barely cover my ass and a white tank top that shows off the colorful tattoos running down my arms and decorating my collarbone.

As I slip into the revealing clothes, I study the phoenix tattoo on my shoulder in the mirror. It was my first major piece—the one I got the day I told my father I was dropping out of business school to pursue art. The vibrant reds and golds represent everything I’ve fought for: my independence, my right to make my own choices.

Including this one.

When I finally open the bathroom door, a rush of cooler air hits my bare legs. The cabin is dimly lit, mostly by the glow of the fireplace. Clay stands near it, arranging logs, his broad back to me.

He’s changed into dark sweatpants and a fitted gray t-shirt that does nothing to hide the muscles underneath. I allow myself a moment to appreciate the view—the width of his shoulders, the way the fabric stretches across his back, the confident way he moves.

He turns at the sound of the door, and his eyes widen slightly as they take in my appearance.

His gaze travels slowly from my face down to my legs, lingering on the colorful tattoos that peek out from under my shorts, then back up to my face. There’s no mistaking the heat in his eyes.

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