Page 67 of Orphan Girl's Mountain Men

Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, a hand brushes across my torso and I jolt awake—eyes wide, breath ragged, body tensedfor combat. My heart hammers like it's still out there under the rocks, waiting to die.

But… wait. I'm not in that hellhole anymore.

It takes a second, then I realize—I'm in Hailey's cabin. In her bed. And the soft touch that woke me? That isn't danger. It's her, shifting in her sleep. Lennon has gone—-no doubt to look in on Grace. He never could be away from that child for long—but that just means there’s more space for Hailey and me.

She murmurs something, only half-awake, nuzzling against me like I'm not a wreck. Like I'm something warm and safe to cling to.

Normally, I'd be up already. Splashing cold water on my face, punishing my body with a run, or swinging an axe until my hands go numb—anything to shake off the ghosts.

But with her lying here like this—soft, close, real—I stay still. I watch the slow rise and fall of her chest. I listen to the steady in and out of her breathing. For the first time in years, the weight I carry seems to lift. The fear, the tension—gone. Just like that.

I feel calm. I feel grounded. I feel… okay.

I stay. I let myself stay.

And when I drift off again, I don't dream at all.

CHAPTER 25

Hailey

Idon't know how long I sleep or what wakes me. I do know that when I open my eyes, it's fully dark outside, the moon glowing low on the horizon. Lennon is sitting at the foot of the bed, fully dressed. Interesting.

Despite the sheer exhaustion we all collapsed under, he’s somehow managed to get out of bed, get dressed, and sit there without waking me. I wouldn't even be awake now if something deep inside me hadn't stirred—a kind of internal alarm, warning me he was about to go, and I wasn't ready for him to leave without saying goodbye.

I watch him in the moonlight. He's so still. Too still. His face is carefully blank, unreadable, and that's what sends my anxiety skittering. Oh God—did he hate it? Does he hate me now? Is he judging me? Regretting everything?

But then he smiles.

It's small. Gentle. Real. And all those panicked thoughts unravel.

He leans down, brushing a kiss over my forehead, then my lips. His eyes meet mine—and in that moment, everything is said without a single word. I see confusion there. Affection. Gratitude. A glimmer of something that might even be hope. Itry to return the look, try to tell him without speaking: I feel it too. Whatever this is, I felt it.

He presses his forehead to mine for a moment… and then he's gone.

I let out a breath.

I don't know what this all means—what any of us are supposed to do now. I do know I've had the most incredible sex of my life. Mind-blowing, soul-shaking, orbit-altering sex that launched me into another stratosphere. I don't know if I'll ever be able to have sex like that with anyone else… and I'm not sure I want to try. Not when I'm still here. Not when it's right there for the taking.

Which means… what, exactly?

Well, for starters, it means I'm done pretending I can stay away from Reed. Not that I was doing a stellar job of it anyway. We're obviously into each other. We're adults. There's no rule saying we can't enjoy ourselves. Have a little fun. Reed even mentioned they’d done it before. I'll… explain it to Dean. Somehow. And ignore the crushing awkwardness of telling my boss that I'm sleeping with both his friends. Plural.

God, who even am I right now?

This whole situation is a disaster zone—the kind I should be running from. If I had any brain cells left, I would be running. But unfortunately, they were all thoroughly fucked out of me by two magnificent, insatiable cowboys… and now all I can think about is how to make sure it happens again.

I lie back, letting the mattress cradle me. The room still smells like sex. Sweat. Skin. Heat. It's dangerously arousing. I roll onto my side and spot Reed lying next to me, softly snoring, completely relaxed. He looks boyish in sleep. Adorable.

And yeah… I'm in trouble.

In a flash, the peace is gone.

Reed's expression shifts—from soft to hard, from calm to angry… and from relaxed to all out terrified. So terrified.

"No," he mutters, body twitching. His hand curls like it's holding a weapon, finger hovering over an invisible trigger. His breathing shifts—shallow, silent—and he goes completely still, rigid with tension. He looks like he's back in a warzone, waiting for the shot to come.

What's he dreaming about? Afghanistan? Combat? Something worse?

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