But it’s not all hard edges. I’m lying on a bed layered with soft wool blankets and downy pillows that definitely don’t look military-issue. The mattress is firm but indulgent, the sheets a soft flannel that whisper of warmth and winter comfort.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and shift upright; the sheets sliding off my hips. As I plant my foot on the floor, pain rips through my ankle—sharp, white-hot, immediate. I suck in a breath, fingers gripping the thick blanket beneath me. No way I’m walking out of here today. Not with my ankle on fire and my pride already bruised. Still, I try—because sitting still feels like surrender, and I don’t surrender easily.
"Don’t." His voice rumbles from the shadowed kitchen. I startle, my spine going rigid. I didn’t even hear him move. He’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, eyes pinned to me like he’s been watching the whole time.
I lift my chin. "Don’t what?"
"Whatever you're thinking. Don’t."
"You don’t get to tell me..."
"I just did," he says taking a bite of something.
My mouth snaps shut. The tone in his voice doesn’t invite argument. Not growled. Not shouted. Just absolute.
He crosses the room in three strides, crouches in front of me. His eyes scan my face, then drop to my ankle. His hand comes up, thumb brushing just above the wrap. I should slap it away. I don’t.
"If you don’t take care of that ankle, it could be weeks before you can walk easily. You want to be stuck here that long?"
My pulse trips. I narrow my eyes. "Maybe I don’t want to be here at all."
"Too bad. The storm and that ankle say otherwise."
I look toward the window. Whiteout. The snow’s coming harder now, wind howling through the eaves with a voice that sounds too much like a warning. The windows rattle in their frames, glass fogged and trembling. I’d freeze before I made it ten feet, and part of me wonders if that’s exactly what the mountain wants.
Still, I shove to my feet, using his shoulder for leverage, even though my ankle screams in protest—sharp, stabbing pain that rockets up my leg and whites out my vision for a second. It isn’t just pain—it’s a brutal, blistering surge that rips the breath from my lungs and sends bile rising in my throat. Pride is a hell of a drug—stronger than common sense, and right now, more potent than morphine. I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches, dragging my body forward on sheer will, because sitting still feels too much like surrender. And I was never taught to surrender.
Caleb rises, broad and unyielding, his gaze steady as I manage three steps before I falter. I wave him off with a sharp glare, one hand raised as if that alone could stop him. "I’ve got it," I hiss through clenched teeth, even as my knees threaten to give. But I don’t have it. Not even close. My ankle buckles and I pitch forward. He’s there in an instant, ignoring my resistance.
I protest, weakly at first. “Those snowshoes left where I fell; they're rented, okay? If I don’t return them, they’ll charge me a fortune.” The words come out lamer than intended, more reflex than logic.
Caleb doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even slow down. “They can bill me,” he says.
One hand grips my waist, the other braces under my knees, firm and sure. I want to argue, to claw some shred of dignity back—but I can’t. He’s too strong, and I’m in too much pain. All I can do is cling to the front of his thermal and try not to pass out.
Without missing a beat, he turns and strides back to the bed, carrying me like it costs him nothing. I protest weakly, breath hitching as the pain pulses through my ankle. He doesn’t seem to care. Instead, he deposits me onto the thick bedding like it’s where I belong, then stands over me, unbothered by my scowl or the way I’m glaring daggers up at him.
“You don’t even know where I got them,” I snap, breathless from the pain.
“It doesn’t matter. You're not hobbling around on a wrecked ankle just to keep some rental company happy.” He turns away and mutters, "Stubborn female."
"Overbearing asshole."
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but something close. "You're not leaving."
"You can’t keep me here."
"Want to bet? That's a blizzard out there, you've got a bum ankle and are about a third of the way up the mountain. You can't get an Uber up here. So you'll stay."
"Where are my clothes?"
"Drying out by the main fire. I figured you'd be more comfortable without the bra."
I roll my eyes and give him an unlady-like snort. I swat his chest. He doesn’t budge. "I want to leave." I know he's making sense, but I really hate being bested.
"Tough shit."
I look up—mistake. His eyes aren’t cold. They’re like forged steel, focused, and so intensely locked on mine it feels like I’ve stepped into fire. My stomach flips, a visceral lurch like the floor dropped out from under me.