Page 38 of Beckett
“The heater’s ancient,” he rambled, uncomfortable with my silence. “Takes forever to warm up. And the hot water heater’s small, so quick showers. But everything works. I checked this morning.”
“This is amazing.”
“There are extra blankets in that chest. The stove’s older than dirt, but it works. And I already moved your things from Lark’s, figured you’d want privacy?—”
I crossed the space in three strides and kissed him.
It was meant to be quick—a thank-you my words couldn’t express. But the instant my lips touched his, something ignited. His hand came up to cradle my face with impossible gentleness, thumb brushing across my cheekbone like I was made of spun glass.
Then he kissed me back, and the world stopped.
Slow and thorough and devastating. Like he had all the time in the universe to learn the shape of my mouth. He settled his other hand at my waist, not pulling or demanding, just anchoring me to this moment. My hands found their way to his flannel shirt, fingers curling into the soft fabric.
He kissed me like I mattered. Like I was worth protecting.
When we finally broke apart, my legs were liquid and my lips felt swollen. His thumb was still painting gentle patterns on my cheek, and I realized I was clutching his shirt like a lifeline.
“I should—” His voice came out wrecked. He cleared his throat. “You should get settled.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He walked over to the door, then paused. “There’s a dead bolt. A good one. I put it in today so you could feel secure. And I’m in the guest house if…if you need anything.”
Security. Safety. Someone who gave a damn just across the property.
“Beckett?” My voice was barely a whisper. “Thank you. For everything. For this. Do you want me to make you some dinner?” It was the least I could do.
“Another night.” He looked at me for a long moment, those storm-gray eyes holding something soft and complicated and terrifying. “Get some rest, Audra. Real rest. You’re safe here.”
Then he was gone, leaving me alone in my new temporary salvation.
Chapter 12
Audra
Dawn painted the Montana sky in shades of pink and gold, colors that spilled through the small window. The cabin was mine now. Yeah, I’d been in here for less than twenty-four hours, but I didn’t care.
I didn’t know how long I’d be here, what staying would involve, how many days or weeks I had before I’d need to run again. But right now, in this moment, that didn’t matter. What mattered was that I had a door I could lock, a bed that was only mine, and walls between me and…the rest of the world. Including my stalker.
I didn’t want to think about him. He wasn’t invited into this place. I pushed myself up from the narrow bed, muscles protesting after last night’s deep-cleaning marathon. But it was good pain. Earned pain. The kind that meant I’d accomplished something instead of just survived another day.
The floor creaked under my bare feet as I padded to the tiny kitchen area. Everything gleamed in the morning light—scrubbed surfaces, organized shelves, the chipped porcelain sink I’d attacked with baking soda until my knuckles were raw. Pride swelled in my chest. It had been over a year since I’d felt anything close to this. Over a year since I’d had a space that was truly mine, where I could leave a coffee cup on the counter without calculating escape routes.
I filled the ancient kettle with water, setting it on the single working burner. While waiting for it to boil, I surveyed my handiwork. The cabin wasn’t much—one room with a kitchenette, a bed that had seen better decades, and a bathroom so small I could touch both walls at once. But I’d transformed it from abandoned to livable with nothing but elbow grease and determination.
The sheer scarf draped over the window caught my eye, its deep blue fabric softening the harsh morning light. I’d bought it at a thrift store in Wyoming six months ago, back when I still had hope that pretty things might make running feel less like dying by degrees. Now it served as curtains, adding color to weathered wood walls.
And there, on the small table by the window—Beckett’s flowers. Grocery store carnations and daisies, nothing fancy, but they sat in an old mason jar I’d found under the sink like they belonged there. Like this was a real home where people brought flowers.
My throat tightened. When he’d grabbed them at the store yesterday, casual as anything, I’d almost asked why. But the answer was obvious even if neither of us acknowledged it. They were for me. For this place. To make it feel less like a hideout and more like somewhere a person might actually choose to live.
The kettle whistled, sharp and sudden. I jumped, heart hammering before logic caught up with instinct. Just water boiling. Not danger. Nothim.
I made instant coffee—the good kind Beckett had insisted on buying despite my protests about the price—and wrapped both hands around the mug. Steam rose, carrying the rich scent that still felt like luxury after months of gas station swill or nothing at all.
Three sharp knocks at the door sent the mug crashing to the floor.
Hot coffee splashed across my bare feet. I barely felt it. My body had already shifted into flight mode—weight on the balls of my feet, ready to run, calculating if I could make it to the back window before?—
