Page 33 of Her Ex's Father
We walk like that for a few minutes, the trail crunching under us, tension snapping in the space between our shoulders. I want to outpace him, but his legs are longer and he doesn’t tire. The bastard was probably born striding up mountainsides.
I keep my chin high, pretending he doesn’t unsettle me. Pretending I don’t notice how his scent—cedar, clean soap, a hint of smoke—wraps around me until I can hardly smell the trees anymore.
Then, just as I’m about to throw a snide comment over my shoulder, something rustles in the tree line.
It’s faint. Could be a squirrel. Could be a gust of wind. But my stomach clenches anyway.
Ben’s hand closes around my wrist before I can blink. Steady. Protective. “Stay close,” he says, voice low.
I want to argue. To rip my hand away and laugh at myself for being startled. But my heart is hammering, and suddenly the woods feel less like freedom and more like shadowed teeth waiting to bite.
I exhale shakily and nod. “Fine. You win. For now.”
A ghost of a smirk touches his mouth, but he says nothing more.
We keep walking. Together, this time, and slower. His grip eases, but I can still feel the imprint of his hand on my skin long after he lets go.
The trail curves upward, winding through a grove of aspens that shimmer like silver coins. Sunlight filters through their leaves, dappling the ground with patches of gold. The air is cooler here, the quiet broken only by the distant cry of a hawk.
When the path widens, I see it: a cluster of cabins tucked into a clearing. They’re rustic but elegant, built from honey-colored logs with wide porches and shuttered windows. The roofs are steep, perfect for heavy snow, but covered in a layer of pine needles and frost. For a second, I think I’ve stumbled into a postcard.
“What is this?” I breathe.
Ben steps ahead of me, his posture relaxing just slightly. “A camp.”
I snort. “This is not a camp. A camp is tents and bug spray and barrel grills. This is…” My eyes sweep over the details—iron lanterns, stone firepits, rocking chairs lined up like sentinels. “This is something else.”
He shrugs, as if it’s nothing. “I built it years ago. Rangers use it when they need a place to stay overnight. A thank-you for their work.”
I blink at him. “You… what?”
“It’s nothing,” he grumbles, turning away and ambling into the space, inspecting the nearest cabin. “I need to get Roger out here for some maintenance.”
“It’s not nothing.” I stare at the cabins, then at him. “You donated a whole retreat to the preserve and didn’t bother to mention it?”
His jaw ticks. “Philanthropy isn’t something you brag about, Madeline.”
I fold my arms. “Of course it isn’t. But you didn’t exactly strike me as the give-back-to-the-community type.”
His gaze sharpens, pinning me, but there’s a slight lift to the corner of his mouth, like I almost made him laugh. “You don’t know what type I am.”
The words hit harder than they should. I swallow, my cheeks warming. “Maybe not. But you could try telling me, instead of stalking me through the woods like some mountain warden. Did you just not want me to see this?”
Ignoring the question, Benedict bites out, “Maybe if you didn’t run off alone like a reckless child, I wouldn’t have to.”
That does it. I stalk up to him, temper flaring and pack jangling.
“I am not a child, Ben. I’m your wife, whether you like it or not. And I don’t need you dictating where I can breathe fresh air. I needed to getout.”
His eyes flash. He takes a step closer, towering over me. “You think I don’t know you’re my wife? Every goddamn minute I’m aware of it. Do you have any idea what it costs me not to?—”
He cuts himself off, his jaw locking.
“Not to what?” The question comes out hushed, but it doesn’t shake. Part of what’s been driving me crazy in that house is being so close to him. Is wanting… “Not to touch me?” I breathe out. “Not to kiss me again?”
The silence between us crackles like lightning.
His hand comes up, cupping my jaw. His thumb brushes the edge of my cheekbone. “Not to ruin you,” he murmurs.
