Page 20

Fourteen days.

Three hundred and thirty-six hours since I fell asleep with Elizabeth in my arms, only to wake up alone with nothing but the lingering scent of her perfume on my pillow.

I should have known this would happen.

Elizabeth was a flight risk from the moment I laid eyes on her. The way she deflected my questions at the bar, kept her answers vague, wouldn’t even give me her real name. Hell, I knew she was lying about half the shit she told me, but I didn’t care. Too caught up in the way she felt in my arms, the sounds she made when I was inside her.

But there was something else. Something real underneath all that evasion. The way she looked at me when she came apart, like I was the only man in the world. The way she curled into me afterward, trusting and soft.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, stretching muscles tight from another restless night. Morninglight filters through the windows of my cabin, illuminating the bedroom I designed with brutal efficiency. King-sized bed. Blackout curtains. Nothing unnecessary. Nothing to distract from its purpose. But now the simplicity feels hollow. Empty. Like something’s missing.

Like she’s missing.

I grab my phone from the nightstand and check for messages that I know won’t be there. As expected, there are no missed calls. No new texts. Nothing from the private investigator I hired last week in a moment of weakness. The fact that I even made that call tells me how fucked I am.

The bathroom tile is cold against my feet as I step into the shower, and I turn the water as hot as it will go. Steam fills the space, but it does nothing to clear my head. All I can think about is her. The way she felt beneath me. The soft sounds she made when I pushed inside her. The look of surprise on her face when she came for the first time.

My cock hardens instantly at the memory.

I wrap my hand around it and close my eyes as water pounds against my shoulders. In my mind, it’s her hand, her mouth. I remember how tight she was, how perfectly she fit me. My grip tightens as I think about the way she looked at me afterward. Not with regret or shame, but with wonder. Like I’d shown her something about herself she never knew existed.

Pressure builds at the base of my spine.

“Elizabeth,” I growl, her name escaping as I come hard, my release washing away with the water.

The satisfaction is fleeting, replaced almost immediately by a gnawing emptiness. I finish washing with mechanical movements, shutting off the water with more force than necessary.

The mirror reveals what two weeks of obsession looks like. The dark circles under my eyes, the tension in my jaw. I look likeshit and feel worse. I run a hand through my damp hair and push it back from my forehead.

I walk to the bedroom and pull open the dresser drawers. Instead of the tailored suits I typically wear to meet clients, I grab a worn flannel shirt and a pair of faded jeans. The fabric feels familiar against my skin as I dress, a reminder of who I was before I built my security business, before I started wearing suits to impress wealthy clients who pay for my expertise. I button the flannel, leaving the top two undone, and pull on the jeans that have molded to my body over years of wear.

I head to the kitchen, the hardwood floors cool beneath my bare feet. Light streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating dust motes that dance in the golden beams. Outside, pine trees sway gently in the mountain breeze, their deep green a stark contrast to the clear blue Wyoming sky. The view never fails to center me, even now.

The cabin is exactly what I wanted when I built it five years ago. Remote, defensible, with clear sightlines in all directions. Three thousand square feet of privacy tucked into the Wyoming mountains. No neighbors for miles. Just the way I like it.

This place is everything my penthouse in Cooper Heights isn’t. The city apartment is sleek, modern, impersonal—a place to conduct business and sleep between meetings. This cabin is where I come to breathe, to remember who I am.

The refrigerator yields eggs, peppers, and onions. I crack four eggs into a bowl with enough force to send yolk splattering across the counter.

Fuck.

I grab a towel, wiping up the mess while my thoughts spiral back to her.

Was she in trouble? Running from someone? The fear in her eyes hadn’t been directed at me, but at something else,something that made her lie about her name, made her flee before morning.

I’ve seen enough trauma in my life to recognize the signs. The way she flinched when I asked about her family. The careful way she answered questions, revealing nothing of substance. The resignation in her voice when she talked about moving back home.

The thought sends a surge of possessiveness through me that’s as powerful as it is irrational. She isn’t mine. We spent one night together. But something primal inside me disagrees, insists that she belongs to me in some fundamental way I can’t explain.

I dice the vegetables with practiced precision, the knife moving in a steady rhythm that does nothing to calm the storm in my head. The skillet heats on the stove as I toss in butter, watching it melt and bubble before adding the vegetables. They sizzle and pop, filling the kitchen with a scent that turns my stomach. The eggs follow, folding into a perfect omelet that I plate without enthusiasm.

I sit at the oak table I crafted myself, staring at food I don’t want. One bite confirms what I already know. It tastes like nothing. Everything tastes like nothing lately.

I abandon the plate and move to the coffee maker. The rich aroma fills the kitchen as dark liquid drips into the carafe. I pour a cup and step onto the deck, letting the mountain air wash over me. The valley stretches below, mist still clinging to the trees in the early morning light. In the distance, the jagged peaks of the Tetons pierce the sky, indifferent to my turmoil.

This view usually brings me peace. Today, it only emphasizes how alone I am.

A sharp knock interrupts my brooding.