Page 3

Chapter three

Micah

T he bedroom door closed with a soft click, and I stood alone in the hallway, staring at the pine door where Noah had disappeared. No lock. There was nothing but two inches of wood between us.

I pressed my forehead against the door frame, taking several shallow breaths. What the hell had I just done? I'd let him in. Not only into the cabin but also into the inner sanctum I'd carefully constructed since the suspension began.

I backed away from the door, each footstep causing the floorboards to creak. The wind howled outside, rattling the glass panes. Inside, the air was silent, but it couldn't hide the fact that I wasn't alone anymore.

Noah Langley was here. In my space. In my head.

In my goddamn guest room.

Back in the cabin's multi-purpose living room and Master bedroom, I struck a match, the sulfur scent sharp in my nostrils as I lit a thick candle. The fireplace still smoldered, orange embers pulsing like something alive, but the room was darker than was comfortable. Shadows pooled in corners where light couldn't reach.

I sank into my worn leather chair, my hands shaking. A half-empty whiskey bottle sat on the side table where I'd left it. I grabbed it, unscrewed the cap, and poured amber liquid into a smudged glass. The first swallow burned, but not enough to drown out my thoughts.

He wants something. Nobody drives into a snowstorm just to say hi.

I took another drink, letting it coat my throat. The cheap stuff burned all the way down.

I stood, muscles stiff from sitting too long in the cold, and tossed another log onto the dying fire. Sparks shot upward as the dry wood caught.

Truth, he'd said. Standing in my doorway with snow melting in his hair, looking at me like I held answers instead of more questions. What the fuck did that even mean? What truth was worth risking your life in a blizzard?

An apology? My career was already in tatters. What good would sorry do him now?

Revenge, then. Could that be it? He'd had his chance when I opened the door. He could have swung first, even pulled a gun. Or he could have brought the press in his wake.

I closed my eyes, but all I saw was Noah on the ice seconds before impact. That frozen second when our eyes locked—when his mouth tightened, and mine did too. He braced, not like someone caught off guard, but like someone whounderstood andwelcomed it.

It wasn't fear. It wasn't surprise. It was something else I recognized.

Hunger.

Not just his. Mine.

A memory slammed back into my consciousness: sixteen years old, backed against the locker room wall. Tyler Jenkins—captain, golden boy—had his hand on my chest. Not pushing. Just resting there, fingers splayed. "You're always watching me, Keller."

It wasn't an accusation. It was a fact.

I broke his nose two days later on the ice. Called it an accident.

It wasn't.

I shook my head. What if pain is the only language Noah understands? What if the hit left more than a scar?

What if it opened something in him he didn't know was there?

The thought lodged in my chest. I remembered his gaze when he arrived—not scared or angry. Curious. Almost... inviting.

"Fuck," I whispered, and drained the glass in one gulp.

The cabin groaned as the wind battered its frame. I poured another drink, wondering if Noah lay awake down the hall, listening to the same sounds and wondering about me.

I didn't go to bed. Couldn't bear the thought of lying in the dark, knowing he was just down the hall. So, I claimed the chair by the fire instead, feeding it another log and watching the flames crawl across the bark, slowly consuming it and turning it to ash. The whiskey dulled the edges of my thoughts but sharpened every sound—the pop of the wood, the howl of the wind, and the subtle shift of the cabin adjusting to the storm.

Then, I heard something else. Footsteps.

It wasn't the hesitant steps of a prowler exploring unfamiliar territory. The footsteps were much more deliberate than that. They knew precisely where they were going.

My muscles tensed. Noah wasn't in the guest room anymore.

The floorboards in the hallway creaked, and he emerged into the dim light. He had the navy wool blanket from the guest room wrapped around his shoulders, trailing behind him like a cape. His hair was mussed, and his t-shirt rumpled. He didn't acknowledge me as he padded to the couch and curled onto it, facing the fire.

I stayed motionless, sitting in the shadows, breathing as quietly as possible. He had to know I was here. My glass had clinked against the bottle not five minutes ago. Yet he settled on the couch like a cat, pulling the blanket tighter, eyes on the flames.

Why did he join me? Why sleep on a couch instead of a comfortable bed?

To make me watch?

To tempt me?

He shifted, tucking his legs under him, and I stared at the clean line of his jaw in the firelight. It was too perfect. Noah had the kind of beauty that begged for destruction.

Does he think we're something now? Two broken pieces that fit together now after I broke him?

I almost laughed. That idea was absurd.

Whatever he wanted, he showed no fear, lying quietly with his back to me, vulnerable in sleep.

The wind rattled the window frames. I poured another drink and waited.

I stared at Noah's back.

I'd seen guys invite pain in hockey before. They dropped their gloves for the rush and wore their bruises like trophies, laughing off stitches in the locker room. Hockey encouraged them—men who danced with violence and then went home to wives and normal lives after the final buzzer sounded.

Noah wasn't like them.

There was something different in his eyes that night. It wasn't someone who wanted to be a daredevil playing the game of pain. He needed it. Required it. He was the type who recognized pain as an old friend rather than an occasional visitor.

I'd known men like that, too. Men who sought out bruises not for the story but for the quiet that came after. Men who needed someone to break them to feel whole. Who couldn't feel anything unless it hurt first.

He thinks I saw him.

I did.

Not the way he thinks, though. Or maybe exactly how he thinks.

The clock on the mantel ticked past midnight. Then one. The fire needed tending, but I couldn't make myself move. Not with him there, curled up like he belonged.

Outside, the storm began to ease, and the howling subsided to a low moan like the cabin itself was exhaling.

I set my glass down, the clink loud in the quiet room. Noah didn't stir. His breathing had settled into the rhythm of sleep, each exhale slightly parted his lips.

Before I realized what I was doing, I stood. I walked across the room until I loomed over him, close enough to see the slight twitches of his eyelids in deep sleep. I told myself I was only checking on him. Making sure he was really asleep and not faking.

But that would be a lie.

Deep sleep transformed him. He appeared vulnerable in a way that twisted something in my chest. It wasn't the same man who'd faced me at my door with steel in his eyes. Now, he was someone I could hurt without trying.

I crouched beside him, my knees cracking in the silence. His breath brushed my face, warm with life. My hand hovered inches from his skin—not to comfort, but to possess. To mark. The urge frightened me more than his presence ever could.

Up close, I found what I was looking for—the faint scar at his temple from my hit. Barely visible now, a silver ghost. My signature. My claim. I'd put it there, and some sick part of me felt pride seeing it healed but not gone.

Noah's eyelids fluttered but didn't open. Then his lips parted, and he whispered, "Micah..."

The sound of my name made me freeze.

"Micah..." he breathed again, fingers uncurling slightly from the blanket.

Every muscle in my body is locked tight. Blood rushed in my ears, drowning out the storm.

He was dreaming about me.

What was I in his dreams? Was I the monster who broke him? Or something he welcomed?

Why would he dream of me? To ask again why I did it? To relive the moment metal and bone collided?

Or did he dream of being broken again? Did he want it?

The questions flooded my mind, spiraling my thoughts into darkness. I watched his face, peaceful despite the name on his lips. My name.

What if he thinks this is love?

The idea was so twisted and backward that it made my stomach turn. Love wasn't born from violence. It didn't start with shattering someone against boards, leaving blood on the ice and careers hanging in the balance. Only someone damaged could mistake that kind of destruction for connection.

But there he was, whispering my name in his dreams.

And I crouched beside him in the dark, unable to look away.

I suddenly jerked away from him like I'd touched a live wire, nearly stumbling in my haste to put distance between us. My hand knocked against the coffee table, sending my empty glass rolling. It didn't break, only thumped softly against a rag rug. Noah didn't move.

The clatter broke the spell inside me. Whatever madness had possessed me to get so close and watch him like a predator waiting for the perfect moment receded into the shadows where it belonged.

I retreated to my chair, sinking into the leather that had molded to my body over months of solitude. My whiskey-blurred head swam, but not enough to drown the thoughts I couldn't escape.

The fire had burned low, embers pulsing weakly beneath a layer of ash. Without the flames, shadows crawled up the wall like living things, stretching toward the ceiling. The wind settled into a low, persistent moan.

I curled in on myself, knees drawn to my chest like I used to do as a kid when I was afraid. My eyes remained open, fixed on Noah's sleeping form. Sleep was unlikely for me. Not with him so close.

He thinks I owe him an answer. About the hit. About why I'm here. About why he felt compelled to follow.

If I spoke it aloud and let myself admit the truth, it would be out in the open. He would know it wasn't just rage that drove me into him that night. Somewhere, beneath the fury and the calculated violence of a job I'd perfected, there had been hunger.

I wanted him.

And I didn't know if I wanted to kiss him or destroy him. Maybe both. I wasn't sure I'd ever learned the difference between desire and damage.

I reached for the bottle but stopped, my hand hovering in the empty air. The cabin creaked, wind howling, as if it knew my thoughts. As if it were laughing at me.

Noah slept on, unaware of the storm inside me.

Or maybe he knew what he'd awakened by coming here. Maybe that's why he came.