Page 8

eight

Beau

The ax swings down, splitting the log with a satisfying crack. Sweat trickles down my spine despite the cool morning air. I've been at it for hours, building up the woodpile that will keep us warm through the coming weeks. Us. The word still feels foreign in my mind, a concept I'd abandoned years ago along with any hope of connection. Now she's here, sleeping in my bed, wearing my clothes, filling the silence with her voice, her laughter, her soft sighs of pleasure. I'm still not convinced she's real, that this isn't some elaborate hallucination born from years of isolation. Each morning I expect to wake to empty space beside me, the indentation of her body in the mattress the only proof she existed at all.

I left her curled in our bed, face softened by sleep, one hand stretched across the space I'd vacated as if seeking my warmth. The sight had rooted me in place for several minutes, a tightness in my chest that wasn't entirely unpleasant.

Another log positioned, another swing of the ax. The rhythm is meditative, familiar. My body knows this work, has performed it countless times while my mind wanders. Today it wanders to her—to yesterday's confrontation on the mountainside, the punishment that turned to pleasure, the tears she shed in my arms afterward. Not tears of fear or pain, but of release. Of surrender.

She's still adjusting to this life. To me. My intensity scares her sometimes, though she'd never admit it. I see it in her eyes when I lose control, when the need to possess her overwhelms my better judgment. But she meets me halfway, pushes back when I push too hard, yields when yielding is what we both need.

I set the ax aside, gathering the split logs in my arms. Time to check the snares at the edge of the clearing, then clear some fallen branches from the path to the stream. The recent storm has left debris everywhere, making the familiar terrain newly treacherous.

The thought has barely formed when I feel it—a sudden, vicious bite of metal into flesh as my foot comes down wrong on ground that gives way beneath me. Pain explodes up my leg, white-hot and blinding. I drop the wood, stumbling forward before falling hard to one knee.

"Fuck!"

The old trap—one I'd set and forgotten years ago, or maybe left by some other hunter who passed through these mountains—has sprung closed around my ankle. Not a bear trap, thank God, or I'd be dealing with a severed foot. But bad enough—a smaller game trap with rusted teeth that have punched through my boot leather and into flesh.

Blood soaks through my pants leg, a spreading dark stain against the faded denim. I reach down, fingers fumbling with the trap's mechanism. It's seized with rust and time, the release lever barely moving when I apply pressure.

"Come on, you son of a bitch," I growl, fighting against the pain that threatens to cloud my vision.

The trap gives slightly, metal groaning in protest, then snaps back tighter when my grip slips. Fresh pain lances up my leg, drawing a harsh curse from my lips. Sweat beads on my forehead, as much from strain as from pain.

I need tools. Need to get back to the cabin. I attempt to stand, putting weight on my good leg and using a nearby tree for support. The trapped foot drags awkwardly, the chain attached to the trap catching on underbrush. Each step sends fresh agony shooting up from the wound.

Halfway to the cabin, the world tilts sideways. I catch myself against a tree, breathing hard, vision swimming. Blood loss? Shock? Either way, I'm in trouble.

"Beau? Beau!"

Her voice cuts through the haze of pain, clear and sharp as the morning air. I look up to see Lila running toward me, her face a mask of concern. She's wearing my flannel shirt and a pair of cotton shorts I found for her, feet bare despite the cool ground.

"Stop," I manage, holding out a hand. "Watch where you step. Traps."

She slows but doesn't stop, eyes scanning the ground with each careful step. When she reaches me, her hands immediately go to my shoulders, steadying me.

"What happened? Oh my God, there's so much blood."

"Old trap," I grit out, nodding toward my foot. "Stepped right into it like a goddamn amateur."

Her eyes widen at the sight of the metal teeth clamped around my ankle, the torn leather of my boot, the blood-soaked denim. But she doesn't panic, doesn't freeze. Instead, her expression hardens with determination.

"Put your arm around me," she says, moving to my side. "Let me help you back to the cabin."

"I can manage?—"

"Shut up," she cuts me off, voice firm. "Put your arm around me and lean on me, or so help me God, I will leave you out here for the wolves."

Despite the pain, a chuckle escapes me. "Yes, ma'am."

I drape my arm across her shoulders, allowing her to take some of my weight. She's small compared to me, but surprisingly strong, her body rigid with the effort of supporting me. We make our way slowly back to the cabin, my breathing harsh in the quiet morning air, her occasional whispered encouragement the only other sound.

Inside, she helps me to a chair, then kneels to examine the trap.

"We need to get this off," she says, fingers hovering over the mechanism. "And clean the wound before infection sets in."

"There's a toolbox under the sink," I tell her. "Pliers should help with the release lever."

She retrieves the toolbox, then gathers clean cloths, a basin of water, and the bottle of whiskey I keep for medicinal purposes. Her movements are efficient, focused. No wasted motion, no panic. Just calm competence that stirs something warm in my chest.

"This is going to hurt," she warns, positioning the pliers on the trap's lever.

"Already hurts," I grunt. "Just do it."

She nods, then applies steady pressure to the lever. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, with a reluctant groan of metal, the trap begins to open. The release of pressure brings its own unique agony, blood flowing more freely as the teeth withdraw from flesh. I clench my jaw against a shout, sweat dripping into my eyes.

"Almost there," she murmurs, eyes fixed on her task. "Just a little more."

The trap finally springs open with a metallic snap. She carefully lifts it away from my leg, setting it aside with a look of disgust. Then she turns her attention to my boot, easing it off with gentle fingers that nonetheless send shards of pain through my leg.

"The sock too," she says, apologetic. "I need to see how bad it is."

I nod, bracing myself as she peels the blood-soaked fabric away from the wound. Her sharp intake of breath tells me it's not good before I even look down.

"Puncture wounds," she says, examining the damage. "Four of them, pretty deep. They need to be cleaned thoroughly."

She soaks a cloth in water, then begins the careful process of cleaning away the blood and dirt. Her touch is gentle but thorough, her concentration absolute. I watch her face as she works—the furrow between her brows, the way she catches her lower lip between her teeth, the steady resolve in her eyes.

"You're good at this," I observe, trying to distract myself from the pain.

"I worked as a nurse's aide during college," she says, not looking up from her task. "Just part-time, but I picked up a few things."

Another piece of her past, another facet of her life before me. I store it away, hungry for every detail she offers.

When the wound is clean, she reaches for the whiskey. "This is going to sting like hell," she warns.

"Not my first rodeo," I say, offering a tight smile. "Do what you need to do."

She pours the amber liquid directly onto the punctures. The burn is immediate and intense, drawing a harsh hiss through my clenched teeth. My hands grip the chair arms, knuckles white with strain.

"Sorry, sorry," she murmurs, though we both know it's necessary.

Once the wounds are disinfected, she bandages my ankle with careful precision, wrapping the gauze firmly but not too tight. Her fingers brush against my skin, cool and soothing compared to the fire in my ankle.

"There," she says, sitting back on her heels to survey her work. "Not hospital-quality, but it should hold until it starts to heal. You'll need to keep weight off it for a few days, though."

I nod, oddly touched by her concern, her care. Five years I've lived here, tending my own injuries, relying on no one. Now this slip of a woman is bandaging my wounds, telling me to rest, looking at me with eyes full of worry.

"Thank you," I say, voice rougher than intended.

She looks up, meets my gaze, and something passes between us—something deeper than desire, more complex than gratitude. Her hand rests on my knee, a simple point of contact that grounds me.

"What happened to your face?" she asks suddenly, fingers reaching up to trace the scar that bisects my eyebrow, then the one at the corner of my mouth. "These are old."

The question catches me off guard, opens a door I've kept firmly closed. But her hands on me, her care for my wounds, her earnest eyes—they disarm me in a way I never expected.

"My father," I say, the words falling from my lips before I can stop them. "He had a thing for belt buckles. And rings. Anything that would leave a mark, really."

Her eyes widen, fingers stilling against my cheek. "Beau..."

"He was a mean drunk," I continue, unable to stop now that I've started. "And a meaner sober man. My earliest memory is hiding under the bed while he threw my mother against the wall for burning dinner."

"I'm so sorry," she whispers, and I see tears gathering in her eyes—tears for me, for a child who learned to fear his own father's footsteps.

I shrug, an attempt at nonchalance that doesn't fool either of us. "Ancient history. He's been dead fifteen years."

"How did he die?" she asks, voice soft but steady.

I meet her gaze, unflinching. "Prison. Shanked in the yard during a fight. He killed a man in a bar brawl, got twenty years. Served three before someone put a sharpened toothbrush through his eye."

She doesn't recoil from the brutality of it. Doesn't offer platitudes about how awful it must have been, or how I must have felt. Instead, she asks the question that matters.

"Is that why you're here? Why you left the world behind?"

A bitter laugh escapes me. "Partly. But no, that came later." I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of secrets long carried alone. "I was in the military after high school. Special forces. They liked that I could take a beating and keep going. That pain didn't register the same way for me."

Her hand tightens on my knee, an anchor as I drift through memories I've tried to bury.

"I was good at it. Too good. They sent me places... had me do things..." I shake my head, unwilling to burden her with those particular horrors. "When I got out, I couldn't adjust. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't be around people without seeing threats everywhere. One night, I almost killed a man for bumping into me at a bar. Just... snapped. Saw my father in the mirror afterward, blood on my knuckles, that same look in my eyes."

"So you ran," she says softly. Not an accusation. A understanding.

"I disappeared. Bought this land with my military pay. Built this place with my hands. Taught myself to live off the grid, away from people I might hurt." I look around the cabin—the home I've created, the sanctuary that's kept me sane. "Out here, there's no one to trigger those instincts. No crowds, no sudden movements, no threats. Just silence and survival."

"Until me," she says, a question in her voice.

"Until you," I agree, reaching out to touch her cheek. "I don't know why it's different with you. Why I can bear to be touched. Why I crave your closeness instead of fearing it. But from the moment you fell into my arms, something...changed."

Tears spill over, tracking down her cheeks. She turns her face into my palm, pressing a kiss to the center. "You're not your father, Beau. You're not a weapon, either. You're a man who survived. Who built something beautiful out of a lifetime of pain."

Her words crack something open inside me—something I've kept sealed and buried since I first set foot on this mountain. Before I can stop them, tears blur my vision, the first I've shed since I was a boy too small to defend himself.

She rises from her knees, moving to sit in my lap, careful of my injured leg. Her arms go around me, pulling my head to her chest, cradling me like something precious as the dam breaks, years of solitary pain flowing out in silent, shuddering waves.

Her lips press against my forehead, my temples, the scars that map the violence of my past. Each kiss feels like absolution, like acceptance of every broken, jagged piece of me.

"You beautiful, broken man," she murmurs into my hair. "Thank you for letting me see you. All of you."

I clutch her to me, face buried in the curve of her neck, breathing in her scent like it's the only oxygen that can fill my lungs. In this moment of raw vulnerability, of exposed wounds deeper than the ones she just bandaged, a truth crystallizes with perfect clarity.

She holds my heart now. This woman who fell out of a storm and into my life, who sees the monster I could become and the man I'm trying to be, and chooses to stay anyway. Who kisses my scars like they're badges of honor instead of marks of shame. Who cries for the boy I was and holds the man I've become.

"Lila," I breathe her name like a prayer, like salvation. "My little dove."

"I'm here," she says, fingers combing through my hair, soothing away decades of loneliness with simple touch. "I'm right here, Beau."

And for the first time since I can remember, the silence in my head is peaceful. The demons quiet. The past, if not forgotten, at least temporarily irrelevant in the face of her presence, her acceptance, her care.

I lift my face to hers, needing to see her eyes, to make sure she's real and not some hallucination born of pain and blood loss. What I find there—compassion without pity, strength without hardness, and something else, something warm and growing and profound—steals what little breath I have left.

"Stay with me," I whisper, the words both plea and promise. "Not because I'll keep you here. Not because I need you. But because you choose me, knowing everything."

Her answer is a kiss, soft and sweet and sure, that tastes of salt and redemption and home.