Page 18 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger (Angel’s Peak #5)

Heat lingers in the stillness of the cabin, thick with the scent of sweat, sex, and pine.

Sheets cling to damp skin, tangled around our limbs, as I surface slowly—awareness unfolding in lazy waves.

Caleb’s arm lies heavy across my waist, his breath steady against the back of my neck, warm and anchoring.

My body aches in places I didn’t know could ache—used, marked, claimed.

Last night comes rushing back in fragments: the feral hunger in his eyes, the way he broke me apart and pieced me back together with every rough, reverent touch. The way he held me after, solid and possessive, daring anything or anyone to come between us.

I shift, careful not to break the spell, just enough to see his face. In sleep, the hard lines of worry and restraint have melted away, leaving him almost boyish—unguarded, heartbreakingly beautiful.

Something fierce and unfamiliar tightens in my chest, a yearning that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the man beside me.

His eyes flutter open, finding mine. For a moment, confusion flickers there—then recognition, and something softer, rawer.

“Hey.” His voice is rough with sleep, threaded with that dominant edge that never really leaves him.

“Hey, yourself.” Suddenly, I’m shy, the reality of morning-after intimacy hitting harder than any of last night’s confessions.

He doesn’t let me pull away. His arm tightens, anchoring me, dragging me back into the heat of his body.

“You sleep okay?”

“Better than okay.” I nuzzle closer, letting myself sink into him, grateful that awkwardness hasn’t replaced what we built in the dark. “You’re a surprisingly good pillow for a man who spends most of his time glowering.”

“Are you saying I’m not soft?” A low chuckle rumbles through his chest, the sound vibrating into my bones.

“I’m saying you’re comfortable. And I like it.” I let my fingers drift over his chest, tracing the scars and muscles, staking a silent claim. "As for being soft… you’re hard in all the right places."

“Damn straight, and you’re not going anywhere. Not yet.” His hand slides up my spine, fingers splaying wide, possessive.

The touch is gentle, but there’s nothing tentative about it—he’s still in control, even in this quiet moment.

The words send a shiver down my spine—part fear, part exhilaration. I’m not used to being wanted like this. I’m not used to letting myself want, either.

He rolls me beneath him in one smooth motion, his body pinning me to the mattress, eyes searching mine.

“You with me?” The question is soft, but it’s not a request—it’s a command, a check-in, a promise all at once.

“I’m with you.” My voice is barely more than a whisper, but it’s the truest thing I’ve ever said.

His lips find mine, and the kiss is slow, deep, a claiming that’s more about connection than conquest. There’s no rush, no urgency—just the steady, inexorable heat of two people who know exactly what they want and aren’t afraid to take it.

His hands explore me with a reverence that borders on worship, mapping the places that made me shatter the night before, coaxing new sounds from my lips.

When he finally joins our bodies, it’s not frantic—it’s profound, every movement a conversation, every thrust a confession. I cling to him, letting myself drown in the sensation, the emotion, the sense of being utterly known and utterly claimed.

After, we lie tangled together, bodies slick with sweat, hearts pounding in sync. He doesn’t let me go. His hand stays heavy on my hip, thumb stroking lazy circles into my skin—a silent promise that, for now, I’m his.

The radio crackles, shattering the peace. Caleb sighs, pressing a kiss to my temple before slipping from the bed, pulling on his jeans with a grace that makes me ache.

I watch him go, drinking in the play of muscle beneath tanned skin, the way he moves with purpose even now. I stretch, cataloging the sweet ache he’s left in my body, the marks of his possession hidden beneath the sheets.

When I finally emerge, clothes rumpled, hair a lost cause, Caleb stands at the radio, posture stiff, face shuttered. Something in the air has shifted.

“Copy that. Sierra Station out.” He sets the handset down, turning to me with an unreadable expression.

“What is it?”

“Road crews made better progress than expected.” His voice is neutral, too careful. “They think the main road will be open by tomorrow afternoon.”

Relief should flood me. Instead, disappointment stabs deep, sharp, and unexpected.

“That’s…good.” The word tastes wrong in my mouth .

“Yeah. Good.” He doesn’t meet my eyes, turning away, shoulders tight.

The awkwardness we managed to outrun all morning settles between us now, thick and heavy. Caleb busies himself with coffee, his movements clipped and precise. I hover, uncertain, the distance between us suddenly more daunting than any mountain trail.

I want to reach for him. I want to ask for more. But I don’t know how to bridge the gap—not when the end is suddenly so close, and I’m terrified of wanting something I might not be allowed to keep.

“Caleb.” I approach slowly, uncertainty threading my voice as I rest a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

He stills beneath my touch, muscles coiled tight, not leaning in but not pulling away.

“Fine.” The word is clipped, too controlled. “Just thinking about everything I’ll need to catch up on once the roads clear.”

The deflection stings. The man who stripped me bare last night—body and soul—has retreated behind the armor of routine, as if my impending departure triggered some primal defense. I let my hand fall, the distance between us suddenly colder, sharper.

“I should check my equipment. Make sure everything’s ready.” I turn away, needing space to gather myself, to make sense of the ache blooming in my chest.

By the time I return, the kitchen smells of coffee and toasted bread. Caleb has set out breakfast—oatmeal with dried fruit, the last of his homemade bread drizzled with honey. He looks up as I enter, something softening in his eyes.

“Peace offering.” He gestures to the steaming mug waiting for me. “Sorry about before. The news caught me off guard.”

His honesty cracks the ice. I slide onto the stool beside him, close enough that our knees brush, deliberately choosing proximity.

“Me too.”

He raises an eyebrow, a silent invitation to expand and share my thoughts.

“I’m not ready to leave.” The words cost more than I expect. “Which is ridiculous. I have deadlines and responsibilities. But?—”

“But?” His voice is low, cautious hope flickering beneath the surface.

I meet his gaze, giving him the truth he deserves. “I’m not ready for this to end.”

“There’s no reason to pretend this wasn’t always meant to end." He holds my gaze, jaw tight, voice rough with conviction. "We both knew what this was—went into it with our eyes wide open. No promises, no illusions.”

"Right."

The word tastes like regret, sharp and unexpected. I look down, tracing the rim of my coffee mug with a finger, trying to hide the sting in my eyes.

I should agree, should feel relief at the boundaries we drew so carefully, but all I feel is the ache of wanting more. The rules we set suddenly feel like a cage.

"Yeah. No illusions." I force a small, brittle smile, but my voice comes out softer than I intend.

His hand finds mine on the table, fingers rough and sure as they lace through mine. He doesn’t let go, not even as we eat—one-handed, unwilling to break this small, defiant connection.

After breakfast, he outlines his tasks for the day, which include routine maintenance, wildlife checks, and data recording. But instead of assuming I’ll stay behind, he frames each as an invitation, his voice steady but his eyes searching .

“I’d like to come with you.” My camera is already in my hands, the familiar weight grounding me. “If that’s okay.”

“More than okay.” His smile is slow, transforming, banishing the last of the morning’s tension.

We spend the morning together, moving through the quiet rituals of his world. At the wildlife enclosures, I watch him work—gentle with a fledgling hawk, precise as he splints a squirrel’s leg, his voice low and calming as he releases a rabbit back into the wild.

I capture it all through my lens, but it’s his hands, his focus, his rare, unguarded smiles that draw my attention.

“You’re staring at me, not the animals.” His voice is gruff, but there’s a glimmer of amusement.

“You’re more interesting.” I lower the camera, unashamed. “The way you handle them—it’s like you’re speaking a language most people have forgotten.”

“Just doing my job.” A flush creeps up his neck, the vulnerability endearing.

“It’s more than that.” I snap one last photo—his profile against the green, the lock of hair falling across his brow. “You listen to them. You respect them. It’s beautiful.”

He clears his throat, uncomfortable but pleased. “Kim used to say the same thing.”

This time, her name doesn’t land between us like a wound. It’s just part of his story, a ghost acknowledged and honored.

“She was right.” I move closer, letting my fingers brush his arm. “You have a gift.”

“Hungry?” He glances down, then gestures toward the cabin.

We return for lunch, then spend the afternoon in his office, poring over years of handwritten notes, maps, and photographs. I’m awed by the scope of his work—the patterns, the painstaking detail, the quiet passion on every page.

“This is incredible.” I flip through a binder, studying seasonal photographs of the same mountain pass. “Have you ever published any of this?”

He looks genuinely surprised. “Published?”

“In journals, magazines. This is valuable. You’re documenting climate change, adaptation strategies—this could help conservation efforts everywhere.”

“Just keeping records." He shrugs, glancing away. "Part of the job.”

“It’s more than that.” I turn his chair to face me, my hand firm on his shoulder. “This matters.”

Something shifts in his eyes—surprise, then consideration, then a flicker of pride.