Page 12 of Daddy of the Mountain

I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. Heat prickled the back of my neck as his words sank in. He wasn’t yelling—he didn’t need to. That steady tone, so matter-of-fact, made it worse somehow. Like I’d failed some unspoken test. Like I’d let him down.

"I wasn’t gonna—" I tried, but he cut me off with a look. That sharp, unrelenting gaze pinned me like a butterfly under glass. My stomach twisted.

"Don’t start," he said, shaking his head once, slowly. "Not out here. Not when the stakes are this high." There was something in his eyes—something certain, grounded—that made it impossible to argue. He reminded me of a teacher, the kind who didn’t lose sleep over whether their students liked them or not. They just did what needed doing.

And yet . . . there was something else, too, underneath the frustration. Something almost tender, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. That warmth fluttered in my chest again, confusing and unwelcome, making it harder to hold on to my indignation.

"Come on," he said, stepping closer. His hand found my arm—not rough, not gentle either, but firm, steady. The kind of grip that didn’t leave room for questions. He guided me across the room, his touch warm even through the fabric of my sweater. I didn’t fight him. Couldn’t, really. My ankle protested every step, and the heat in my cheeks felt unbearable.

"Sit," he said, nodding toward the chair in the corner.

I stopped short, crossing my arms tight against my chest. "I don’t need to—"

"Sit," he repeated, his voice calm but unyielding.

My jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought about pushing back. About doing exactly the opposite, just because I could. But his gaze never wavered, steady and resolute in a way that made my chest ache. I hated that. Hated how easily he could strip away all my defenses with just a look.

"Fine," I muttered, dropping into the chair with a graceless thud. The wood creaked beneath me, loud enough to make me wince. I crossed my arms tighter, glaring at the floor like it had personally offended me.

He crouched by the hearth, stacking the kindling carefully, piece by piece. His movements were slow and deliberate as always. “No more sneakin’ around, no more doin’ as you pleasewhen you know better. I know you don’t want to be here, but I’ll be damned if I let you hurt yourself again on my watch.”

I rolled my eyes before I could stop myself. It was instinct—one last little rebellion. His lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t rise to it. Just shook his head slowly, like I’d only proven his point.

“Are we clear?” he asked, his tone steady but firm enough to make my chest tighten.

I bit down on the inside of my cheek, fighting back the urge to snap something smart. My pride screamed at me to push him, to remind him I wasn’t someone who took orders well. But the weight of his gaze pinned me where I sat, and for reasons I couldn’t fully explain, I nodded.

"Good," he said, like that settled it.

It didn’t, not for me. My pride was bruised raw, and the quiet between us only made it worse. I shifted in the chair, the wood creaking under me again. Testing him felt inevitable, like poking at a bruise just to see how bad it hurt.

“And . . . what if I don’t agree?” I asked, tilting my chin up. The words came out sharper than I intended, but I didn’t care.

Silas didn’t answer right away. He inhaled slow, deliberate, like he was counting to ten in his head. Then, finally, he let the breath out and met my eyes. “Then you sit there longer,” he said simply, like it wasn’t even a question.

I glared at him. The nerve. My fingers curled against the arms of the chair, nails biting into the rough wood. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t budge an inch. Just stood there, solid as the damn mountain itself.

I thought about what he'd said before, back when I was rummaging through his stuff. That threat still lingered in the back of my mind, taunting me. My chest tightened at the memory, heat creeping up my neck. If he wanted to act like the big boss, fine. Two could play that game.

“What about what you said before?” I asked, my voice dropping lower, testing the waters. “That you oughta spank me for rummaging in your things.”

His eyes narrowed, dark and sharp as a hawk’s. For just a second, a flicker of surprise crossed his face, gone so fast I almost missed it. My heart kicked up, uneven and too loud in the quiet room.

"Don’t tempt me," he said, voice low and steady, like a warning bell muffled under snow. His arms folded across his chest, broad and unyielding. There wasn’t that dangerous edge I half-expected—not the kind that made you shrink back. No, this was something different. Controlled. Measured. Like he knew exactly how much weight his words carried.

I swallowed hard. My heart hammered anyway, too stubborn to listen to reason. "Why not?" The question slipped out before I could stop it, sharper than I intended. Testing him again. Pushing, just to see if he’d push back.

"Because I don’t give spankings for foolishness." He didn’t miss a beat, his tone flat and final. “Not like this. Not when you’re hurt and just bein’ contrary.”

The words landed somewhere deeper than I thought they would. My chest tightened against the sting of them. Contrary. Foolish. My throat bobbed as I swallowed the heat rising behind my cheeks, but it wasn't anger this time. It was . . . something else. Something I couldn’t name.

"Shame," I muttered, looking away—anywhere but at him. My voice wavered, though I hated it for doing so. “Lesson like that might sink in.”

His calmness burned hotter than any anger could’ve. How did he manage that? To make me feel reckless and small with nothing more than a steady look and a few clipped words? I’d expected him to puff up, yell, maybe even prove he was the bruteI tried to paint him as in my mind. Instead, he stood there like stone, the weight of his presence enough to pin me in place.

“I doubt that,” he said, softly.

"Why not?" I shot back, sharper this time. My chin lifted, defiant again. "I can learn."

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