Page 9 of Daddy of the Mountain

"All of it," I snapped, trying to wriggle free.

Big mistake. Pain lanced up my leg, sharp and unforgiving. I sucked in a hiss of air, too stubborn to cry out.

"Jesus," he muttered, lowering me onto the mattress like I was made of glass. "Look at you. Hurtin’ yourself worse just to be contrary."

"Contrary?" I bit out, my face burning with equal parts pain and humiliation. "I’m not some . . . some damsel waiting for rescue, okay? I’m perfectly capable of—"

"Of what? Fallin’ on your ass again?" His brows knit together, and for a moment, I couldn’t tell if he was angry or amused. "Newsflash: this ain’t your office downtown. You can’t sweet-talk your way outta gravity."

I bristled. “Hey. You don’t know I work in an office!”

“Am I wrong?”

I pouted. “That’s not the point.”

“Whatever you say, city girl.”

"Don’t call me that," I said through gritted teeth, glaring up at him.

"What, city girl?" He smirked faintly, the first crack in his stern facade. "What else should I call you? Reckless? Stubborn? Trouble?"

"Alana works just fine," I shot back, crossing my arms over my chest even though my ankle throbbed like hell.

"Trouble suits you, though," he said, his voice dripping with dry humor. But then his expression sobered, and he crouched down in front of me, his elbows resting on his knees as he met my glare head-on. "Listen close, Alana. You don’t gotta like me, but while you’re under this roof, you’ll do as I say. Clear?"

"Crystal," I spat, even though my blood boiled at the calm authority in his voice.

“You don’t want to be here. I don’t want you here. Let’s get you fit and out of here.”

“Sounds good.”

“So stay put," he said again, quieter this time but no less firm. And then he walked off, leaving me simmering in a mix of frustration, shame, and something I didn’t want to name.

I bit my lip, hard. My chest burned with frustration—at him, at myself, at the mess of feelings I didn’t want to unpack. The ache in my ankle throbbed like a warning, but it wasn’t enough to stop the heat rising in my cheeks. “I’m sorry,” I muttered, barely audible over the crackle of the dying fire. “I shouldn’t have gone through your stuff.”

His eyes shifted toward the journal and the photo still lying on the floor. For a second, just one, something flickered across his face—something raw and too quick for me to name. Then his gaze sharpened, locking onto me like a hawk sighting prey.

“I oughta tan your hide.” His voice was quiet, low enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It wasn’t just the words—it was the weight behind them, the way they hung in the air like a challenge.

My stomach did this stupid flip, and for reasons I couldn’t explain, my body felt like it was on fire. I should’ve been angry. Offended. Anything but . . . this. But instead, that strange thrill sparked deep in my chest, sending a shiver straight down my spine. I hated it. Hated the way my pulse quickened under his stare. Hated the way something in me whispered,Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad for him to tan your hide.

“You wouldn’t dare,” I said, though my voice came out too soft, almost breathless. Damn it.

His brows lifted, and one corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close enough to make me bristle. “Wouldn’tI?” he asked, dragging the question out slow, deliberate. He crouched again, picking up the journal and the photo with the same care you’d use to handle glass. When he stood, his towering frame blocked out everything else, leaving just him and that unbearable tension hanging between us.

For a moment, it looked as though her was going to say something. He sighed.

"Just stay put," he repeated. “I’ve got logs to split.”

Chapter 3

The snow fell so thick it swallowed the world outside. Even through the frost-rimmed window, I couldn’t see much past the porch. Just a blur of white and the faint outline of trees hunched against the storm.

Inside, the cabin was quiet except for the scrape of Silas’s knife against the whetstone. He sat at the table, head bent low, his dark hair falling forward as he worked. The blade caught the firelight now and then, flashing briefly before settling back to dull steel. His shoulders were broad under that flannel shirt, moving slightly with each stroke, deliberate and steady. Everything about him seemed deliberate. And steady.

I shifted on the bed, the movement sending a dull ache up my leg. My ankle still throbbed, but the sharp edge of the pain had dulled over the last day or two. I could move it now without wanting to scream, though Silas didn’t seem eager for me to test it too much. Rest, he’d said when I tried standing yesterday. That one word, spoken in his gruff tone, had been enough to send me back down, biting my tongue.

He didn’t talk much—barely more than a grunt here or there—but he moved around the cabin like he’d lived in every corner of it for years. Maybe he had. The way he knew exactly where to find things, how to keep the fire burning just right, even the way he handled the knife—it all felt practiced. Natural. Like the mountains themselves had shaped him.

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