Page 14 of The Mountain Man's Prize

He carries me to the bed, laying me down with a tenderness that belies his earlier ferocity. He strips away his clothes, then joins me, pulling me into the protective circle of his arms. His fingers trace patterns on my back, his lips press soft kisses to my forehead, my temples, the tip of my nose.

"I shouldn't have thrown your phone," he says after a long silence. His voice is quiet, contrite. "I was just...the thought of you contacting someone, someone coming to take you away..."

I place my hand over his heart, feeling its steady rhythm beneath my palm. "No one's taking me anywhere, Beau. Not unless I want to go."

"And do you?" The question costs him, I can tell by the tension in his jaw, the way his arms tighten fractionally around me. "Want to go?"

I consider the question, really consider it. The life I left behind. The unexpected life I've found here. The man holding me as if I'm the most precious thing he's ever touched.

"No," I whisper, and feel him exhale in relief. "But I need you to understand something." I push up on one elbow, looking into his eyes. "I'm choosing this. Choosing you. Not because you're forcing me, but because I want to. That has to mean something."

His hand cups my face, thumb brushing away the remnants of tears. "It means everything," he says, voice rough with emotion. "Everything."

I settle back against his chest, feeling the last of the tension drain from both our bodies. Outside, the forest grows quiet as twilight approaches. Inside, wrapped in Beau's arms, I find a peace I never knew I was missing.

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.

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