Page 3 of The Mountain Man's Prize

Five years of being nobody. Of not existing. Of safety in anonymity.

And now this.Her.Soft and vulnerable and completely dependent on me. The weight of responsibility should feel suffocating. It should make me want to take her to the nearest town as soon as the storm breaks. Instead, I find myself cataloguing the things I'll need to keep her comfortable. Food. Clothes. More firewood to keep the cabin warm.

Something inside me shifts. No, not shifts—breaks. Like ice cracking on a frozen lake, a splitting sound so loud I'm surprised she doesn't wake. It's physical, this change. A before and after I can feel in my bones.

I don't understand it. I don't question it. I justknow, with absolute clarity, that the woman in my arms is supposed to be here. That the storm didn't bring her to my door by accident. That the mountains didn't deliver her to me just to take her away again.

She'smine.

The thought should shock me. It doesn't. It settles into my chest with the certainty of something I've always known but just now remembered.

Her eyelids flutter, and I hold my breath, but she doesn't wake. Instead, she turns her face further into my neck, seeking warmth. Her lips brush against my throat, and the simple contact burns hotter than the fire crackling beside us.

"You're safe," I murmur into her hair, not caring that she can't hear me. "I've got you now."

My arms tighten around her, protective. Possessive. Five minutes ago, she was a stranger. Now she's everything. The contradiction should terrify me, but instead, it fills me with a fierce, primal satisfaction.

Hours pass. The storm rages on, battering the cabin with wind and rain, but inside, it's warm and still. Her color gradually improves, pale blue giving way to pink. Her breathing deepens, becomes more regular. At some point, I should move her to the bed, tuck her in, and take the couch.

I don't. I can't bring myself to let go.

Instead, I watch the fire and hold her close and make plans. The storage cellar is well-stocked—I'd hunted well this season, preserved enough to last through winter. There's a trunk of clothes that might fit her with some adjustment. The generator has enough fuel. The water catchment system is full.

We'll be comfortable here. Together.

I don't know her name. I don't know her story. But I know she belongs here now, in this cabin. With me.

"And now that I've found you," I whisper against her temple, lips brushing skin that's finally, blessedly warm, "I'm never letting you go."

Outside, the storm begins to ease, the violent squall softening to a steady rain. But the storm inside me—the one that started the moment she fell into my arms—that one's just beginning.

three

Lila

I wake in stages,consciousness returning in gentle waves rather than the sharp jolt I expect. First comes the warmth—deep, soul-reaching warmth that makes me want to burrow further into its source. Then the softness around me, nothing like the cold, wet forest floor where I thought I'd die. The crackling sound of a fire. The scent of something rich and savory that makes my empty stomach clench. And finally, the weight of someone's gaze on my face, so intense I feel it before I even open my eyes.

When I do, the world is golden and blurry. Firelight dances across rough-hewn walls. I blink, trying to bring things into focus. I'm on a bed—a real bed with a quilt pulled up to my chin. My body feels heavy, like I've slept for days, but the bone-deep chill is gone.

I turn my head, and that's when I see him.

He sits in a chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. Waiting. Watching. He's so large he makes the sturdy wooden chair look like doll furniture. Broad shoulders stretch the fabric of a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to expose forearms corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair. His face is all angles and shadows—sharp cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass, straight nose, and brows that furrow slightly when our eyes meet.

Those eyes. Even in the dim cabin light, they burn blue and bright. Wild. The same eyes I glimpsed before darkness took me.

"You're awake." His voice is deep, roughened at the edges like he doesn't use it much. "How do you feel?"

The question is simple, but the intensity with which he asks it makes it feel profound. Like my answer matters more than anything in the world.

"Alive," I croak, my throat raw. "Thanks to you."

Something shifts in his expression—a softening around those fierce eyes, a slight relaxation of his set jaw. "You were half-frozen when I found you. Lucky you made it here."

I try to sit up and realize two things at once: I'm no longer wearing my clothes, and my body aches in places I didn't know could ache. A flush spreads across my cheeks as I clutch the quilt tighter.

"Your clothes were soaked through," he says, reading my thoughts. "Had to get you dry and warm. You're wearing one of my shirts." A pause. "Nothing else would fit."

I glance down at myself, seeing the sleeve of a flannel shirt peeking out from beneath the quilt. The collar dwarfs my neck, slipping off one shoulder. The hem probably reaches mid-thigh. It smells like him—pine and woodsmoke and something deeper, more primal.

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