Page 4 of Claim Me, Colt

"Go on," he adds, voice gentler. "You can fall apart later if you need to."

And somehow, that's exactly what I needed to hear.

The bathroom is small but spotless, with white subway tiles and a clawfoot tub that looks original to the cabin. I catch sight of myself in the mirror above the sink and have to grip the porcelain edge to steady myself.

This morning, I was Senator William Morrison's perfect daughter. Jonathan Blackwood's pristine fiancée. The future Mrs. Blackwood, destined to be a political wife who smiles on command and never has opinions that might upset donors.

Now I'm a muddy, barefoot runaway hiding in a stranger's cabin on a mountain I couldn't name if my life depended on it.

The strangest part? I feel more like myself than I have in years.

I peel off the ruined dress—custom-made, fitted three times, photographed from every angle by Vogue's political correspondent. It hits the floor with a wet slap, and I feel a vicious satisfaction at the sound. Let it stay there. Let it rot.

The shower is basic but the water pressure is perfect, hot enough to wash away the creek mud and the lingering scent of Jonathan's cologne that seemed to cling to everything at the party. I scrub my skin until it's pink, washing off layers of expectation along with the dirt.

When I emerge, pink-cheeked and clean, I find clothes laid out on the bed—a soft flannel shirt in deep blue and a pair of sweatpants that will be enormous on me. I button up the flannel shirt, enjoying the way it feels against my skin. The shirt smells like him, like something indefinably masculine that makes my stomach flutter in ways it never did for my fiancé.

Ex-fiancé, I correct myself. Because whatever happened in that ballroom tonight when I grabbed my purse and ran, there's no going back from it.

I slip on the shirt and leave the pants—his flannel falls to mid-thigh on me, soft as silk and warm as an embrace. For the first time in hours, I'm not cold.

I pad barefoot back to the main room, hyper-aware of my bare legs and the way the shirt gapes at the collar. He's built up the fire and is standing with his back to me, broad shoulders moving as he adjusts the logs.

Without his jacket, I can see the definition of muscle beneath his henley, the way his jeans hug powerful thighs. He moves with economic precision, like every motion serves a purpose.

"Thank you," I say quietly. "I cleaned up the mess I made in the bathroom."

He turns, and his eyes sweep over me once—quick but thorough—before meeting my gaze.

"Didn't need to," he says. "But appreciated."

"I may be lost, but I'm not rude." I lift my chin, some ingrained politeness surfacing. "My mother would disown me if I were a terrible houseguest on top of everything else."

Something flickers across his expression. "Your mother know where you are?"

I shake my head. "She's probably still at the party, making excuses to the guests. Telling them I had a headache or pre-wedding nerves." I laugh, but it comes out hollow. "She's very good at damage control."And she cares a lot more about what others think than she does about me.

He hands me a steaming mug of coffee, black and strong. I wrap both hands around it like it's an anchor.

"This is the first time I've been alone in..." I pause, trying to remember. "Years, maybe. Alone with no one watching, I mean."

"No cameras here," he says.

"No judgment either," I add softly, meeting his eyes. "It feels strange. And kind of wonderful."

I lean against his kitchen table, eyes closing as I breathe in the steam from the coffee. It's nothing like the elaborate espresso drinks I'm used to. It’s just piping hot coffee that’s intended to wake you up. Nothing more.

When I open my eyes, he's watching me with an expression I can't quite read.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing," he says, but doesn't look away. "Just... you look different."

"Different how?"

"More… real."

The word hits me square in the chest.Real. When was the last time someone used that word to describe me?

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