Page 4 of Own Me, Outlaw
My stomach flips.
Then the smirk is gone, replaced by granite.
“They call me Outlaw,” he says, voice dropping to a slow, rumbling drawl. “And if you’re smart, you’ll stay far away from me.”
He turns and walks toward the fire, every movement smooth and deliberate, setting the shotgun beside the hearth like it’s just another tool. The firelight dances across his shoulders, catchingthe gold in his hair and the sharp edge of a scar that slices along his jaw.
I should leave. That would be the smart thing to do.
But I’m not smart.
Because instead of running, instead of begging him to call a tow truck or at least point me to the nearest dry cave, I just stare at him and wonder why people call him Outlaw.
And why that nickname doesn't scare me nearly as much as it should.
Chapter 3
Outlaw
Ishould'vekickedherout.
Hell, Imeantto kick her out.
Instead, she's sitting on my damn couch wrapped in my damn blanket, sipping tea from my favorite mug like she belongs here.
Lark.
Even her name sounds like trouble. Sounds like music. Sounds like something that could break a man wide open if he's not careful.
She told me her name while trying to explain the busted app, the ditch, and her "therapeutic getaway." I didn't say much. Just listened, scowled, and tried not to notice the way her lips wrapped around the edge of that ceramic mug. Or how soft shelooked with flushed cheeks and damp hair curling at the edges. Or how those dark eyes kept darting to mine like she was trying to solve a puzzle.
She has absolutely zero survival instincts.
"You sure you didn't hit your head?" I mutter, leaning against the kitchen counter with my arms crossed. The granite is cold against my palms, grounding me. "Booking a rental that doesn't exist?"
"It exists," she insists, and I can hear the smile in her voice even when I'm not looking at her. "Just… not here, apparently." She waves her free hand at the cabin, and I catch the faint scent of vanilla and rain that clings to her skin. "Though to be fair, you've got the aesthetic. Rustic and remote. Slightly murdery."
I raise an eyebrow. "That supposed to be funny?"
She lifts a brow right back at me, and damn if it doesn't make my chest tight. "Did you laugh?"
No.
But I didn't throw her out, either.
Because underneath all the sass and sarcasm, she looks exhausted. Like she's been running from something for a long time and this was supposed to be her safe place to land. The shadows under her eyes are deep, her sweatshirt is wrinkled like she's been sleeping in it, and there's a tremor in her hands that has nothing to do with the cold.
She picked the wrong mountain for her refuge.
And definitely the wrong mountain man.
"You got cell service?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"Nope. Not even one bar. And I'd call it charmingly off-grid if I weren't lowkey terrified of being ax-murdered in my sleep."
"I don't own an axe." A lie. Of course, I own a fucking axe.
She tilts her head, studying me. "That's not really the reassuring part of that sentence."
