Page 3 of Hunted By the Mountain Man
"Where..." Her voice is stronger now, though still weak. "I don't remember..."
"You were hypothermic. Found you in the woods during the storm." I keep my voice low and calm. "Had to warm you up."
Anna becomes suddenly aware of our position—naked, pressed together under heavy blankets, my body wrapped around hers like a shield. I feel her stiffen, her breathing change.
"It's okay," I say quickly. "Nothing happened. This was medical treatment."
"I'm not wearing any clothes," she says, stating the obvious.
"Neither am I. Your clothes were soaked, and body heat transfer required skin contact." I start to pull away. "You're stable now. I can—"
"Don't." Her hand finds mine under the blankets. "I'm still cold."
She's lying—her skin is warm now, her core temperature back to normal. But something in her voice makes me stay. Maybe she needs the comfort as much as the warmth. Maybe I do too.
"Okay," I say softly. "I'll stay until you're ready."
We lie like that as dawn breaks outside, the storm finally beginning to calm. I'm hyperaware of every point of contact between us—the silk of her hair against my throat, the curve of her hip pressed against me, the way she fits perfectly in my arms like she was made to be there.
It's been three years since I've held a woman. Three years since I've felt anything but the cold isolation I chose when I came to these mountains. Anna is thawing more than just her body temperature—she's awakening things in me I thought were permanently frozen.
"The men who were chasing you," I say eventually. "Who were they?"
"Hired killers." Her voice is matter-of-fact, but I feel the tension that runs through her body. "I'm in witness protection. Was in witness protection. They found me."
"Who wants you dead?"
"A crime boss named Vitangelo Costa. I exposed his money laundering operation to the FBI." She shifts slightly, her back pressing more firmly against my chest. "I've been running for two years."
"Not anymore." The words come out with more intensity than I intended. "You're under my protection now."
Anna turns in my arms, and suddenly we're face to face on the pillow, inches apart. Her dark eyes search mine, seeing something there that makes her breath catch.
"Why?" she whispers. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough." My hand cups her cheek, thumb brushing across her soft skin. "I know you're brave enough to take on organized crime. I know you've survived two years of hell. I know you're worth protecting."
Something shifts between us—the careful distance of rescuer and victim dissolving into something much more dangerous. Much more personal. The way she's looking at me, the way my name sounds on her lips, the intimate necessity that brought us to this moment.
"Cole," she breathes, and the way she says my name sends heat through me that has nothing to do with shared body warmth.
For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other. Her dark eyes searching mine, seeing something there that makes her breath catch. I want to kiss her—Christ, I want it more than my next breath—but she's vulnerable, traumatized, dependent on me for survival.
Instead, I carefully brush a strand of hair from her face, my thumb tracing her cheek. "You should try to get more sleep," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "Your body needs rest to fully recover."
Something flickers in her eyes—disappointment? Relief? I can't tell.
"Will you stay?" she asks softly. "I know it's asking a lot, but I don't want to be alone right now."
"I'm not going anywhere," I promise, settling back beside her but maintaining careful distance now that the immediate medical crisis has passed. "I'll be right here."
She nods, some of the tension leaving her body. But she doesn't move away either, and I'm acutely aware of every inch of space between us under the blankets.
"I've been so alone," she confesses, her voice barely audible. "So scared for so long."
"Not anymore," I tell her, and mean it more than any promise I've ever made. "You're safe here, Anna. I protect what's mine."
The possessive words slip out before I can stop them, and I tense, expecting her to call me out for overstepping. Instead, she shifts closer, her hand finding mine under the blankets.
