Page 4 of Hunted By the Mountain Man
"Mine?" she whispers, and there's something in her voice I can't quite identify.
"Figure of speech," I say quickly, but my fingers tighten around hers. "I just meant—"
"I know what you meant." Her thumb traces circles on my palm, the simple touch sending electricity up my arm. "And I don't mind."
Outside, the storm is finally breaking, but neither of us is paying attention to the weather anymore. All that matters is this moment, this connection, this woman who stumbled into my life and turned everything upside down.
Costa's men can wait. The outside world can wait.
Right now, there's only Anna, warm and alive in my arms, looking at me like I'm something more than the broken soldier who's been hiding in these mountains.
Like I'm a man worth saving.
As much as she's worth protecting.
three
Anna
Iwaketothesmell of coffee and bacon, momentarily confused by the unfamiliar surroundings. Then it all comes rushing back—the attack on the safe house, fleeing into the blizzard, Cole finding me half-frozen in the snow.
Cole warming me with his own body through the night.
Heat floods my cheeks as I remember waking up naked in his arms, the careful way he touched my face, the possessive edge in his voice when he called me "his." The way I didn't want him to stop.
I'm wearing his thermal shirt now—it hangs to mid-thigh like a dress—and thick wool socks that make me feel tiny and protected. Outside the bedroom window, snow is still falling but gently now, no longer the violent blizzard that nearly killed me.
"Anna?" Cole's voice carries from what must be the kitchen. "You awake?"
"Coming," I call back, running fingers through my tangled hair and trying to look less like I just spent the night in bed with a virtual stranger.
The main room of his cabin is even more impressive in daylight. Built into the hillside with stone walls and exposed beams, it feels both rustic and sophisticated. Solar panels visible through the windows, communications equipment that looks military-grade, bookshelves lined with everything from survival manuals to classic literature.
This isn't some hermit's shack. This is a carefully planned sanctuary.
Cole stands at the stove, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders. He's barefoot, hair still mussed from sleep, and something about seeing him in this domestic setting makes my pulse quicken.
"How are you feeling?" he asks without turning around, but I catch him glancing at me in the reflection of the window.
"Much better. A little sore, but warm." I move closer, drawn by the smell of real food. "This smells amazing."
"Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast. Nothing fancy, but it'll get your strength back up." He plates the food with practiced efficiency. "Coffee?"
"Please."
He pours from a French press into a heavy ceramic mug, and when he hands it to me, our fingers brush. The contact sends a little spark through me, and from the way his eyes darken, he feels it too.
"Thank you," I say, meaning more than just the coffee. "For everything. You saved my life."
"You would have done the same." He sets a plate in front of me at the small dining table. "Eat. You need to rebuild your energy reserves."
I take a bite and nearly moan with pleasure. After months of safe house food and years of quick meals eaten on the run, this simple breakfast tastes like heaven.
"You're a good cook," I observe, watching him settle across from me with his own plate.
"Army teaches you to make decent food with limited ingredients. Plus, three years of cooking for one—you either get good at it or resign yourself to eating garbage."
"Three years up here alone?"
