Page 7 of Hunted By the Mountain Man
"This isn't paranoia—this is strategic planning." She runs her fingers along the stone walls, and I find myself watching the graceful movement of her hands. "You're not hiding up here, Cole. You're preparing for war."
The way she understands what this place represents, what it means about my mindset—it catches me off guard. Anna Rice sees things others miss.
"Costa's men?" she asks, noting my attention on the tactical display.
"Eight of them, moving in a standard search pattern. They'll find the main cabin within the hour." I adjust the monitoring frequencies. "Question is whether they're smart enough to look for secondary positions."
"Are they?"
I study the heat signatures, noting their movement patterns and communication discipline. "They're persistent, I'll give them that. But they're making mistakes—staying too close together, following obvious paths, not accounting for how sound carries in mountain terrain."
"Street fighters," Anna observes, echoing my earlier assessment.
"Exactly. Dangerous in urban environments, but out of their element here." I turn from the displays to find her watching me with an expression I can't quite read. "What?"
"You're different when you're in tactical mode. More... intense."
"Is that a problem?"
"No." Her voice is softer now, and something in her tone makes me look at her more closely. "It's actually reassuring. Makes me feel safe."
The simple admission hits me harder than it should. When did someone else's sense of safety become so important to me?
I move to the small wood stove in the corner, needing something to do with my hands. "Storm's supposed to continue through tomorrow. That works in our favor—limits their mobility and air support."
"Air support?"
"Helicopters can't fly in these conditions. Forces them to hunt on foot." I build a fire with practiced efficiency, but I'm hyperaware of Anna moving around the space behind me. "Evens the odds considerably."
The fire catches, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. This position was designed for function, not comfort, but somehow Anna's presence transforms it into something more intimate.
"Cole." Her voice is quiet, uncertain. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure." I stand, dusting off my hands.
"Last night, when you said I was yours..." She meets my eyes directly. "Did you mean it?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with more than simple curiosity. I study her face in the firelight, noting the way her dark eyes reflect the flames, the slight tremor in her hands that has nothing to do with cold.
"What do you think?" I ask instead of answering directly.
"I think you're a man who doesn't say things he doesn't mean." She steps closer, close enough that I can smell the faint floral scent of her hair. "I think three years of isolation doesn't make someone possessive by accident."
"Anna..." I start, but she cuts me off.
"I think you meant it. And I think that scares you as much as it scares me."
She's right. Christ, she's completely right, and the fact that she can read me so clearly should terrify me. Instead, it's drawing me in like a moth to flame.
"It should scare you," I tell her honestly. "I haven't been around people in three years. Haven't cared about anyone's wellbeing but my own. I don't know how to be... gentle."
"I'm not asking you to be gentle." Her hand finds my chest, palm flat against my heartbeat. "I'm asking you to be honest."
The simple touch ignites something in me that I've kept carefully buried since she stumbled into my life. Three years of forced isolation, of denying myself human connection, comes crashing down as Anna looks at me like I'm something worth having.
"You want honesty?" My hand covers hers, pressing it more firmly against my chest. "Here's honest—I haven't wanted anything as much as I want you since before I came to these mountains. And it's not just physical."
"What else?"
