Page 15 of The Alpha's Runaway Mate
Inside, the cabin smells like him, woodsmoke, pine, and something darker, warm and wild. The entryway opens into a massive living room with a vaulted ceiling, exposed beams, and a stone fireplace big enough to stand in. A leather sofa sits in front of it, and rugs cover the hardwood floor like soft islands. Everything looks handmade and sturdy, built to last through storms.
“You really don’t have to do this,” I say again, my voice small.
“I know,” he answers, locking the door behind us. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
I swallow. “Where do you want me to…?”
“My room,” he says simply.
I stop, blinking. “Your… room?”
He meets my eyes steadily. “It’s the safest place in the house. Guest room’s on the far side of the hall, too easy to reach from the porch. My room’s in the center. Warded. No one can touch you there.”
The way he says it leaves no room for argument. It’s not a command exactly, just… fact. I hug my duffel closer. “Nolan, I don’t, ”
“You’re exhausted,” he cuts in, “you’ve been sleeping in a tent for God knows how long, and I can smell whoever’s been haunting your steps all over your things. You’re staying in my room tonight.”
My chest squeezes. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious.”
Before I can think of another protest, he’s already walking down the hall. I follow, my steps slow, my heart hammering. The hall opens into a large master bedroom, warm, low-lit, with a bed big enough for a giant. Thick blankets in shades of gray and navy, a carved headboard, windows that look out onto the trees and the distant mountain beyond. The room smells like him even more than the rest of the house, pine, smoke, and something faintly wild.
I stop just inside the doorway, suddenly aware of how intimate this is. “Nolan…”
He turns to me, his expression softer now. “You’ll be safe here,” he says quietly. “No one gets through me.”
The words land deep, a promise and a warning rolled into one. I nod, too tired to argue, too unsettled to breathe right.
He takes my duffel from my hands and sets it on a low bench at the foot of the bed. “Bathroom’s through there,” he says, nodding to a door on the right. “Fresh towels in the cabinet. I’ll grab you something to drink.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me alone in his room.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the huge bed, the heavy curtains, the way the whole place feels like it’s wrapped in quiet strength. It’s nothing like my tent, nothing like the life I’ve been running from. It feels like a fortress.
I haven’t had a decent shower in months. My body’s still humming from everything that’s happened, and my skin itches for real water, not baby wipes and campground sinks. I grab a change of clothes from my duffel and head for the bathroom Nolan pointed out.
The second I step inside, I stop and just… stare. It’s massive. Slate-gray tile, dark wood cabinets, and a shower big enough to fit four people. There’s a deep soaking tub tucked under a window that looks out into the trees, steam already fogging the glass from where I turn the water on as hot as it’ll go.
When I finally step under the spray, the first hit of heat nearly steals my breath. I lean into it, eyes closing as the water pounds on my head, over my shoulders, and down my back. The dirt and exhaustion of the past few months slide down the drain, and I just stand there, letting the water cascade over me until the mirror’s fogged, my fingers pruned, and my thoughts finally quiet.
I wash slowly, hair, skin, everything, taking my time like I’m relearning what it means to care about myself. When Ifinally shut the water off, the air feels cool against my skin, goosebumps rising as I reach for the towel.
That’s when I notice it. My clothes aren’t where I left them. Well,mostof them. My panties are still there, thank God, but the rest? Gone. In their place sits a huge, soft white T-shirt that unmistakably smells like Nolan.
I stare at it, half-laughing, half-ready to scream. “That cheeky bastard,” I mutter under my breath. “He stole my clothes.”
Rolling my eyes, I dry off and pull the shirt on anyway. It hangs off one shoulder, way too big, soft from years of wear. It smells like pine and smoke and something else, something wild that makes my pulse trip.
I brush my hair out, trying to convince myself this is fine. Totally normal. Nothing weird about wearing your maybe-sort-of-mate’s shirt after he kidnapped you from your campsite and made you shower in his luxury mountain-man bathroom.
Totally. Fine.
When I push the door open, steam curls out into the bedroom where Nolan’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, nothing on but his jeans. The light from the fireplace throws gold over his skin, every muscle cut in shadow and heat. He looks up when he hears me, and for a second, neither of us moves.
His gaze drags over me, bare legs, damp hair, his T-shirt swallowing my frame. His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes darkens, sharpens.
“You stole my clothes,” I say, clutching the edge of the shirt like that’ll help.
