Page 54 of The SEAL's Duchess
He climbed out and came around to her side, opening the door before she could reach for the handle. He lifted her down, hands spanning her waist, setting her on the ground as if she might break. She let him guide her up the snow-thick porch steps and through the front door. The house was dark except for the faint glow of embers in the wood-burning stove. He settled her on the couch facing the stove, draping a soft fleece blanket over her shoulders, before he kneeled to coax the fire back to life.
Flames caught, and gold licked up the walls. Shadows leaped across his broad back as he worked, every line of him etched in quiet competence.
The heat on her face sank deep, thawing something in her chest. Not just the cold from the storm, or the chill that had clung to her skin since the crash. This reached further—into the empty place she kept hidden from everyone.
“Come.” He held out his hand and guided her into the bedroom, nodding toward a closed door. “Shower’s in there.Help yourself to whatever you need. I’ll find you some clean clothes.”
He left, and she stepped under the spray, grateful as steam filled the small space. Hot water beat against her shoulders, washing away the grime, the fear, the last remnants of adrenaline. She let it run until her skin prickled and the knots in her neck loosened.
When she finally turned off the tap, she found clean clothes folded on the bed—sweatpants and a soft cotton shirt.
His ex’s?
Don’t think about that.
She pulled them on grateful for the warmth of clean fabric and headed back to the living room. From the kitchen the soft thud of cabinet doors and the muted rush of running water.
Left alone, she let her gaze wander.
This was his place.
The bones of the room were pure masculine—sturdy leather couch, scuffed coffee table, a pair of boots abandoned by the door. The air smelled faintly of pine smoke, clean and rough-edged, like Ryder.
But there were other layers too. A plastic tiara balanced on the arm of an easy chair. A Lego tower half-built on the hearthrug, bright bricks scattered like candy. And wedged between the couch cushions, a Barbie with wild blond hair and a bright pink scuba tank strapped to her back.
Ivy tugged Barbie free as she sat back on the couch, smiling despite herself.
Scuba-diving Barbie.
Frogman meets three-year-old.
Protector and father, all in one space.
She pulled the blanket back around her shoulders, breathing his scent in as she sat, stiff-limbed. This wasn’t just a house. It was his life. And she was sitting right in the middle of it,wrapped in his blanket, firelight holding back the storm still raging outside.
“Hey.” His voice was low as he came around the couch, carrying a steaming bowl and a spoon. A savory scent curled into the air, rich and comforting. “Sarah’s clothes okay?”
Sarah’s. Relief eased her shoulders a notch. “Yes, thanks. The hot shower helped.”
“Eat.” He set the bowl on the coffee table in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off it. “It’ll do you good. You’ve had a shock.”
The soup was golden and fragrant and made her stomach cramp with hunger, but her body felt disconnected and heavy. She reached for the spoon with trembling fingers. The metal clinked against the rim of the bowl, absurd in its loudness.
“Hey.” He lifted the bowl and lowered himself onto the edge of the coffee table. So close, his knees bracketed hers. “You’ll feel better if you have some.”
Without a word, he took the spoon from her. Dipped it into the soup, lifted it to her lips, his other palm beneath to catch any spill.
“One spoonful,” he said softly. “Then you can tell me to fuck off.”
Her lips parted. The soup slid warm across her tongue, salty and rich, spreading comfort through her chest as she swallowed.
Ryder didn’t look away.
Another spoonful. Then another. His gaze stayed locked on her, like this simple act was the most important mission he’d ever taken on.
No one had ever cared for her like this. Not with patience. Not with focus that demanded nothing in return. Each measured spoonful was intimacy in disguise, sinking under her skin, undoing her defenses.
The fire cracked and sighed. The wind clawed at the house.
