Chapter 2: Bloodied and adrenaline-drunk after neutralizing the threat, their celebratory backslaps escalate into something far more visceral against a pine tree, the scent of gunpowder mixing with pine sap as Ryland's teeth scrape August's throat while August's calloused hands leave bruises on Ryland's hips.
The Ford’s door slams shut like a gunshot in the thin mountain air. Dust plumes around worn boots. The guy stepping out – August Lane, according to the assignment sheet – is trouble walking. Tall, built like he wrestles bears for fun, with a mess of dark hair and eyes that burn, even from here. A fading bruise purples his temple. Story written right there.
Beautiful. Cocky. Fire in his eyes. Exactly my fucking problem. The type that walks into a room and the air crackles, the type who probably charms everyone stupid enough to get close. I don't need charming. I need quiet. Six months of quiet. Not... this.
My gut tightens. Unwelcome. Familiar. I tell myself I don't care. It’s a lie. I care too much that I care.
He scans the cabin, the tower, then lands on me. There’s the swagger. The jut of the chin. The broad shoulders held just a fraction too stiffly. Defiant. But underneath? It’s paper-thin.
Two minutes. That’s all it took. Military trains you to see the fractures people try to hide. The slight flinch when his eyes dart away too fast. The way his knuckles whiten on the duffel strap. That bruise isn’t just a bruise; it’s a symptom. Loud anger covering a deeper wound. Trauma posture. Textbook. He’s carrying something heavy, something cracked, and he’s using the anger like armor plating.
Nope. Don’t get involved. My own baggage is heavy enough. This ends at sharing a roof. And that roof includes one bed.
I push off my truck, the matte black steel cold under my palm. Meet him on the gravel. He’s got a couple of inches on me, but I make up for it in sheer density. His grip is strong, testing. Fine. Let him test. Mine’s stronger. I hold it a beat longer than polite. Borderline. Let him know the terrain is occupied. He pulls away first. Good.
"Ryland Mathis." My name lands flat. A marker.
He mutters something about a cage. Fine by me. Cages are simple. Defined boundaries.
Inside the cabin, the dust motes dance in the weak light. Basic. Spartan. Good. He eyes the cramped space like it’s a personal insult. Up the creaking stairs to the lookout cab. The view hits you first – endless peaks, brutal and beautiful. Then, the sleeping platform.
One slab. Two mattresses shoved together. No division. Fucking bureaucracy.
"You gotta be shitting me. No fucking way." His voice is tight. Annoyance. Maybe a flicker of panic. Interesting.
I walk past him, my shoulder deliberately brushing his in the confined space. Let him feel the solidity. Let him feel the space claimed. I drop my pack – heavy, organized, efficient – onto the floor squarely at the foot of the left side of the bunk. It thuds softly. Territorial. Not malicious. Necessary. Survival 101: Take the ground first. Hold it.
I glance at the bed. "It’s a platform. We’ll make it work." My tone is flat. Utterly pragmatic. My side is the left. Deal with it.
He dumps his duffel on the right, near the door. Symbolic distance. Fine. I start unpacking. Silent. Deliberate. Sleeping bag rolled tight. Med kit – comprehensive, field-tested – stowed precisely under the platform rim. Knife placed within easy reach beside the bedroll. Every movement efficient. Claiming the space by sheer, silent occupation.
I feel his eyes. Clumsy movements. The tension radiating off him is a physical thing, thick in the thin air. He’s watching. Trying not to. Hating that he’s here. Hating the bed. Probably hating me.
I straighten, turning slightly to slot a small field guide into a wall cubby. My grey eyes catch his dark ones across the twelve feet of space that feels like inches. Hold the look. See the flicker of defiance, the wariness, the unwelcome awareness that mirrors my own. He looks away first. Fumbles with his duffel zipper.
The silence isn’t empty anymore. It’s a live wire strung taut between us. Six months. One room. One bed. One beautiful, broken, infuriatingly compelling problem sharing my air. The only sound louder than the mountain wind outside is the insistent, traitorous thud of my own pulse against my ribs. Don't get involved. The order echoes in my skull, hollow against the reality of his presence.
Three weeks. The rhythm of the lookout was brutal simplicity: scan the horizons through the powerful Osborne firefinder, radio checks at dawn and dusk, log weather, maintain the perimeter. Silence was our primary language, punctuated by the crackle of the radio, the whistle of wind around the cab, the groan of old timbers. We moved around each other in the cramped space like planets in a too-small orbit – Ryland a silent, dense mass, radiating contained energy; August a live wire, his movements sharp, restless, charged with an anger that never quite banked.
Breakfast was instant coffee gulped in silence, the single table between them feeling like a canyon. Ryland studied the topo map spread before him, tracing ridges and drainages with a calloused finger. August stared out the window, jaw working.
"Perimeter check," Ryland stated, the words a command more than a suggestion. His voice, low and gravelly, cut the quiet. He didn't look up.
August blinked, pulled from wherever his thoughts had taken him. "Now?"
"Wind's shifting. Dry lightning last night west of here. Need eyes on the ground." Ryland finally looked up. Those cool grey eyes held no argument. Just expectation.
August shoved his mug aside, the ceramic scraping loudly. "Whatever. Lead the way."
The air outside was brisk, smelling sharply of pine and damp earth. Ryland moved with the silent, ground-eating stride of someone born to cover distance, his heavy pack looking like part of him. August followed, his own stride looser, more fluid, but no less efficient. He scanned the trees, the slope, the sky – firefighter's eyes assessing fuel load, wind direction. They didn't speak. The only sounds were the crunch of boots on the needle-strewn path, the distant chatter of a squirrel, the sigh of the wind in the treetops.
They hiked for over an hour, descending into a steep-sided ravine choked with younger pines and aspen. Ryland stopped abruptly, holding up a closed fist. Instinct made August freeze mid-stride, muscles coiling.
Ryland crouched, his gaze fixed on the ground just off the trail. August moved closer, peering over his shoulder.
Broken branches. Not windfall. Snapped deliberately. And boot prints. Heavy, deep tread. Military grade, Ryland noted silently. At least two pairs, maybe three. Fresh. Within the last few hours. Leading away from the designated trail, deeper into protected wilderness.
"Poachers?" August murmured, his voice low, tense. He pointed to a faint disturbance in the undergrowth nearby – a tuft of coarse grey fur caught on a thorny bush. Bear. Or maybe elk.
Ryland nodded once, grim. He touched the disturbed earth near one print. "Dragging somethi