Brandon's POV
I kept my hands busy, moving from around the cabin, checking latches I already knew were locked. The truth was, I needed something to do — anything to quiet the unease growing in my chest.
Amelia hadn't said much, but what little she had said was more than enough. Enough to know she was running from something real. Something dangerous.
I glanced at her where she sat curled on the bed, legs tucked beneath her, arms crossed tightly like she was trying to hold herself together. She looked small. But there was a fire in her too — I'd seen it. Whatever she'd been through, it hadn't broken her.
Still, I couldn't stop thinking: What if he comes back? What if he's watching right now?
And what would I do?
The truth — the one I hated to admit, even to myself — was that I wasn't a fighter. I was good with my hands, sure. I could fix things, build things, cook a decent meal and make a mean pot of coffee. But if someone showed up at that door with bad intentions… I didn't know if I could stop him.
I wasn't strong. Not like that.
And yet, the idea of something happening to her — of someone hurting her again — made my stomach turn. I'd never felt anything quite like it before. It wasn't just protectiveness. It was something deeper. A need to be a safe place, not a threat. To make her feel like she could breathe again.
But how could I protect her from something I couldn't see? Something she could barely speak about?
I didn't know what he looked like, what he was capable of, or if he was even still out there. But I did know this: I wasn't going to let her face him alone.
Even if I wasn't the strongest man in the world, I could still stand beside her.
I could still try.
I knew more about men like the one Amelia was running from than I wanted to admit.
My father wasn't the same man, but the shadows he left were familiar. The kind of man who used his size and voice as weapons, who could twist a room into silence just by walking into it. The kind of man who made you believe you were lucky he only hurt you sometimes.
I grew up watching my mother shrink a little more each year until she disappeared altogether — first in spirit, then in body. By the time I was old enough to think about leaving, she was gone, and it was just me and my older sister, Claire, enduring the storm together.
Claire was the brave one. She stood up to him when I couldn't. Intervened for me more times than I could count. When I finally left for university, it was because she told me to go — said one of us needed to get out before he broke us both.
I didn't go back until the funeral.
There was no grief that day, not for me. Just relief. Relief and a strange, hollow quiet. My father's voice couldn't fill rooms anymore. His shadow couldn't stretch across my life. But even dead, he'd left behind the one thing I couldn't shake: the knowledge that sometimes the worst danger is the one living under your roof.
Now it was just me and Claire, and we didn't talk much about the past. We didn't need to. We'd both lived it.
And maybe that was why I couldn't stop looking at Amelia and seeing the same kind of tension in her shoulders. I knew what it was like to watch the door and brace yourself, to live half your life waiting for the next blow.
I wasn't strong like Claire. I wasn't the kind of man who could throw a punch and win. But I'd learned something else growing up in that house: sometimes surviving isn't about being the biggest person in the room.
Sometimes it's about standing your ground and refusing to back down, no matter how much it scares you.
And for her, I could do that.
It was strange how quickly she'd gotten under my skin. Five days — that was all it had been — and yet I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt this drawn to someone. Maybe it was the way she moved through the cabin, with confidence and purpose, as though she was always holding part of herself back. Maybe it was the way her eyes softened when she smiled, she didn't do it often, but meant it when she did.
Or maybe it was because I'd seen the cracks. Seen the moments she thought I wasn't looking — when her guard slipped and the weight she carried showed in her posture, in the faraway look in her eyes. There was something about that vulnerability that pulled me in, that made me want to be the one she could lean on.
But the more I cared, the more the unease grew. Those footprints out there weren't just random. Someone had stood at our door. Someone who wasn't supposed to be here.
And now, every shadow outside felt sharper. Every creak in the cabin seemed louder. The idea of someone coming back — of that someone being the man she was running from — sat heavy in my chest. I didn't know if I could stop him, but I knew one thing: if he tried to hurt her, he'd have to go through me first.
She was sitting by the fire now, her hair falling loose over one shoulder, the light catching the curve of her cheek. She'd wrapped herself in the thick wool blanket Kelly had brought earlier, and for a moment, she looked so safe it was easy to forget the tracks outside.
Almost.
I realised I'd been staring too long when she glanced up, catching my eyes. Something flickered between us — something I didn't want to pretend I hadn't felt. My throat tightened.
"Amelia…" I started, my voice lower than I intended. I didn't even know what I was going to say — I think someone's watching us, or I can't stop thinking about you. Maybe both. Maybe neither.
Her gaze stayed on me, steady, unreadable. I took a step closer.
And then — three sharp knocks at the door.
The sound cut through the room like a blade. Amelia flinched, her fingers clutching the blanket tighter around her.
I turned toward the sound, every muscle in my body taut.
The knocks came again.