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Sage slid her hand onto his thigh, squeezing gently through the denim. She left it there the rest of the way, a small anchor against the storm.

When they finally pulled up to the cabin, the engine ticked loudly as it cooled. Brutus sat on the top porch step like a statue carved from the mountain itself. Snow dusted his massive shoulders. His amber eyes locked on the truck, steady and knowing.

Sage sat with her hands in her lap for a long moment, palm still warm on Cal’s thigh. Neither of them moved.

After another endless minute, Cal closed his eyes.

Tears slipped down his cheeks—silent, hot, cutting tracks through the dried blood on his face.

She squeezed his thigh once more, gentle, reverent. Then he climbed out into the biting cold and wandered away into the trees as Brutus watched.

Sage was crying. Scared. Hurting. She got out and headed for the house.

Brutus didn’t move as she passed. She laid a gloved hand on his enormous, snow-dusted shoulder. The big bear leaned his massive weight into her thigh for one heartbeat—I know, girl. I know.—warm fur and quiet strength.

She walked inside the cabin without looking back.

But she left the door open behind her.

37

SAGE

The next day, snow fell in fat, silent flakes, drifting through the black-green pines like ash from some distant, forgotten fire. The path was narrow—barely more than a deer trail worn into the mountainside—and every footstep crunched loud in the frozen hush, echoing off the trees like small betrayals. Brutus trailed far behind them, a massive dark shadow weaving between trunks, giving them the kind of space only he seemed to understand.

Cal walked a half-step ahead, broad shoulders rigid under his battered shearling trench coat, his gloved hand still holding hers like he was afraid she might vanish if he let go.

The night before had been a slow unraveling.

Cal had come back from the woods, boots caked in snow, silent. He'd walked straight past her without meeting her eyes and disappeared into the guest bedroom without a word, closing the door with a soft click that somehow sounded louder than any slam. The lock had turned. Sage had stood in the hallway in her socks, heart hammering against her ribs, whispering his name through the wood until her voice gave out.

When Mary Sue arrived with a heavy pot of chicken and wild rice soup, steam curling into the cold kitchen air, Sage had told her everything in a trembling rush. The older woman had simply nodded, matter-of-fact, as if she’d been expecting exactly this.

“It’s been a long time, sweetheart, since he’s had to become that version of himself. No one in this town—no one in this whole damn county—would dream of crossing Cal Meridian. So he hasn’t had to… do what he did yesterday in a long time.” Snow tapped against the window like gentle fingers. Mary Sue’s eyes had been steady but sad. “He thinks he’s a monster because of everything that came before you, baby girl. You’re the only one who can reach him now. Don’t let him go. Not even an inch.”

Sage had nodded, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her cardigan, and tried one last time. She’d knocked softly on the guest room door. “Cal? Honey?” No answer. Just the low groan of the wind outside and the terrible, suffocating quiet on the other side of that wood. Eventually she crawled into their big empty bed, buried her face in his pillow that still smelled like him—pine, leather, and his unique scent—and cried until sleep dragged her under.

When she woke at first light, he was there.

Sitting in the big leather chair by the dying fire, watching her, the soft light landing on him. The devastation in his gray eyes was so complete it stole her breath. The only time she’d ever seen pain like that was in her own mirror years ago—raw, bottomless, the look of someone who believed they deserved every wound they carried.

“Cal!—”

“Sage…” His voice was hoarse, barely there. “Will you come take a walk with me?”

Something in his tone made her freeze—low, careful, like he was handling broken glass.

“What—”

“Please.” A pause. “Walk with me.”

She nodded slowly and got out of bed. The floor was cold. She pulled on black leggings, a charcoal turtleneck, the big cream cardigan. Cal was already waiting downstairs in the flannel and the shearling coat, looking like he hadn’t slept.

He took her gloved hand the moment they stepped outside.

Now the trail climbed steadily. The air was sharp with pine resin, frozen earth, and the clean metallic bite of a coming storm. Snowflakes caught in her lashes and melted against her warm cheeks. Their breath fogged white between them. Brutus’s heavy paws crunched far behind, a reassuring rhythm in the quiet.

They reached the clearing on the ridge—a wide, windswept shelf of granite and sparse winter grass overlooking the valley. Far below, the cabin glowed like a single warm lantern against the endless white, thin smoke from the stone chimneys snatched away by the rising wind. The sun was already fading behind thick, bruised storm clouds rolling in from the west. The light had turned strange and heavy, painting everything in shades of steel and amber. Wind moaned through the pines, tugging at Sage’s hair and whipping loose flakes into swirling veils.