Chapter 2: Divided by the Flame

The morning light barely pierced the blizzard, weak and gray against the driving snow. Amelia woke on the leather couch with a stiff neck, her hand sliding under the blanket to rest against the subtle curve of her belly.

Five months. The secret pressed warm against her palm while the wind screamed outside.

She sat up, the oversized sweater and coat still wrapped tight around her. Griffin's blankets carried his scent—cedar and that darker, masculine edge. Her skin prickled at the familiar smell.

The kitchen looked like a battlefield from last night's half-hearted cooking. Chopped vegetables wilted on the counter. Typical Griffin, she thought, starting with furious energy then walking away.

She moved quietly toward the pantry, keeping an eye on the closed bedroom door. Let him sleep. She needed these minutes to steady herself before his questions started again.

The pantry door creaked open. Cans and dried goods lined the shelves, supplies that wouldn't stretch forever. Her stomach growled, the baby demanding what she could barely give without giving everything away.

Amelia sorted the cans by color, then by size, her hands moving in that anxious rhythm. Red labels together. Green. The motion slowed her racing heart, but her mind kept drifting to last night's brush of his fingers against hers.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Griffin's voice sliced through the quiet, rough from sleep. She jumped, knocking over a stack of soup cans that clattered across the counter.

He stood in the bedroom doorway in low-slung sweatpants, chest bare, scars faint across his skin. Dark hair fell across his forehead. He pushed it back, eyes narrowing.

"Organizing," she said, keeping her voice light. "Someone has to make sense of this before we fight over the last can of beans."

He crossed the room in long strides, stopping at the island. Close enough that she saw the scar on his knuckle stand out white as he gripped the edge.

"You always do that when you're lying." His voice dropped, sending a shiver down her spine. "Neat little rows while you bury the truth."

Amelia bent to retrieve the fallen cans, keeping her coat buttoned. The fabric pulled across her middle. She straightened fast, arms crossing over it.

"Not everything's a conspiracy, Griffin." She met his gaze. "Some of us just like order. Unlike people who leave vegetables to rot."

He rubbed the scar on his knuckle, the gesture so familiar it hurt. Five months hadn't dulled any of it.

"Fine. Help me." He grabbed a knife, blade catching the weak light. "We're dividing supplies. Fair split. No hoarding the coffee."

The word made her mouth water. She could make it exactly how he liked it—black with that pinch of cinnamon. Instead she moved to the opposite side of the island, granite between them like a shield.

They worked in tense silence, dividing dried goods into two piles. Every reach for the same item sent sparks through her fingers. His hands were long and capable. She remembered them too well.

Griffin watched her from across the counter. She's pale as hell and won't shed that coat even with the fire roaring. Five months of nothing, then she shows up here jumpy and layered like armor. Something's off.

"You're pale," he said, not looking up from the rice. "And you won't take that coat off. It's warm in here."

"Still cold from yesterday." She rearranged cans that didn't need it. "The storm gets in my bones."

He set the measuring cup down hard. "I know when you're full of shit, Amelia." His eyes lifted, dark as the weather outside. "Five months. No word. Then you appear wearing clothes two sizes too big. What the fuck are you hiding?"

Her throat tightened. The baby shifted, a flutter that made her hand twitch. She turned it into adjusting her sweater.

His gaze sharpened.

"Maybe I'm hiding from you." The words came sharp. "From this. From the way you look at me like you want to fuck me or strangle me. We were bad for each other. That fight proved it."

Hurt flashed in his eyes before his face hardened. He stepped around the island. The kitchen shrank.

She backed up until the counter pressed into her spine.

"Bad for each other," he repeated, voice low. His hand hovered near her cheek. "Convenient excuse for ghosting me after I was inside you. After you came apart screaming my name."

Heat flooded her face. Her nipples tightened under the layers. His gaze dropped to her mouth as she wet her lip.

"Don't," she whispered. Her hands fisted in her sleeves to stop from reaching for him.

He leaned in, breath warm against her temple. "Don't what? Remind you? Or do this?"

His fingers brushed her jaw, gentle enough to steal her breath. The touch raced straight through her. She tilted her head without meaning to.

His scent filled her—soap and that underlying musk. Memories hit hard: his weight pinning her, his mouth against her throat. Her breath caught.

Their faces hovered inches apart. His free hand settled on her hip, fingers flexing. For one tight moment she thought he might close the gap.

The baby kicked harder. Panic cut through the heat. She turned her head. His lips grazed her cheek instead.

"This is why I left." She shoved at his chest, palm burning against bare skin. "You consume everything. I can't be swallowed whole again."

He stepped back, but his hand lingered, sliding across her side. The motion caught her sweater hem, tugging it up. Cool air hit the skin of her lower belly.

His brow furrowed. His fingers had brushed the subtle firmness there.

"What the hell was that?" His voice roughened. "You've changed."

She yanked the fabric down, arms wrapping tight around her middle. A massive tree branch slammed into the floor-to-ceiling window, cracking it in a spiderweb pattern.

They both jumped. Snow sprayed through the fissures.

"Shit." Griffin grabbed a towel and pressed it to the crack, back muscles flexing as he worked.

Amelia stayed rooted, cheek burning where his lips had touched. Lower, her skin still tingled with fear. Had he felt it?

She turned to the pantry, sorting with frantic hands. The baby kicked again. She pressed her palm against it under the counter's edge.

Griffin secured the window as best he could. When he faced her again, suspicion sat heavy in his jaw.

"We need to fix that properly." His voice clipped. "But first we eat. Then you tell me why you're really here. No more deflections."

She nodded. He started cooking, pulling out the cast iron skillet. The smell of onions in hot oil filled the cabin.

She set the table without thinking, placing plates and forks in the old positions. His movements faltered as he watched.

"You remember," he said quietly. The rasp in his voice softened.

She gripped a chair, knuckles white. The truth pushed against her tongue but stayed locked there.

"Some fires burn too hot." She forced a shrug. "I needed to breathe."

They sat across from each other. The meal passed in heavy silence broken only by the storm and the clink of forks. Every shift drew his eyes to her coat.

She pushed food around her plate. Morning sickness had mostly passed, but stress brought the nausea creeping back.

"This is ridiculous." He dropped his fork. "We're trapped here, probably for weeks, and you're still playing games. I can feel it. Something's different about you."

She stood fast, chair scraping. "Maybe some things are better left in the past."

The power failed completely, plunging them into darkness lit only by the fireplace. His silhouette looked even more imposing.

He cursed and moved toward the generator switch. Amelia stayed put, hand pressed to her belly in the shadows. The baby kicked again, insistent.

The generator rumbled back on. Lights flickered. Griffin watched her from across the room, expression shifted from pure fury to something sharper.

"This storm isn't letting up." His voice carried that commanding edge. "And neither am I. We're talking about whatever you're hiding. Today."

She didn't answer. Instead she looked at the cracked window, the branch still lodged against the glass like a warning. Cold air seeped through.

Her secret pressed heavier against her ribs. Griffin moved closer, not touching but near enough that the pull of him felt like gravity. His hand hovered near her shoulder, then dropped.

She curled her fingers into her sleeves, biting her lip until she tasted blood. Outside the blizzard raged on, trapping them tighter with every gust.