Chapter 4: Truth in the Firelight

The fire snapped and popped, casting shaky light across the great room. Amelia stayed curled on the couch, knees pulled tight under the blanket, her arms wrapped around her middle. Griffin's question still hung between them, that low rasp of his voice scraping over her nerves like it always did.

"What the fuck is this?" he asked again, the sketchbook open in his hands. The drawing showed him at the stove, shirt stretched across his back, and in the margin a small curled shape that could be nothing else. Her pulse kicked harder against her ribs.

She bit down on her lower lip until it hurt. The oversized sweater suddenly felt too warm, the soft swell beneath it pressing against her forearms. The storm howled outside, wind shoving cold air through the cracked window where the towel still fluttered.

"It's nothing," she said, voice soft and even. Her fingers twitched against the blanket. She could still feel the way his eyes had followed her all evening, the way her skin prickled every time he moved closer.

Griffin didn't shift. He stood there, broad shoulders blocking half the firelight, one thumb rubbing slow circles over the scar on his knuckle. His dark eyes stayed locked on her, reading every small movement. The suspicion that had started when he found her sick in the bathroom now looked sharper, more certain.

He set the sketchbook on the low table between them. The pages fell open again, the drawing staring up like proof. "Don't give me that. You disappear for five months after that night, then show up here jumpy as hell, wearing clothes that swallow you whole. And now this."

The wind rattled the glass again. Amelia shivered, but the cold wasn't the only thing raising goosebumps on her arms. His nearness pulled at her, the same way it had five months ago, making her remember the weight of his hands and the taste of his mouth.

She leaned forward and grabbed the sketchbook, her fingers brushing his in the process. Heat shot straight up her arm. She yanked the book back and tucked it under the blanket, heart hammering so hard she wondered if he could hear it.

"It's just a doodle," she said, sharper now. "I sketch when I'm stressed. You know that."

Griffin let out a short laugh with no warmth in it. He paced toward the fireplace, long strides eating up the small space, then turned back. Firelight slid over the tight lines of his arms where they crossed over his chest. "Bullshit."

He shoved a hand through his dark hair. The strands fell forward again, the way they always did. "I felt it yesterday when my hand brushed your stomach. You're different. And you keep hiding under those arms like someone's coming for whatever's in there."

Amelia's breath caught. The baby gave a small flutter right then, a tiny push against her palm that made her press harder. She kept her face still, jaw tight, fighting the sudden sting behind her eyes.

The quiet stretched, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the storm outside. Griffin crouched, added another log, and watched the sparks climb. His shoulders looked tight enough to snap.

"That last fight," he said without looking at her. His voice had gone rough. "You told me I was too much. That I'd swallow you whole. Then you were just gone. No note. Nothing. I had people out looking because I couldn't sleep wondering if you were okay."

She watched the way the light caught on the old scars across his back. The admission sat heavy in her chest. Her fingers curled into the blanket, knuckles aching.

"I was scared," she said. The words came out quieter than she meant. "Of how fast it got. One minute we were fighting, the next we were tearing clothes off like the world was ending. I thought leaving was the only way to keep from getting lost in it."

He rose slowly and faced her. The space between them felt too small. She noticed the flex in his hands at his sides, the way his eyes had gone almost black, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw that her fingers still remembered.

"Scared," he repeated. He took one step closer. "It tore me up, Amelia. I sat in this cabin two weeks after you left and couldn't stand the quiet. And now you're here, hiding something, and I'm supposed to act like I don't see it?"

Her stomach tightened. He hadn't said the word outright, but it floated there between them. She stood on unsteady legs, blanket dropping away, and moved toward the kitchen. The sweater hung loose, but she kept one arm across her front anyway.

The pantry door creaked when she opened it. She started lining up cans by color, red first, then yellow. The simple motion helped her breathe. Behind her, his footsteps stopped in the doorway.

His body heat reached her back before he spoke. "Then tell me straight. Because that sketch looks a hell of a lot like me. And like something else I think belongs to both of us."

The word landed hard. She gripped the shelf until her knuckles went white. Part of her wanted to turn around and let it all spill out. The rest of her remembered every time her mother had been left holding the pieces after her father walked away.

"I can't," she whispered instead. Her voice cracked on the last word. She kept her eyes on the cans, shoulders stiff.

Griffin moved closer. Not touching, but close enough that she felt every shift of air between them. "You think I don't notice how your body reacts when I get this near? How your breath changes?"

His hand hovered near her waist, fingers not quite making contact. The almost-touch sent warmth racing across her skin. She could smell cedar and musk, could hear the way his breathing matched hers now, rough and uneven.

Her nipples tightened under the layers. Heat coiled low in her belly, pulling tight. I want his hands on me. Even now. Especially now. The thought made her flush, freckles standing out against the heat in her cheeks.

"We can't do this again," she said, but the words sounded weak even to her. She turned halfway, meeting his eyes. The pull between them felt alive, magnetic, old anger and fresh fear twisting together.

He didn't back up. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lower, lingering where her arm still shielded her middle. "Your secrets are slipping, Amelia. That drawing wasn't some stranger's. That was me."

The baby kicked hard right then. She winced before she could hide it, one hand flying to her stomach. A sharp tightening stole her breath for a second, not quite pain but close enough to make her double slightly.

Griffin's face changed instantly. The suspicion cracked into raw concern. His hands settled on her shoulders, thumbs brushing her collarbones through the sweater. Warm. Steady. The touch sent sparks racing down her spine.

"What is it?" His voice dropped, rough with worry. "Talk to me. Is it the baby?"

She straightened slowly. The tightness eased but left her shaky. His thumbs kept moving in small circles that felt far too good. The firelight painted his tan skin gold, highlighting the tension in his jaw and the way his chest rose and fell in time with hers.

For a heartbeat the truth pressed against her tongue. She swallowed it back. "Just cramps. From the cold."

His eyes narrowed, but he didn't let go. One hand slid a fraction lower, stopping just short of where the curve would show. The nearness burned. Her pulse thundered in her ears, mixing fear and want until she couldn't tell them apart.

"You're a terrible liar," he murmured. His breath brushed her temple. "And I'm not walking away this time. Storm's got us locked in for days, maybe weeks. Whatever you're carrying, you're not doing it alone."

The words sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the draft from the window. His face was inches away now. She tilted her head without thinking, lips parting. The heat between them coiled tighter, promising everything she couldn't let herself take.

His palm finally settled against her side, gentle but sure. Not pushing. Just there. Feeling the subtle change in her body. Her heartbeat slammed against her ribs, matching the rhythm she could feel in his wrist where it rested near her pulse.

She wanted to lean in. Wanted to let his mouth find hers and forget every reason this was dangerous. The storm outside seemed to match the one building between them, wild and unstoppable.

Then a sharp crackle cut through the room. The emergency radio on the kitchen counter flared to life with a burst of static. They both froze. A smooth, cultured voice broke through the interference, dripping false politeness.

"Valcourt. I know your runaway found her way to your cabin. Interesting timing. Wonder what else she's hiding up there."

Marcus.

Griffin's body went rigid against hers. His hand tightened on her side, shifting from sensual to protective in an instant. He pulled her closer without thinking, arm curving around her as the radio spat more fragments of the threat.

Her stomach cramped again, sharper this time. She grabbed a fistful of his shirt, breathing through it. The fire popped loudly, sending sparks up the chimney like warning shots.

Griffin's eyes met hers in the flickering dark. Desire, fury, and something that looked dangerously like hope warred across his face. "This isn't finished," he said low, only for her. "Not even close."

The radio crackled again. Marcus's voice came through clearer. "Tell her I know her secret, Valcourt. Secrets never stay buried in a blizzard."