Alone in the cabin, I’m reminded how very much I don’t like being alone in the cabin. Knox typically spends all day working outside, but he’s always nearby. Now I’m really alone, completely alone, with no one for miles and miles.

What if this is when the Corretti family comes for me? I should have asked Knox for a gun. And lessons on how to shoot one.

He did leave me with a ripped fishing net. At least it’ll keep me busy until he gets back. I take some strong, plastic thread and a large needle and lay it all out before me on the floor in front of the couch.

As I sew, I think, mulling over what he’s just told me. Knox came back from active duty and immediately went to check up on his little sister to make sure she’s all right. He talked about always looking out for her like it was no big deal, just the job description of being a big brother.

He’s a protector. He may have taken a detour, working for the wrong people, but that doesn’t change who he is deep down. He’s got the right instincts.

He saved me. And he jeopardized his own plans to do it. It sounds as if he were right on the cusp of being able to take off into the wild without a trace. Instead, he took something the mob wanted—me—and brought a whole lot of trouble chasing after him along with it.

The front door bangs open. I scream, jumping to my feet, wielding the sewing needle. Like I could poke someone to death.

It’s just the wind. I forgot to lock the door behind him. Shaking, I bolt the door, then drink a glass of water to soothe my shattered nerves.

I’ve spent so much time wondering if Knox is good or bad. Now that he’s gone, I’ve never been more clear—he’s good and I need him by my side.

After a little over two hours that feel like two days, he finally returns. I throw my arms around him. He kicks the door closed, blocking out the chill, and kisses me like he missed me as much as I missed him.

“Got you a phone to call your mom.” He hands it to me and I fumble with it, impatient to make the call.

She sounds sleepy when she answers, then distracted when she learns it’s me.

“I’m calling to let you know I’m fine,” I rush to reassure her. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Yeah.” She yawns. Not worried, she’s taking a late-afternoon nap. “Listen, honey, I’m pretty beat. Can I call you back?”

“OK, I just wanted to let you know I’m taking a vacation. For a couple weeks.” I hold my breath, realizing I should have planned out the details before I called. Where am I vacationing? With who?

“Good for you.” She’s already falling asleep yet again. Problem solved as she hangs up the phone.

“Quick call.” Knox’s observation is neutral. He’s in the kitchen so he heard every word. Of course there’s nowhere in this cabin where he wouldn’t.

My tongue feels like it has swelled up. I struggle with the impulse to defend my mother and explain that she really is loving and caring even though it doesn’t seem like it. And it almost never feels like it.

“She wasn’t worried.” I’m sure I sound embarrassingly sad.

He looks at me with those gorgeous blue eyes, seeming to understand a lot more than I say. With a surprisingly gentle touch, he reaches for my shoulder. “It’s better that way.”

“Why?”

“If Big Rudy’s guys find her and question her, she honestly won’t know where you are.”

“You think they’ll do that?” I know I’m ridiculously naïve, but that hasn’t occurred to me. I have no experience being targeted by the mob.

“Where is your mom again?”

“Arizona.”

“Then probably not. They’ll try to track me down first. But you should call a roommate and your boss, too.”

Those calls go even quicker, straight to voicemail. I keep my voice light, saying I went on an unplanned vacation, like it was a whim. Anyone who knows me well would know I’m lying my ass off. But none of them know me well.

The calls leave a sour taste in my mouth and my heart. Had my life been that flimsy? All along, my hard work toward my degree, my shifts at the restaurant, I’d never have guessed that I could walk away from it so easily. Without a trace.

“Got you a few things.” Knox distracts me by pulling out a few plastic-wrapped packages from a brown paper bag, plus a pair of sturdy boots, sweatpants, and a warm jacket. One package has cotton T-shirts, another cotton briefs, both white. “Best they had.”

“Thank you!” Breathless, I snatch the packages from him. Fresh, new clean clothes! I can’t wait to put them on. I dash into the bathroom. The briefs are a bit small, riding up my ass, and the T-shirt’s tight, stretching across my breasts. It also looks like I forgot to grab the sweatpants.

My old sense of shame over my curves comes back. Memories float up as my cheeks flame. The time a boy creatively nicknamed me Boobs in fifth grade. The day in seventh grade when a skinny bitch of a girl told me I looked like a whale in the middle of the cafeteria. The cat-calls and wolf-whistles that followed puberty until I started hiding as much as I could. These T-shirt and panties hide nothing.

I consider pulling on my old skirt again, but I’m so sick of wearing that damn waitressing uniform. And a little part of me wants to step out in just the T-shirt and panties. I kind of want to show Knox my curves. He seems to like them quite a bit.

Tentative, I step outside and he’s there, as I knew he would be, waiting with a hungry look on his face. “Fuck, Olivia,” he groans, running a hand through his hair, seeming to strain to hold himself back. “You look—”

He loses whatever internal battle he was fighting, closing the distance between us, reaching out to cup my breasts through the tight T-shirt. Rubbing his thumbs over my nipples, he groans again like he’s being tortured. I look down and see what he’s doing to me, how quickly my body responds to his touch, my nipples stiff and aching, pushing back against his fingers.

He grasps my nipples between his thumb and forefinger and tweaks them, making me arch back in surprise, a sharp pang of pleasure jolting straight into my clit. “No bra in these, ever,” he instructs, cupping, stroking, leaning down to suck me through the cotton. “I want access all the time.”

“Yes.” I’m quivering at his touch, already molten, liquid and hot for him, shaking with anticipation. “I missed you while you were gone.”

He sits on the bed, pulling me onto his lap as he kisses me. “I got back as fast as I could.” He pulls off my shirt, apparently not liking it enough to still want it on. Without thinking, I start to pull his up, too. I want skin on skin, more of him, but then I stop, realizing it’s the first time I’ve done it.

“You can take it off.” He helps me lift it over his head. He’s a wall of muscle, his torso all planes and angles. I don’t know where to touch him first. My fingers are reverent, like touching a sculpture, and he holds himself still to let me explore.

He’s beautiful, and has so many scars, white against his olive skin, most small, a few long. I trace them with my fingers, wishing I could erase them like pencil lines.

“How did you get these?”

“Combat.”

My eyes fill as I trace one along his side. I want to know more, but am too filled with emotion. He’s experienced so much pain, so much suffering serving our country. I feel it now with absolute certainty. He was rescuing me. Those men were going to hurt me and he stopped them.

He reaches out, lightly, caressing my waist, my arms, my breasts. When he sweeps his hands down my inner thighs, I quiver in anticipation. “I know no one’s touched you here before,” he whispers. “But I have to know. Have you ever cum for anyone else?” His muscles tense as he asks me.

I shake my head no. Not by a long shot. His arms tighten around me with possession. As his fingers lightly graze the cotton of my panties, embarrassment flushes my cheeks. I’m already dripping for him even though he’s barely touched me yet. It can’t be normal, how he turns me into a gushing fountain. I’m probably making a damp patch on his jeans. The thought makes me squirm, self-conscious.

“Are you wet for me, baby?” He nuzzles my neck, licking, sucking, as he works his fingers underneath my panties. I can’t hide it. I’m soaked. He bites my neck as his fingers dip into my wet heat.

“Fuck, I love how wet you get for me.” He groans, tearing off my panties. “You’re dripping.” His fingers are drenched in my arousal, moving slow, barely at all, more pulsing into me in rhythm.

“I’ve never been this wet before.” I whisper my confession. “I’ve never felt like this before.”

“You said you’re 20?” He removes his fingers and caresses my thigh.

“I just turned 20 last week.”

“Have you ever had a boyfriend?”

I feel shy about my lack of experience, the nun-like existence I’ve exiled myself to all my teenage years. But I want to be completely honest with him.

“No.”

“How is that?” He sounds relieved, yet mystified. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Well, I don’t know about that.”

“Know it, Olivia.” He grasps both my shoulders and looks me in the eyes. “You’re perfect.”

No one’s ever said that before. I don’t know what to do with it. So I tuck some hair behind my ear and answer the question he asked me before.

“I’ve never met anyone I really wanted to be with. And, to be fair, I never really gave anyone a chance.”

“Why?”

This is treading on emotional territory for me. I never felt safe with my mother’s ever-rotating mix of new boyfriends. Nothing ever “happened” happened, but enough threatened along the edges, all of the time. The looks that lasted too long or landed in the wrong places. The opportunities they’d take to brush along my breasts or ass.

“My mother’s boyfriends—” I start, but lose my voice talking about something I never have before.

“Did any of them hurt you?” His hands ball into fists. If I said yes, would he fly out of the cabin, find them and beat them to a pulp? It sure feels that way. That feels kind of good.

“No, nothing ever happened, but I never felt safe.”

“Your dad wasn’t around?”

“No. We didn’t even live in the same state until a couple of years ago.”

“Dumb luck.” He holds me, stroking my arm and I have to agree. I hadn’t even grown up with my dad. Then I move back near him and get targeted to make him pay for his crimes.

“Well, I’m glad no one ever hurt you. If someone had, I’d have to find them and kill them.” It doesn’t sound as if he’s joking. “And I’m glad no one’s ever made you feel so good before.” His voice deepens. “It’s only me.”

I snuggle into him, cheek against his chest, feeling the vibrations of his voice.

“All that time alone, you must have felt lonely sometimes.” He wraps a hand around my waist, pulling me closer. But he doesn’t press my breasts against his chest. He keeps them angled out slightly and watches them with heavy eyes. My nipples tingle under his gaze, and I become aware of the rise and fall of my breath, how I quiver before him.

“I did feel lonely,” I agree in a soft voice, admitting my past pain. It’s easy to do with him. I’m not lonely at all now.

He brings one of his large hands up to cup my breasts. Massaging it, he licks my ear and whispers, “perfect.” I sigh and arch into his touch. It feels so right to open myself up to him completely.

“What did you do when you were lonely?” His voice is low and deep, almost mesmerizing.

“I’d read, or watch TV, or bake.” I almost feel like I’m entering a dreamland, feeling his heartbeat, his hands slowly traveling along my waist, my breasts.

“And late at night?”

My lips part as I remember the many long, feverish nights by myself. I’d resist, feeling ashamed. And then, sometimes, I’d give in.

I know other women who think nothing of masturbating, and, objectively, I know there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s natural, healthy even. But I’ve always felt guilty about my sexual urges. And the naughty fantasies that turn me on.

I shift my weight on his lap. My pussy is pulsing, wet, and I want him to touch me there. I need his fingers on me, but I’m too shy to ask for it.

“You haven’t answered me, Olivia.” His grip tightens on my breast, his fingers toying with my nipple. With a sharp intake of breath, I wait, wondering if he’s going to pinch me there. It feels so startling and intensely good when he does. In a deep, gravelly voice he demands, “Tell me what you did late at night. When you were by yourself in bed, when you were lonely, did you touch yourself?”

“Oh, Knox,” I moan, parting my thighs, wanting him to discover me, know everything about me. But I still feel guilty about how I used to make myself cum in the darkness, panting and sweaty. Then I’d do it again, fantasizing about a man just like him pinning me down, fucking me hard, making me beg.

“No secrets,” he reminds me, stern. “Late at night, were you a dirty girl?”

I moan in response, aroused by the question, a confession in the sound. But on instinct, I deny it. “No.”

I instantly regret my dishonesty.