Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 40546 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 203(@200wpm)___ 162(@250wpm)___ 135(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40546 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 203(@200wpm)___ 162(@250wpm)___ 135(@300wpm)
I’m still thinking about his words, about trusting not only that he knows what’s best but that he can handle the real me, as he gets the sleeping bag ready for the night. He banks the fire, then tucks us both into the narrow space that will keep us warm until morning.
"Cade?" I say into the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For taking care of me."
"Thank you for letting me." His arm tightens around me. "Now sleep, little girl. Tomorrow we really start your education."
As I drift off in his arms, warm and safe and more satisfied than I've ever been despite not getting everything I wanted, I find myself looking forward to whatever lessons he has planned.
I'm finally starting to understand that maybe the most important things can't be learned from books.
Six
Marley
I wake up with my face pressed against a wall of muscle and the horrifying realization that I'm drooling on my wilderness survival instructor.
Not my finest moment.
Cade is already awake, one arm pinning me against his chest like I'm a teddy bear he's claimed in his sleep. The other hand is doing something that feels suspiciously like petting my hair.
"Morning, little girl."
His voice is rough with sleep and way too satisfied for someone who's spent the night fully clothed in a sleeping bag with a nineteen-year-old academic disaster.
"Did I drool on you?" I mumble into his chest.
"Little bit."
"Oh God." I try to pull away, but his arm tightens around me. "I'm sorry. I don't usually... I mean, I've never shared a bed with anyone before, so I don't know my sleep habits and—"
"Marley."
"What?"
"You're rambling."
"I ramble when I'm embarrassed."
"I noticed." His hand stills in my hair. "You also ramble when you're nervous, when you're thinking too hard, and when you're trying to avoid dealing with how good this feels."
He isn't wrong. Waking up wrapped around him feels ridiculously good in a way that probably violates several sections of my thesis methodology.
"We should get up," I say, making no effort to actually move.
"Probably." He doesn't let go either. "But first, ground rules for today."
"More rules?"
"Different rules. Today we're going deeper into the wilderness. Real survival training." His voice has gone more serious. "Which means when I tell you to do something, you do it immediately. No questions, no analysis, no debate."
I tilt my head back to look at him. "That seems a little extreme."
"This isn't a fucking dorm room, Marley. One wrong step out there, and you could break an ankle, fall off a cliff, or walk into a bear. When I say jump, you don’t even say ‘how high’, you just leap and trust me to be there to catch you."
"But surely there's room for discussion if I don't understand—"
"No." His hand cups my chin, forcing me to maintain eye contact. "No discussion. No questions. No thinking your way through everything. You trust me to keep you alive, and you do exactly what I tell you to do."
The authority in his voice sends that familiar ache through my body that means I'm in trouble again. "What if I disagree with your methods?"
"Then you'll learn what happens when little girls don't listen to their Daddy."
The way he says it—casual and matter-of-fact—makes my breath catch.
"Also," I say, trying to regain some academic ground, "I'm supposed to check in with my thesis advisor today. Professor Harrison wants a progress report by two o'clock."
"Fine. We'll use the sat phone when we break for lunch." He sits up and starts getting dressed with the same efficient movements I watched the night before. "But that's the only exception. Everything else, you follow my lead."
"Understood."
Famous last words.
Two hours later, I'm standing in a clearing about a mile from his cabin, staring at a pile of branches and sticks and trying to figure out how they're supposed to turn into shelter.
"This is impossible," I say, wiping sweat from my forehead. "The structural integrity is completely compromised by the irregular angles."
"The what now?" Cade looks up from where he's demonstrating knot techniques I apparently can't master.
"The angles are all wrong. Basic physics says this won't hold." I gesture at my sad attempt at a frame. "The load-bearing capacity is insufficient for the distributed weight, and the connection points are fundamentally unstable."
"Jesus Christ." He stands up and walks over to examine my work. "You're building a shelter, not designing a skyscraper."
"But the principles are the same. If you don't account for structural stress and load distribution—"
"Marley."
"What?"
"Shut up and build the fucking shelter."
I blink at him. "That's not very constructive feedback."
"You want constructive feedback? Stop overthinking every goddamn stick and just follow the instructions I gave you twenty minutes ago."
"But your instructions don't account for the fact that this branch is clearly too weak to support—"
"Are you questioning me?"
Something in his tone makes me pause. "I'm trying to understand the engineering behind—"
"That's questioning me." He moves closer, and I automatically back up until I hit a tree. "What did I tell you about questioning me in the wilderness?"