He turned the wrench over in his hand again. Cold steel, his own fingerprints in the oil that never quite washed off no matter how hard he scrubbed. The dashboard gaped open where he'd pulled the panel an hour ago, wires hanging like dead vines, and he hadn't touched a single one since.

Biscuit crumbs dotted his flannel shirt. He brushed at them absently, then stopped, because what did it matter. Nobody was here to see. The truck cab smelled like the same stale coffee from this morning, the cup cold in the holder, a skin forming on the surface. He'd made it at dawn before the house woke up, before she could come padding down the hallway in that thin shirt of his, before she could stand in the kitchen doorway with her hair loose and ask him if he'd slept well, Daddy.

He hadn't slept well. He hadn't slept at all.

The wrench hung loose in his grip. He stared at the wires, the fuses, the tangle of things he could fix if he cared to. His hands knew how to rebuild a carburetor blindfolded, how to read a tree's lean and send it falling exactly where he wanted. But they didn't know what to do about a girl in his hallway, and they didn't know what to do about the part of him that lay awake listening for her bare feet.

Frost crept up the window glass. Late afternoon, the light going gray, the garage cold enough that his breath fogged when he let it out slow. He'd come out here to escape the house. The kitchen table still sat with that candle burned down to a nub, two plates clean, two forks untouched. He'd cleared them this morning before she woke, scrubbed the wax off the table, thrown the whole thing in the trash. She'd only laughed when she saw him doing it. That soft, knowing laugh that said she'd already won something he didn't know he'd lost.

The wrench turned in his hand.

He should fix the truck. That was the lie he'd told himself when he came out here — the dash light flickered, the heater blew weak, he'd take a look. But his hands just sat there, turning steel, going nowhere. The vinyl seat creaked when he shifted his weight. His boots were still on, laces loose, sawdust ground into the tread. He'd been in them since before dawn, walking the property line, checking the fence, doing anything to be outside where the air was clean and she wasn't in it.

His jaw ached from clenching. He hadn't realized he was doing it until the pain registered, and he forced his teeth apart, rolled his shoulders, tried to find some part of his body that wasn't braced for something.

That was when he heard it.

The house door. Opening.

He went still. The wrench froze in his hand. His eyes stayed fixed on the dashboard, on the dead wires, on anything that wasn't the rearview mirror, because the rearview would show him the garage door, and the garage door would show him her, and he didn't want to see her yet. Not yet. Not when he'd finally gotten his pulse to slow.

The door clicked shut. Soft. Deliberate. Not a slam, not a careless push — the sound of someone closing it gently so as not to announce themselves. Except he'd heard it anyway, because he heard everything in this house now. Every creak in the floorboards. Every whisper of fabric. Every breath held on the other side of a locked door.

Footsteps crossed the garage floor. Concrete, and then the soft pad of bare feet on cold ground. She'd walked out here without shoes. In February. In Alaska.

He gripped the wrench harder.

The footsteps stopped at the passenger side. He could see her shadow move across the frosted window, a blur of honey-brown hair, a shape that didn't belong out here among the oil cans and the chains and the things that made sense. The door opened.

Cold air rolled in, and with it, her smell — that perfume she wore, something floral and warm that didn't belong in a garage, that clung to the inside of his nose and stayed there long after she left a room. She climbed into the passenger seat like she owned it, like she'd been riding in this truck her whole life, and pulled the door shut behind her.

The cab shrank.

He didn't look at her. He kept his eyes on the dashboard, on the wires, on the wrench in his hand that he was gripping so hard his knuckles had gone white. He could feel her looking at him, though. Feel that honey-brown gaze moving over his face, his shoulders, the crumbs on his shirt, cataloging everything, filing it away for later.

"Daddy," she said.

The word landed in his chest like a stone. He didn't answer.

She shifted in the seat. The vinyl creaked. Her bare knee caught the edge of his vision — pale, smooth, the leg folded under her as she turned to face him. She was wearing his flannel shirt again. The old one, the one he'd searched for, the one he'd thought he'd lost in the timber years ago. It hung loose on her, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, the collar open at her throat. Under it, something thin and lacy that he caught a glimpse of when she leaned forward.

He looked away. At the wires. At the frost. Anywhere.

"You've been out here a long time," she said. Not accusatory. Just observing. The way she observed everything, with that patient, catlike stillness that made his skin crawl. "I made coffee. It's cold now."

"I'm not thirsty."

"You're never thirsty when I make it."

He didn't have an answer for that, so he didn't give her one. He reached into the dashboard, pretending to examine a wire, turning it over in his fingers like it meant something. His hands were shaking. Just slightly. He hoped she couldn't see it.

She could. Of course she could. She saw everything.

"What are you fixing?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"Nothing." She repeated it like she was tasting it. "You've been out here for two hours fixing nothing."

The wire slipped from his fingers. He caught it, re-gripped it, and tried to remember what he'd been doing with it. He couldn't. His mind was full of her — her voice, her smell, the bare shine of her legs in the cold cab, the way she was looking at him right now like she could see right through his flannel and his skin and into the fear he kept locked up under his ribs.

"Maybe I just wanted some quiet," he said.

"Quiet." She laughed, soft and low. "You can get quiet in the house. You locked your door last night, didn't you? I heard the lock turn."

His jaw tightened. He didn't answer.

"You locked it the night before too," she went on, conversationally, like she was discussing the weather. "I stood outside for a while. Listened to you breathing. You were awake. You're always awake when I'm in the house."

"Gina."

"What?" Her voice was all innocence, honey-sweet and mocking. "I'm just talking. You don't like it when I talk?"

He turned to look at her then, finally, because he couldn't not. She was sitting in his truck, in his shirt, in his space, her hair tumbling over her shoulders, her lips curved in that smile that never quite reached her eyes. The flannel gaped at her throat, and he could see the lace beneath, black and thin, and the pale skin of her collarbone, and he had to look away again because if he kept looking he'd see more, and if he saw more he'd feel something, and if he felt something he'd have to admit that she was right about him.

He didn't want to be right about her.

"I'm fixing the truck," he said, to the dashboard, to the wires, to anything that wasn't her face. "The dash light's been flickering."

"Uh-huh." She shifted again, and the vinyl creaked, and he felt the seat move as she leaned closer. "You know what I think?"

"I don't want to know."

"I think you're hiding."

His hand tightened on the wrench.

"I think," she went on, her voice dropping to that low, honeyed register that made his stomach clench, "you came out here because you can't stand to be in the same room as me. Because when you're in the same room as me, you feel things you don't want to feel."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?"

He could feel her eyes on him. Feel the weight of her gaze like a hand on his skin. The cab was too small, too warm, too full of her smell. He wanted to open the door and get out, walk into the cold, clear air and leave her sitting there in his truck with her lace and her perfume and her knowing smile. But his hand wouldn't move to the handle. His body wouldn't obey him. It was like the night before, when he'd lain in bed listening to her bare feet come down the hall, and he'd told himself to get up, to check the lock, to do something, and he'd lain there instead, frozen, waiting for the sound of her hand on the door.

She hadn't tried the door. Not that night. She'd just stood there, breathing, and then she'd walked away, and he'd lain awake for hours hating himself for the disappointment that had curled through his chest.

"You're scared of yourself," she said softly. "That's what I think. You're scared of what you'd do if you stopped fighting it."

"Gina, I'm warning you—"

"Warning me what?" She laughed, light and bright, like he'd said something funny. "What are you going to do, Daddy? Spank me?"

The word hit him like a physical blow. His head snapped toward her, and she was looking at him with those wide honey-brown eyes, her lips parted, her tongue just touching the corner of her mouth, and he saw it then — the thing she kept hidden under the teasing, the cold, patient determination that made her more dangerous than any woman he'd ever known. She wasn't playing. She'd never been playing.

"You need to get out of this truck," he said.

"Why?"

"Because I'm telling you to."

"And if I don't?"

He stared at her. She stared back. The frost crept up the window glass, and somewhere outside a branch cracked in the cold, and the cab was so quiet he could hear her breathing — soft, even, unhurried. She wasn't afraid of him. She'd never been afraid of him. That was the worst part. He could shout at her, lock doors, leave the house, and she'd just wait, patient as the cold, knowing he'd have to come back eventually.

"Your mother's coming home in three days," he said.

"I know."

"What do you think she'd say if she saw you like this? In my truck, in my shirt, wearing—" He stopped, his throat closing on the word.

"Wearing what?" She leaned forward, and the flannel fell open a little more, and he caught the full curve of lace, the shadow of skin beneath it. "Wearing this? You think she'd mind?"

"She'd mind."

"Would she?" Gina tilted her head, studying him. "Or would she blame you? You know how she is. She'd think you did something to me. That you wanted it."

His hand clenched on the wrench so hard the metal bit into his palm.

"I never touched you," he said. "I never—"

"I know." Her voice was soft, almost kind. "That's what makes it so sad, Daddy. You never did anything. You never would. And still you're terrified, because you want to."

"I don't—"

"You do." She said it simply, without heat, like she was telling him the sky was gray or the truck was cold. "I've seen it. Every time you look at me, I see it. You hate me because you want me, and you hate yourself for wanting me, and you think if you just hold the line long enough, it'll go away."

He couldn't breathe. The cab was too small, too full of her, too full of the truth she was laying out like cards on a table. He wanted to deny it. He opened his mouth to deny it. But the words wouldn't come, because they would have been lies, and he was too tired to lie anymore.

"It won't go away," she said. "I've been waiting two years for it to go away. It's not going anywhere."

"Gina—"

"You can lock your door every night. You can hide in the garage. You can go work in the timber until your hands bleed and your back gives out. It won't change anything. I'll still be here when you come home." She smiled, soft and sure. "I'll always be here."

The wrench slipped from his fingers. It clattered against the dashboard, bounced off the gear shift, landed on the floor mat with a dull thud. He didn't pick it up. He couldn't. His hands were shaking too hard.

She reached out and touched his arm. Just her fingers, light on his flannel sleeve, but it felt like a brand. He flinched, pulled back, pressed himself against the driver's door, but the cab was too small and she followed him, leaning across the center console, her hair falling over her shoulders, her face inches from his.

"You can't hide from me in here," she whispered.

Her fingers tightened on his shirt. The cold air pressed in around them, and the frost crept up the glass, and he could smell her perfume and the stale coffee and the oil on his own hands, and he didn't know what to do. He didn't know anything anymore.

She was still smiling. That soft, knowing smile that said she'd already won.

And the worst part — the part he'd never admit, not even to himself — was that some small, broken piece of him was glad.

Her fingers tightened on his shirt, and the cold air pressed in around them, and for one long, frozen breath, neither of them moved. Then Jack's hand came up — not to touch her, but to find her wrist, to close around it. His grip was hard, callused, the hand that had felled trees and swung axes and held his wife's face between his palms on their wedding night. He pushed her. Not hard, not enough to hurt her, but enough to put six inches of cold cab air between them.

"That's enough," he said.

She didn't flinch. Her wrist stayed limp in his grip, her pulse steady under his thumb. She looked down at his hand on her skin, then back up at his face, and her smile widened, slow and knowing.

"Is it?" she asked.

"I mean it, Gina." His voice was low, rough, the voice he used when a tree started to lean wrong and he had seconds to correct it. "This ends now. You get out of this truck, you go back in the house, and you forget this entire conversation happened."

"Or what?"

"Or I call your mother."

She laughed. Soft, bright, genuinely amused, like he'd told her a joke she'd heard before. "You won't call her."

"Try me."

"You won't," she repeated, "because you know what she'd ask. She'd ask why you were alone in a truck with me. She'd ask why you didn't just get out. She'd ask why you're still holding my wrist."

His grip loosened. He didn't let go, but he felt the certainty drain out of his fingers, felt himself losing the argument before he'd even made it. Because she was right. She was always right. Margaret would ask questions he couldn't answer, and every answer would sound like a confession.

He let go of her wrist.

She didn't move away. She stayed there, leaning over the console, her face inches from his, her breath warm on his cheek. The flannel shirt hung open at her throat, and he could see the lace beneath, black and thin, and the soft shadow of cleavage that he forced himself not to look at.

"You know what I think, Daddy?" she whispered.

"I don't—"

"I think you're tired of fighting." Her hand came up, and her fingers brushed his jaw, light as a moth. He flinched, but he didn't pull away. "I think you've been fighting so long you forgot what it feels like to stop."

"I can't." The words came out before he could stop them. "I can't. You're—she's—"

"I'm not her." Her voice dropped, honeyed and soft. "I've never been her. You know that. You've known it since the first time you looked at me, before you even married her."

He shook his head. A small, helpless movement, like he could shake off her words, her touch, the truth of what she was saying.

"You remember," she said. "That summer I came home from school, before the wedding. You were fixing the porch railing, and I came out to watch you. You looked at me, and I saw it. I saw you see me. Not as her daughter. As a woman."

He remembered. He'd spent the rest of that afternoon hammering nails with shaking hands, trying to forget the way the sunlight had caught her hair, the way she'd smiled at him with her mother's eyes and something else entirely in them.

"You've wanted me for two years," she said. "And I've wanted you for longer than that."

"Gina, you don't know what you're—"

"Don't." Her voice sharpened, just for a second. "Don't tell me what I know. I know exactly what I want. I've known for a long time."

Her hand left his jaw and trailed down his chest, over the flannel, over the hard muscle beneath. He stopped breathing. He couldn't help it. Her touch was light, almost playful, but it left a trail of heat that burned through the fabric and into his skin.

"I want you," she said. "I've wanted you since I was old enough to know what wanting meant. And I'm tired of waiting for you to stop pretending you don't want me back."

Her hand reached his belt. His stomach clenched. He grabbed her wrist again, harder this time, his fingers digging into the soft skin.

"Don't," he said. His voice was barely a rasp.

"Why not?" She didn't pull away. She leaned closer, her lips almost brushing his ear. "Because you're married to my mother? You think I don't know that? You think I care?"

"You should."

"I don't." Her free hand came up and closed over his, the one gripping her wrist. She squeezed, gentle, almost reassuring. "I don't care about her. I don't care about what anyone thinks. I only care about you."

"That's not—"

"It is." Her lips brushed his jaw. Feather-light. A ghost of a touch. "You're the only man I've ever wanted. The only one who's ever made me feel like this. And I know you feel it too. I can see it in your eyes every time you look at me. I can hear it in your voice when you say my name."

His hands were shaking. He could feel the tremor in his fingers, in his chest, in the part of him that was screaming at him to push her away, to open the door, to run. But his body wouldn't move. It was like the night before, when he'd lain in bed listening to her bare feet in the hallway, frozen, waiting for something he was terrified of and desperate for at the same time.

Her hand slipped from his grip and came to rest on his thigh. He felt the warmth of her palm through the denim, and his breath caught in his throat.

"I want to give you something," she said softly. "Something you've never had. Something she's never given you."

"Gina—"

"Shh." Her fingers traced a slow circle on his thigh, moving higher. "Just let me. Just for a minute. Let me show you what you've been missing."

His hand came down on hers, pressing it flat against his leg, stopping it before it could go further. His grip was hard, almost desperate, his knuckles white.

"I can't," he said. "I can't do this. You're my—" He stopped. The word stuck in his throat.

"What?" she asked softly. "What am I?"

He couldn't say it. Couldn't say the word that would make this real, that would put a name to the thing coiling in his gut. Because if he said it, if he named it, he couldn't pretend anymore that this was something else, something innocent, something he could walk away from.

Her hand turned under his, and her fingers laced through his. She squeezed, gentle, and he felt the softness of her skin against his calluses, the warmth of her palm against his.

"Let go," she whispered. "Just let go."

He didn't. He held on, his grip tight, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. But he didn't pull away. He didn't let go. He just sat there, frozen, her hand in his, her breath on his face, the frost creeping up the windows around them.

She moved first. She always moved first. Her free hand came up and touched his face, her fingers light on his jaw, turning his head until he was looking at her. Her eyes were wide, honey-brown, soft in the dim light of the cab. Her lips were parted, and he could see the tip of her tongue touching the corner of her mouth.

"Please," she said.

The word broke something in him. He didn't know what it was — a wall, a door, a lock he'd been holding shut for two years — but he felt it give way, felt the pieces fall, felt the cold rush of something that was either relief or terror, he couldn't tell which.

Her hand left his face and moved down, over his chest, over his stomach, past his belt. He felt her fingers brush the button of his jeans, and his whole body went rigid.

"Gina, don't."

"Shh." Her fingers found the zipper. "It's okay. I've got you."

"I'm married to your mother."

"I know." Her voice was soft, almost sad. "I know you are. But she's not here, Daddy. She's not here, and I am."

Her fingers worked the button loose. He heard the click of it, felt the zipper give under her hand, and his breath came out in a rush, shaky and uneven.

"Remember that," he said. His voice was barely a whisper. "Remember that I told you. Remember that I tried to stop you."

"I'll remember." Her hand slipped inside his jeans, warm against his skin. "I'll remember everything."

He closed his eyes. He couldn't watch. He couldn't watch her do this, couldn't watch her hand disappear into his jeans, couldn't watch the smile on her face as she found what she was looking for.

Her fingers closed around him. Soft, tentative at first, exploring. He was soft, still resting, not yet awake — two years of fighting had taught his body to stay down when she was near. But her touch was warm, and her fingers were gentle, and he felt himself stir against her palm despite everything.

She made a small sound. A soft, pleased hum that made his stomach clench.

"I love this," she whispered. "I love the way you feel. The hair, the roughness. It's so—" She paused, searching for the word. "So masculine. So real."

He opened his eyes. He couldn't help it. He had to see her face, had to see what she was thinking, had to know if this was real or if he was dreaming.

She was looking at him with a hunger he'd never seen before. Her lips were parted, her eyes dark, her breath coming fast. She looked like she wanted to devour him.

"I want to taste you," she said.

His heart stopped.

"Gina, no."

"Please." Her hand tightened on him, and he felt himself harden despite the fear, despite the shame, despite every part of him that was screaming at him to stop this. "Please, Daddy. Let me."

"I can't—"

"You can." She leaned forward, and her lips brushed his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. "You can. Just let me. Just this once. Please."

He didn't say yes. He didn't say anything. But he didn't stop her, and that was all the permission she needed.

She slid off the console and onto her knees on the floor mat, between his legs. The cab was cramped, the steering wheel pressing against her back, but she didn't seem to mind. She looked up at him, her honey-brown eyes wide, her lips parted, and she smiled.

"Just relax," she whispered. "I'll take care of you."

She lowered her head. He felt her breath on him, warm and soft, and then her lips touched the head of his cock, and he forgot how to breathe.

She was gentle. Careful. Her lips parted and she took him into her mouth slowly, inch by inch, her tongue flat against the underside, her hands gripping his thighs. He was only half-hard, still soft enough that she could take him deep, and she did, her throat opening around him, her nose brushing the coarse hair at his base.

He made a sound. A low, broken groan that he couldn't stop, couldn't swallow, couldn't deny. His hands came down and gripped the seat on either side of him, his knuckles white, his whole body shaking.

She hummed around him, a soft, pleased sound, and the vibration shot through him like lightning. He felt himself harden fully, felt his cock swell in her mouth, felt the heat of her tongue as she pulled back, slow and deliberate, then pushed forward again.

"Gina." Her name came out ragged, torn from his throat. "Gina, stop. This is wrong."

She pulled off him, just enough to speak, her lips slick, her eyes dark. "It doesn't feel wrong."

"It is. It's—" He couldn't finish. She took him back into her mouth, and the words died in his throat.

She worked him slowly, her mouth hot and wet, her tongue tracing the vein on the underside, her fingers curling around the base of him, stroking what her lips couldn't reach. She was good at this. Too good. She knew exactly how to move, exactly how to suck, exactly how to make him forget everything except the feeling of her mouth on him.

His hands moved without his permission. One came down and buried itself in her hair, clutching the honey-brown strands. He didn't pull. He didn't push. He just held on, like she was the only thing keeping him from drowning.

She moaned around him, and the sound went straight to his groin. He felt himself throb, felt the heat building in his belly, felt the shame and the fear and the desperate, aching need all tangled together into something he couldn't untangle.

"Gina—" His voice broke. "I'm close."

She didn't pull away. She took him deeper, her nose brushing his skin, her throat opening to take all of him. She looked up at him, her eyes locked on his, and he saw it — the triumph, the hunger, the cold, patient certainty that she'd won.

He came with a sound that was almost a sob. His body convulsed, his hands clenching in her hair, his hips jerking as he emptied himself into her mouth. She took it all, swallowing around him, her throat working, her eyes never leaving his.

When he finally went still, trembling and spent, she pulled off him slowly, a string of spit connecting her lips to the head of his cock. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and smiled up at him.

"See?" she whispered. "That wasn't so hard."

He couldn't speak. He couldn't move. He just sat there, slumped against the driver's door, his jeans open, his cock wet and soft, his heart pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears.

She climbed back onto the passenger seat, her bare knees cold, her flannel shirt hanging open. She looked at him with those honey-brown eyes, soft and satisfied, like a cat that had just caught a mouse.

"I'll make coffee," she said. "Fresh. And then we'll talk about what happens next."

She opened the door and stepped out into the cold, and he watched her go, watched her bare feet cross the concrete floor, watched her disappear through the door into the house.

He didn't move. He couldn't. He just sat there, in the cold cab of his truck, his hands shaking, the taste of her still on his lips, and the certain knowledge that he had just crossed a line he could never uncross.

The wrench lay on the floor mat where it had fallen. He didn't pick it up.

He just sat there, and waited for her to come back.