Splinter and Spine

The body knows what the mind refuses to name. Hold still long enough, and the fracture tells you where you were broken before he ever touched you.

I don't save people anymore.

For three years, the Alaksa interior has been my prison and my sanctuary. They call me Grim. Once, I was a celebrated practitioner in Anchorage, until a single, microscopic error under my fingertips shattered a boy's spine—and my entire life. Now, I touch only dead wood and cold leather, enforcing absolute isolation to keep the world safe from my dangerous hands.

Until a blinding, fourteen-below blizzard drops her at my doorstep.

Cleo Vance is a nomadic photojournalist running from her own claustrophobic ghosts. A brutal snowmobile crash leaves her broken on my property with a T12 compression fracture. My hands know her spine instantly. They map her contours, her boundaries, her heat. I build her a rigid corset of birch and elk hide to trap her in place. To save her.

But saving isn't the only thing my hands want anymore.

As the days turn into weeks inside my claustrophobic log cabin, a dark game of psychological dependency takes root. I tighten her buckles to restrict her autonomy, making her rely on me for every breath, every sip of water, every ounce of survival. I hide the working satellite phone because her presence is the only thing keeping my inner chaos at bay. I tell myself it's for her recovery.

The terrifying truth? Cleo isn't a helpless hostage. She spotted the phone weeks ago and chose to stay silent.

Trapped in a prison built by both of our deceptions, we are two liars playing a volatile game of control and surrender. Her camera captures my darkest vulnerabilities, while my touch unravels her defenses, drifting dangerously past the medical boundaries I swore never to cross again.

When secrets fracture and the raw truth comes to light, can a love built on confinement survive the thaw?