I grip the edges of the sink with trembling fingers. I don't recognize the woman looking back at me. The mirror shows a woman—eyes wide, cheeks flushed, hair tangled from sleep and confrontation. I splash cold water on my face, hoping to drown the heat rising beneath my skin, but it only sharpens my awareness.
My breath comes too fast. I try to slow it. Try to center myself. But the phantom of his hands still lingers on my waist, his voice still curling around my ears like smoke. I shut my eyes and count backwards from ten. I tell myself to get a grip. It doesn't work.
When I come out, he's gone. The absence of his looming presence hits me like a vacuum sucking all the tension out of the air—and leaving behind something worse. The cabin feels too empty, too still. The kind of stillness that isn't peace but warning. The silence crawls over my skin like icy breath down the back of my neck.
Fifteen minutes later, I'm wrapped in one of his oversized flannel shirts, the fabric worn and faintly scented with pine, woodsmoke, and something unmistakably male. It hangs down past my thighs like a stolen armor, brushing against bare skin with every step I take toward the front door. My toes are cold against the floorboards. My heart pounds in my throat like I'm sixteen and sneaking out a window. I don't even know what I expect—freedom? Cell service? A goddamn reality check? Maybe I just need to feel the cold to remind myself this isn't a fever dream.
The door creaks when I open it, the sound jarring in the unnatural stillness. Snow is piled high and gleaming, a blinding white canvas that stretches to the edge of the world. The woods beyond are draped in silence—ancient, brooding, and watchful.
I start to step out barefoot. The snow bites into my skin like tiny teeth, each step a jolt of icy shock up my calves. My breath stutters, visible in the frigid air, and my nipples tighten beneath the flannel, reacting to more than just the cold. Something primal stirs, some part of me that craves the wildness, even as it terrifies me. Every instinct screams that I don't belong out here, but my feet keep moving, as if drawn by something darker, deeper, and far more dangerous.
Before my foot can actually make contact with the frozen porch, a massive hand clamps around my waist and yanks me backward, the grip possessive, punishing. I shriek, panic spiking as adrenaline floods my system. I thrash, elbowing blindly, but it's like striking granite—unyielding, immovable. My bare feet scramble against the icy ground, heart hammering against my ribs, the cold forgotten in the face of the heat pouring off the man behind me.
I know that grip. Know that heat. And still, my body rebels—hips jerking, breath stuttering, an electric jolt racing from thebase of my spine to the tips of my breasts. Shame licks at the edges of my panic, twisted and raw.
"You disobeyed," he growls, his mouth so close to my ear I feel the heat of it slide down my spine like a brand.
The words hang in the air, thick with menace, and something darker—something that knots my stomach with shameful anticipation. His grip on my waist tightens, and my breath catches, torn between panic and the wrong kind of thrill. My skin prickles under his hold, fury clashing with something that feels far too much like want. I can't move. I can't speak. I can only burn.
Zeb's voice is a growl against my ear, breath hot, arms like iron. Before I can scream again, he throws me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing.
"Put me down!"
"No."
I kick. Flail. Pound my fists against his back, wild and frantic. He doesn't budge. Doesn't grunt. Doesn't flinch. My humiliation burns hot enough to rival my rage—but it's the next moment that sears it into something else entirely.
He storms back inside, slams the door shut with his boot. With one arm wrapped around my thighs, Zeb adjusts his weight, tilting me across his body. The first sharp swat lands square across my ass, the crack of it echoing like a gunshot in the closed space of the cabin. I freeze—more from shock than pain—until another lands, harder. The sting blooms fast, electric, each strike sending a ripple of heat through muscle and bone. A third makes me gasp, the pain sharp, cleansing...but worse is the jolt of arousal that floods me in its wake.
By the fourth, I'm panting, ashamed of the way my thighs clench and moisture slicks between them. The shame scalds deeper than the swats, burning in my chest, my throat.
I hate him. Hate how my body reacts. But oh God—some dark, depraved part of me wants more.
Zeb hauls me straight to the bedroom, his grip unyielding as he strides with lethal purpose. He drops me onto the bed with jarring force—like I'm nothing more than a sack of flour, a possession returned to its place.
My breath punches out of me on impact, and I scramble upright, the mattress still bouncing beneath me. My fists ball at my sides, blood roaring in my ears, every instinct screaming to fight. I surge forward, aiming for his jaw, every inch of me vibrating with fury and something darker—something I don't want to name.
But he's already towering over me, eyes wild.
"Don't ever pull that shit again."
"I'm not your property!"
"The hell you aren't."
My fists clench. "You're insane."
"You're reckless. Foolish. You could've died."
"So let me! It's not your damn job to keep me alive!"
His nostrils flare. His jaw flexes. "No, Caryn. It's not a job. It's a need."
He stalks forward, seizing my wrists before I can retreat. His grip is firm—possessive—but stops just shy of pain. His breath tears out of him, ragged and hot, and his pupils are blown so wide his irises nearly vanish. The wildness in his eyes sends a jolt of something sharp and forbidden straight through me.
A tremor races down my spine, and heat twists low in my belly. I feel the tremble in his fingers, the tension radiating off him in waves, and it hits me—he's battling something dark, primal, and he's a hair's breadth from losing that fight.
"You scared the hell out of me."
