I follow the tracks to the ravine, where the snow deepens and the pines crowd close like sentinels. No more prints. No sound but wind. Whoever it was, they knew to cover their trail. But they made one mistake:
Whoever it is, he came here to my territory.
I make it back to the cabin just before dusk, the temperature dropping fast. Smoke curls from the chimney. Inside, I know she's still burning. Not from the fire—she's burning because of me. Because of what I awakened in her. The taste of her still lingers on my tongue, and the memory of her breaking apart under my mouth plays like a visceral echo. I branded her with pleasure, carved my claim into her flesh with every stroke of my tongue.
Now, she can't sleep, can't breathe, can't move without feeling me. And that's exactly how I want her—haunted, trembling beneath the surface, coming undone in a way that leaves her raw and aching, as though her very nerve endings are being stripped bare by the memory of my mouth, my grip, my claim that makes her pulse thrum and breath catch.
The proof was in what I showed her, the way her breath stuttered and her body tensed like she'd seen a ghost from her own past. The look in her eyes said she recognized something—maybe not the full truth, but enough to keep her awake tonight.
I shed my gear and step inside. The smell hits me first—cedar, embers, and her. She doesn't hear me at first. She's curled up in the armchair, legs tucked under her, wearing nothing but one of my flannels. It dwarfs her frame, sleeves bunched around her fists, collar open just enough to tease the slope of her throat.
Her head turns. Her eyes meet mine. The silence stretches, tight and wired, my control held together by sheer force of will.
"Someone was here," I say.
Her brow furrows. "What do you mean?"
"Footprints. Just north of the bluff. Covered by snow, but I tracked them as far as the ravine. They're gone now, but they were watching."
She pales, eyes flicking toward the window. "Who would even know I was up here?"
I don't answer. My jaw clenches instead, a muscle ticking as frustration coils tight in my gut. Because I don't know—and the not knowing makes me feel unmoored, like the ground under my boots has turned to ice. That kind of uncertainty is a weakness I can't afford. Not with her safety at stake. Not with something hunting on my mountain.
I walk past her to the hearth, strip off my jacket and let the heat wash over my skin. I feel her eyes on me. Tension crackles in the air, sharp as lightning before a storm. It snakes between us, coiling like a live wire—dangerous, electric, alive. I can feel the heat of her body from across the room, the shallow pull of her breath, the flicker of something primal in her gaze.
Every nerve hums with anticipation, a collision waiting to happen. Her pupils dilate, chest rising with shallow breaths, as if she's bracing for impact. Her knuckles whiten where they grip the chair's armrests, and her lips part like she's caught between denial and surrender. Every breath she takes sounds like it's scraped from the bottom of her lungs, tight with anticipation or dread—maybe both.
Her spine stays rigid, but there's a slight tremble in her thighs, a visible war between the instinct to bolt and the craving to stay exactly where she is and see what comes next. I can see it: her fists clenching tighter around the sleeves of my flannel, her thighs pressing together in a futile effort to disguise the pulse ofneed throbbing through her. My gaze drops, dragging over the lines of her body like a caress, and when I meet her eyes again, the challenge is there—burning, breathless, defiant. She wants to fight it, but her body has already betrayed her.
"Do you think it's someone connected to your past? Or mine?" she asks, her voice quiet, uncertain.
"Doesn't matter who it is. They're a problem. I don't tolerate problems; I eliminate them."
Her lips press into a line, but she doesn't challenge me. Smart girl.
I turn slowly, letting the silence thicken between us. Her breath stutters—a short, sharp hitch I catch before I even see her face. Then it hits me, subtle but unmistakable: the spike of adrenaline, laced with something darker, sweeter. Arousal. It's tangled in her fear like barbed wire wrapped in silk. She's trying to hide it, to sit still and unaffected, but her body is a traitor.
Her pulse flutters visibly at her throat. Her knees press together, then spread again, caught between retreat and reckless invitation. I inhale slowly, letting the scent settle inside me, igniting possession and primal hunger. She doesn't speak, doesn't move, but I don't need her words. Her body tells the truth—and it's screaming for mine.
"You're scared," I murmur.
She lifts her chin. "Of course I am. You brought me up here and told me no one would come looking until spring."
"That's not what you're afraid of."
She stiffens and snorts. "Don't flatter yourself."
I cross the room in three deliberate strides, each one a silent declaration of intent. I stop just inches from her, close enough that the heat between us has nowhere to go but inward. I lean down until our noses nearly touch, her breath tangling with mine, shallow and sharp. Her eyes go wide, pupils blown, the flush of anticipation staining her cheeks. My fingers lift slowly,knuckles grazing her skin before my hand cups her jaw. My thumb slides along the delicate edge of her throat, not rough yet, but possessive. A silent warning. A promise.
"I felt it last night," I whisper, low and lethal. "How close you were to begging. How deep you sank."
Her lips part as if to deny me, to hurl some sharp retort—but nothing comes. Her breath catches instead, trembling on the edge of sound, eyes locked on mine like prey caught between defiance and surrender. That silence? It's not refusal. It's capitulation, raw and unspoken, burning with a heat she refuses to name.
"You don't need to lie, Caryn. Not to me. Not to yourself."
A shiver starts low in her belly and ripples outward, barely visible—but I see it. The tremble in her thighs, the catch in her breath, the way her fingers curl tighter in the folds of my flannel like she's holding on to the last thread of control. Not much. Just enough to let me know I've cracked her wide open.
My hand slides into her hair, fingers threading through the silky strands before fisting at the nape. Not yanking—just anchoring her to me with a grip that says she's not going anywhere. Possession hums in every knuckle.
