I wasn't afraid of the memory or the myth before. But now, the reality of him terrifies me because he's real—and because I can feel something in me answering him, something I don't want to even acknowledge, much less name.
The man from the storm. From the dream I've never stopped having. From the dark fantasies that haunted my dreams. But now, wide awake, he's even more dangerous than I imagined.
"You're awake again," he says, voice rough with disuse.
I clutch the fur tighter. "Where's my stuff?"
He shrugs off his coat and hangs it on a hook. "Drying. You were soaked through. Hypothermic. Remember? We went through this before."
"Humor me. Does that explain the whole—undressing me thing?"
He looks me dead in the eye. "Would you rather I let you die?"
I swallow hard. "No, but I think a simple towel would've sufficed."
His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "You'd be dead, sweet thing. Hypothermia doesn't play fair."
I hate that he's right. I hate more that I remember that same tone from years ago—when I was a lost girl in the snow and he was the ghost who pulled me free.
"You're not exactly a welcoming committee," I mutter.
He cocks his head. "I don't recall issuing you an invitation."
The words land like a slap, blunt and unapologetic. My jaw clenches, and for a second I can't decide whether to shout, laugh, or throw something. Part of me wants to rail against the insult, against the insinuation that I'm just some lost girl chasing shadows.
But the worst part—the part I can't deny—is the flicker of heat curling in my belly. It spreads like wildfire, licking up my spine, tightening my thighs, making my breath hitch as my body betrays me. That raw, primal part doesn't care that I'm angry or afraid. It responds to his dominance—bright and hot, pooling low and sending sharp pulses of want through me.
I press my thighs together, but it only deepens the ache, heightens the awareness of how desperately my body craves contact. I shouldn't want this. I shouldn't. But I do. And that terrifies me more than anything else.
Silence stretches. The wind screams outside, and I realize how far from civilization I really am.
"Who are you?" I ask finally.
"You already know."
Zeb. The beast. That's what they'd called him in rumors. The hermit, the madman, the former Army Ranger with a sniper's past and a ghost's reputation.
"I came here looking for someone else."
"Liar."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"We both know, you came looking for me. Whether you admit it or not."
He pushes away from the doorframe and steps toward me, slow and deliberate, closing the space between us like a predator herding prey. The air between us thickens, tension crackling. I want to back up, to put space between us, but my legs refuse to move. He stops just short of touching me, his presence brushing against my skin like a warning—or a promise. My heart pounds so hard it hurts, and I swear he can hear it.
He's not wrong. But the fact that he knows? That he expects it? That he's been waiting?
My pulse kicks up, equal parts fear and something darker. Something traitorous.
"You planning on keeping me here?"
He leans against the doorframe. "Storm hasn't let up. There aren't any roads up here, and any that exist down below are out. You picked one hell of a day for a joy ride."
"Is there any way I can contact my people?"
He snorts. "You don't have people. And there's no radio, no phone, no internet. You're cut off from your world. You might as well get comfortable, you're not going anywhere."
