The look in her eyes—defiant, guilty, hungry—burned into me harder than her mouth ever could.
By the third day, I was pacing less and smiling more. Not that I’d admit it to a damn soul. But I’ve been using the time wisely, finishing up what I started in the barn. She doesn’t know. I’ve kept her barred from it, told her she’ll see it when it’s ready.
Truth is, I want her surprised. Want her eyes wide, her mouth soft, when she sees what I’ve built back up for her.
My old ring. My resurrection. Our game.
And for once, I don’t feel chained to it. I feel like maybe I’m the one holding the reins. The thought unsettles me almost as much as it steadies me. Like I’m waking up from an eight-year hibernation and stretching muscles I forgot I had.
Still, looming on the horizon?
That damn fair this weekend.
The one I promised I’d take her to. I grit my teeth and shove it down.
Don’t need to deal with that yet. Not when I’ve got more pressing matters.
Like feeding my petal.
I shut the barn door and head inside.
Prepare what she likes and balance the tray in one hand—a cup of cider with bread, venison, the jar of her favorite jam Ifound stashed in the pantry. Push open the bedroom door with my shoulder.
She’s propped up in bed, my vest that looks like a dress on her riding high on her thighs, socks sagging at her knees. A manual open in her hands. One of mine.
“Is it safe to come in, petal?” I rumble, leaning in the doorway. “Or is it still Armageddon in here?”
Her eyes flick up. Green fire. “Fuck you, Bear.”
My cock twitches.
Christ, I love her mean. The sound of her voice like that makes something in my chest loosen and clench all at once.
I groan, palming myself through my jeans, letting her see. “Just say the word, baby, and I’ll plug you good and nasty, make us both feel so much better.”
She narrows her eyes. Then hurls the manual straight at my head.
It smacks my shoulder and falls to the floor.
And for the first time in years, I laugh.
Not a huff or a grunt.
A deep, tearing laugh that shakes loose something I thought was fossilized. It rolls out of me until my ribs ache and my eyes sting.
She glares, but the corners of her mouth twitch.
And I know, without a fucking doubt—this mountain hasn’t heard the last of my laughter. Not while she’s here. Not while she’s mine to feed, to fuck, to tease, to surprise.
Sweet heaven, if there’s a God listening,please, fucking please... mine to love.
“Are you listening to me,petal? You need to listen.”
My voice sounds rougher than I mean it to. Low and rumbling, half warning, half plea.
Because every inch of me is stretched tight as a bowstring.
She presses her palms to my chest—those tiny, warm hands on slabs of tense muscle—and tilts that little face up at me. “I heard every word, Bear. Stop worrying.”
