Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 33333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
He smiles.
A slow, dark, wicked thing. A threat disguised as amusement.
Oh no. Oh no, I liked that way too much.
I scramble. “Okay, folks! Time to vote on finalists!” I laugh too loudly. “Isn’t this fun?”
Thorne doesn’t look away from me.
Not once.
The screen floods with hearts and skull emojis. Comments fly like bats in a cave.
@mountainMILF: this tension is ILLEGAL
@aspenfordestruction: I will sell my soul to see them hate-kiss
@unsafewithwolves: Thorne blink twice if ur into choking
I step away from him again, breathe in, smile at the camera. “While the votes come in, let’s take a quick break! Don’t go anywhere—we’ll be right back.”
I hit END LIVE before anything else explodes.
The silence that follows should feel like relief.
It doesn’t.
It feels dangerous.
My pulse hammers, loud enough I’m pretty sure he hears it. I can feel him behind me before I turn. Heavy stare. Heavy heat. Heavy man.
I brace myself and face him.
He isn’t smiling anymore.
“You done?” he asks quietly.
“That depends,” I counter. “You planning to admit you had fun?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Careful.”
“Of what?” I lift my chin. “You?”
His eyes narrow. “You really think I’m the dangerous one here?”
“I know you are.”
“And yet,” he steps closer, “you keep pushing.”
“Only because you keep pushing back.”
His mouth curves—not a smile, something darker. “You like it.”
My skin prickles. “No.”
“You like when I chase you.”
“I like when you lose.”
“Never going to happen.”
“Already did.” I gesture toward where his shirt lies abandoned over a chair. “You showed up half-naked on a livestream. You lost before we started.”
He stalks even closer, invading my space like it’s his right. “Is that how you see it?”
“That’s how it is.”
“You think taking my shirt off was surrender?”
“Looked like a cry for help.”
He laughs once—deep, heated, sinful. “No, witch. That was strategy.”
I swallow. “Strategy?”
“Now everyone saw what you already know.” His voice drops to wreckage. “I don’t scare easy.”
My breath catches. “I never said you scare me.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“No,” he says, stepping so close his scent slides inside my lungs. “You’re afraid of how much you want me.”
For a beat, for a moment, for a dangerous heartbeat—I don’t move.
I should snap back. I should torch him with something razor-sharp, something reckless and defiant.
But I can’t form a single word.
Because he’s not wrong.
He sees it.
He smells it.
And I hate that it thrills him.
“You’re so sure of yourself,” I manage. “Must be exhausting.”
“Not as exhausting as pretending.” His voice is low now, threaded with something rough. “You want honesty? You want raw?” His jaw clenches. “Fine. Yes, I want you on your knees. Yes, I think about your mouth when you talk back to me. Yes, I want to push you against every flat surface in this lodge until you forget how to breathe—”
My knees go liquid.
“—but I’m not going to touch you,” he finishes.
That snaps me out of it.
“What?” My voice scrapes. “Why the hell not?”
“Because you don’t know what you’re asking for.” Heat coils off him like wildfire. “And you’re not ready.”
That does it.
I laugh—sharp, lethal. “Oh, you arrogant son of a—”
He grabs my chin—firm, not gentle—forcing me to look up. “Do not test me with your mouth unless you’re ready to use it.”
Oh. My. God.
The room spins. My pulse is too loud. My jaw clenches beneath his hand, but I don’t pull away.
I can’t.
“Let go of me,” I whisper.
He does. Immediately. Respectfully. Almost infuriatingly.
He takes a step back—but not far. Never far. “You should walk away, Aspen.”
“I won’t.”
“I know.”
“And that doesn’t scare you?”
His gaze burns. “Nothing scares me the way you do.”
The words steal my breath.
I open my mouth to say—what, I don’t know—but a crash from the front door cuts between us like a shotgun blast.
We both turn.
Boots thud. Cold wind screams in.
And then a voice calls out, “Yo Maddox! You alive or chained in the basement or—holy shit.”
Thorne grunts. “Aspen, meet Zane Warner—Devil’s Peak local, best friend to disaster, notorious shit-stirrer.”
My eyes dart between the two men, packed with muscle, mischief sparkling in their eyes. “Perfect.”
Zane takes in the room: tinsel, fog machine, a dozen fallen glitter bats—and Thorne standing shirtless with EMOTIONALLY UNAVAILABLE written across his chest while I stand in ripped fishnets and smeared lipstick.
He grins like Christmas came early. “Well damn,” he whistles. “Looks like I walked in on foreplay.”
Thorne growls. Like actually growls.
I smile brightly. “We’re filming a contest!”
Zane tips his chin at Thorne. “Is that what we’re calling stroking your rage-boner on camera now?”
“Leave,” Thorne orders.
“Nope,” Zane says cheerfully. “Brought your supplies. Winter said you needed—” he squints “—holy shit, are those bats on your ceiling?”
“Don’t ask,” Thorne grinds out.
Zane tosses him a canvas bag. “Supplies. And before you thank me—don't. You owe me beer. Or a kidney. Depends how tonight goes.”
He heads for the kitchen like he owns the place.
The interruption breaks the spell—and I hate it. Hate that I feel his absence like cold against skin. Hate how much I already want the tension back.