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)
Intensity radiates off him—hot, consuming, too much. But I don’t move. Don’t breathe.
Don’t blink.
“Thorne,” I say carefully, “if you shut those lights off, I swear—I will hex your beard.”
His eyes drop to my mouth. “Hex my—what the hell does that even mean?”
“It means I’ll braid tinsel in it while you’re sleeping.”
His lips twitch. Dangerous. “You touch my beard, you’ll need last rites, witch.”
“Promises, promises.”
We stand too close again—always too close. My pulse kicks hard, traitorous and obvious. And he hears it. Feels it. His expression shifts, slow and molten, like something inside him has decided.
“So that’s how it is,” he murmurs.
“How what is?” I ask, breath catching.
“You like pushing men who push back.”
My throat tightens. “I like men who don’t bore me to death.”
“Good,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough that I feel his breath against my cheek, sparking nerve endings like wildfire. “Because I don’t plan on being boring with you.”
I swallow. “Is that another threat?”
“No,” he growls. “It’s a guarantee.”
The power flickers overhead—almost like the lodge is reacting to him. To us. The bats pulse crimson.
He steps back first, eyes still burning into mine. “Leave the bats,” he says finally.
I blink. “What?”
“I said leave them.”
My mouth falls open. “You’re not turning them off?”
His jaw flexes. “You wanted atmosphere. Fine. You win this one.”
He flips a switch—not the breaker—and one lantern by the fireplace flickers to life. The shadows move across his face, carving sharp lines of hunger and restraint.
“But we set rules,” he says. “Before you burn this place down with your sugar-coated insanity.”
“I don’t do rules,” I say.
“You will.”
My heart kicks. “Try me.”
He counts on his fingers.
“One: no candy left out.”
“Rude.”
“Two: limited lights. You don’t plug in anything else without telling me first.”
“We’ll discuss that.”
“Three.” He waits until I meet his eyes. “You don’t climb shit without me there.”
I freeze. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” His voice dips, controlled and raw. “If you’re climbing, I’m holding you.”
Oh.
Oh.
The meaning behind that simple sentence hits between my ribs. Hard. Possessive and protective and unnecessary—but so stupidly hot I can barely think.
My voice is husky when I speak. “And if I don’t agree?”
He leans in again, voice a dark promise. “Then I’ll tie you to the damn railing to keep you safe.”
The heat between us spikes into something feral.
I still don’t back down.
“That's kinky,” I whisper.
His lips curve—slow, wicked. “You have no idea.”
My entire body lights up. There it is—the hunger he keeps trying to hide. The beast under the beard and flannel. I want more.
“Fine,” I say, voice steadier than I feel. “I’ll follow your rules—if you follow mine.”
His brow lifts. “You have rules?”
“Oh, so many.” I step closer. “Rule one: don’t cut my power without warning.”
His gaze drops to my lips again, hungry. “Don’t tempt me.”
“Rule two: let me finish the decorations.”
“We’ll see.”
“And rule three.” I pause for effect. “No touching.”
He goes still.
Completely still.
“That so?” he asks quietly.
“Yes.” I lift my chin. “You don’t get to touch me whenever you want. Especially not when I’m five feet up a ladder or minding my own business.”
He steps into me again, shadow swallowing me whole. “You think I want to touch you?”
“I know you do.”
His breath punches out slow. Controlled. Dangerous.
“Careful,” he rasps. “You keep talking like that, I’ll give you something real to be afraid of.”
My pulse skitters. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t play nice either.”
We stand there in gridlocked tension, neither willing to step back first. Then he surprises me.
He holds out his hand.
“A truce,” he says.
My brows knit. “With rules?”
“Three each.”
“What happens if one of us breaks one?”
His fingers curl around mine when I slip my hand into his—big, warm, calloused. “Then we settle it.”
“How?”
His gaze scorches me. “Any way we want.”
We shake on it.
A stupid, dangerous handshake.
And the moment his palm slides from mine, I feel it like a mark burned into skin.
I spin away before I melt into a puddle of poor life choices and haunted lust. “Great,” I chirp with forced cheer. “Then I’ll get back to working.”
“Don’t blow a fuse,” he warns.
I toss hair back over my shoulder and start toward the décor box. “Don’t blow a gasket.”
“Aspen,” he calls.
I look back.
“Leave the lips,” he says again, voice gravel-dark. “I like the red.”
I shouldn’t shiver.
But I do.
The storm howls outside, and the bats glow hotter.
Game on.
It takes another hour to restore the room to my standards—cobweb draped perfectly, skull mantle balanced, candles arranged safely far from fabric. I’m adding finishing touches to a centerpiece (fog machine + ravens = romantic ambiance, fight me) when Thorne reappears, wiping grease off his hands.
He jerks his chin toward the dining room. “Dinner.”
I pad over, curious and cautious. He lifts the lid off a cast iron skillet, and a waft of something warm and savory fills the air.
“Is that… stew?” I blink.
“Elk,” he says.
My jaw drops. “Like… an actual elk?”