Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
“But you’ve had sex with her.”
“What Frankie and I shared…” His focus falters, looking through me, not at me. “It was more intimate than sex.”
My mind sifts through situations that fit that description, and I take a dark turn fast.
Held captive by a psychopath in the Arctic Circle.
Only been in civilization for six months.
I didn’t exist.
They’ve been through hell.
He stares at his empty plate. “If you stick around, maybe I’ll tell you the story someday.”
“Thank you. For dinner. And a place to stay. For all of it.” Even though it’s weird as hell.
“I know it’s a lot, but you’re safe here.”
God, that word again.
Safe.
Everyone throws it around like it means something. I’ve never heard a word more fragile. People promise it, whisper it, swear by it, and still, the worst things happen anyway.
I lean back and examine him. He’s barefoot, lean but muscled, with those wild blue eyes that never seem to settle. His damp hair curls at the ends, and there’s a smear of charcoal under one eye like he forgot to wipe off his makeup completely.
He’s lethally beautiful.
Beautiful men have always been trouble for me. They make promises with their eyes, seduce with their tongues, and vanish before morning. Or worse, they stay and destroy me slowly.
“You ever sleep with them?” I tip my chin toward the staircase.
“Used to. In the Arctic. Not anymore.”
“Why not?”
“I snore. They voted me out.”
“What’s the real answer?”
“They found something I haven’t.”
The way he says it—shoulders relaxed, gaze level, as if he isn’t standing outside the circle with his nose pressed to the glass—he wants the world to think nothing can touch him.
It’s all bullshit.
“Come on.” He grabs our empty plates. “I’ll show you the guest house.”
My nerves regroup as we step outside. Rain drizzles in misty sheets, and the cold wind pushes against us with salty breath.
Wolf grabs a flashlight and leads us along a paved path, the beam cutting through the dark.
Tucked beneath the evergreens, the guest house comes into view, close enough to the mansion to feel like part of the compound. The cozy two-story cottage matches its stone counterpart with accented wood, glass, and soft amber light.
He unlocks the door and flicks on a lamp.
It’s warm. Lived-in. Not overly fancy like the main house, but comfortable with a leather couch, open kitchen, and fire crackling in the wood stove.
Shouldering my backpack, I step inside and toe off my boots.
“The locks around here are solid.” Wolf shows me the keypad on the door and gives me the passcode. “The bedrooms are up there.” He motions toward the staircase. “Separate bathrooms, in case you’re worried about accidental defilement.”
“What about intentional defilement?”
“Say that again, but slower.” His eyes darken.
“That wasn’t an invitation.”
“Could’ve sworn I heard the mating call of a dove.” He arches a brow. “What? Didn’t say I would accept it.”
“The answer is no.”
“What was the question?”
I brush past him and take the stairs two at a time. Peeking into each doorway, I choose the room less lived-in and drop my bag on the bed.
When I spin back around, I come face-to-chest with the intoxicating scent of leather and tobacco. My nose bounces off a hard pectoral, and I swallow a gasp.
Christ, he’s overwhelming, taking up space, and sucking all the oxygen.
What does he want?
Shit, did I pick the wrong room?
“You’re not sleeping here, right?” I crane my neck to meet his eyes.
“You want me to?”
“No,” I say too fast.
“Keep flirting with me, and I’ll have you back in that wedding dress and wearing my ring.”
“I’m not flirting.”
“Careful, Runaway. Mixed signals are my kink.”
“You’ve lost your mind.”
“Says the woman who ran from her wedding to an island of naked strangers.”
“Get out.” I push him toward the door as if it’s my room, not his.
“Still don’t trust me?” He lets me manhandle him into the hall, his grin lopsided and eyes sparkling. Clearly enjoying the hell out of this.
“I don’t trust anyone.”
“Join the club. We meet on Tuesdays.”
I start to close the door in his face, but his expression stalls my hand, and I catch the door mid-swing.
A beat of silence pulses between us, our gazes locked. Too loud and intimate.
“For what it’s worth…” He grips the doorframe overhead, inadvertently flexing his forearms. “I haven’t lied to you.”
He’s underselling it.
From the moment I met him, he protected me, lost his job for me, fed me, gave me a place to sleep, and shared personal details about his life.
I’ve given nothing in return. No answers. No trust. No repayment. The least I could do is fuck him into a mindless coma. It wouldn’t be a hardship. Just thinking about riding his sexy body ignites a greedy little throb between my legs.
But that’s not why he’s helping me.
Being alone sucks. That’s the reason.
Wouldn’t kill me to give him something.
“I’m a mechanic.” I release my hold on the door. “I used to have my own garage. Specialized in vintage engines, mostly.”