Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
“Saint,” I say again, softer this time, closing the last few feet between us.
She gets to her knees and looks up at me with eyes that struggle to focus. Her lips are blue, skin pale as death. Snow clings to her hair, her eyelashes. She’s so cold she’s not even shivering anymore. She’s past that stage, entering the danger zone.
“N-no,” she tries to say, but the word comes out slurred. “L-let me—”
“You’re dying,” I tell her bluntly. “Another ten minutes out here and you’re dead. Is that what you want?”
“B-better than—” Her teeth chatter so hard she can’t finish.
“Better than what? Being my wife?” I crouch in front of her, reaching out. “You’d rather freeze to death than marry me?”
“Y-yes.” The word is barely a whisper, but it’s filled with so much defiance, so much raw honesty, that it hits me harder than the pan did.
She means it. She’d actually rather die than be mine. Maybe that’s what I should do. Let her go. She’s made her choice, clearly. It would be the right thing to do, the merciful thing. But I didn’t go through all this trouble for nothing, and I’m done pretending I’ll ever let her go again.
“Well, you don’t get that choice,” I tell her, scooping her into my arms despite her weak attempts to fight me. “I’ve already risked everything to keep you alive. I’m not letting you throw your life away now.”
She tries to struggle, but her body won’t cooperate. The cold has taken her strength, leaving her helpless in my arms. She makes a sound that might be a sob or might just be her body’s response to being moved.
“I h-hate you,” she manages.
“I know.” I walk back toward the cabin, holding her tight against my chest. “And you’ll hate me even more tomorrow when we get married. Because you’re smart enough to choose survival, even when survival looks like surrender.”
She doesn’t respond. Might not have even heard me. Her head lolls against my shoulder, consciousness slipping. That’s bad. Shit.
I move faster, retracing my steps the best I’m able. The cabin isn’t far, but in this storm, with visibility nearly zero, it feels like miles. Blood from my head wound drips onto the snow, leaving a trail. My head still pounds, but I ignore it. Pain is nothing. Fear for Saint? That’s everything.
The trees thin, and suddenly, there it is—the cabin, warm light spilling from the open door. I climb the porch steps and kick the door shut behind us, sealing out the storm.
The warmth of the cabin hits like a wall. I carry Saint straight to the fire, setting her down on the floor in front of the hearth. She’s not shaking anymore. Not moving at all except for the shallow rise and fall of her chest.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
I strip off my coat first, then start on her clothes. Her flannel shirt is soaked through and frozen stiff in places. Her skin underneath is ice cold, lips and fingernails blue. I peel off everything until she’s down to her underwear, then grab every blanket in the cabin.
But blankets won’t be enough. Not for hypothermia this severe.
Body heat. That’s what she needs—direct skin-to-skin contact.
I strip off my own wet shirt and jeans, leaving me in just boxers, then pull her against me. She’s so cold it’s shocking, like holding a corpse. I wrap us both in blankets, surrounding her with my warmth, trying to will heat back into her frozen limbs.
And that’s when my brain catches up with my body.
Her skin against mine. Soft and cold and everywhere. Her breasts pressed against my chest, with only the thin fabric of her panties and my boxers separating us below. The curve of her hip under my hand. Her thighs tangled with mine. The sweet, vulnerable length of her body aligned perfectly with mine.
Christ.
This is not the time. She’s dying—hypothermic and needing medical attention—not, fuck, not whatever my body thinks is happening right now. But biology doesn’t care about timing. My cock is already stirring, responding to the feel of her nearly naked in my arms despite the fact that she’s blue-lipped and barely conscious.
I’m going to hell. Definitely going to hell. Not that there was ever a question.
I adjust my hips, trying to put some distance between us without stopping the heat transfer she desperately needs. But there’s nowhere to go. We’re tangled together, skin to skin, and every breath slides her body against mine, making my jaw clench.
“Come on, Saint,” I murmur against her hair, trying to focus on keeping her alive rather than how good she feels pressed against me. “Don’t you dare die on me. Not after everything.”
Her breathing is shallow and irregular. I hold her tighter, one hand rubbing up and down her back, trying to generate friction, heat, anything. My palm slides over the smooth plane of her spine, the curve of her lower back, the soft skin that’s slowly losing its corpse-like chill.