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)
But Thorne just scrubs a hand over his jaw and mutters something like a curse under his breath.
When he looks at me again, there’s steel back in his eyes.
“We’re done here for tonight.”
“No we’re not,” I say.
“Yes. We are.”
“Then warn me next time before you come at me like—like that.”
He steps closer again. “You wanted war.”
“I didn’t ask for psychological torture.”
“You asked for honest.”
“I asked for real, not reckless.”
He looks down at me long and hard. “Same thing with you.”
Before I can argue, he stalks off into the kitchen after Zane—leaving me standing there with my heart in my throat and my sanity held together by one fraying thread.
I lean back against the wall, drag in breath after breath.
I should be furious. I should be done with him. I should reapply my lipstick and armor up again and turn this whole contest into a middle finger.
But all I can think is—he didn’t deny any of it.
He wants me.
He just won’t let himself have me.
Yet.
The problem is, I’m not sure which one of us I should be more afraid of when that changes.
Chapter 8
Thorne
Aspen Taylor is going to be the death of me.
She stands in front of the massive stone fireplace, one hand on her hip, hair wild from earlier chaos, lipstick smudged like sin, laughter already simmering beneath the surface as she pops open another miniature bottle of fireball whiskey.
And I’m losing. Not the argument. Not the power struggle. I’m losing my goddamn mind over her.
The livestream is over. The storm hasn’t let up. The generator is still dead. And the lodge looks like a haunted circus exploded inside it—tinsel, fog, ravens, fake gravestones, and glittering jack-o-lanterns everywhere.
Chaos.
Her chaos.
And it’s seeping into me like poison I can’t refuse.
She tosses me a daredevil smile. “We should pass the time tonight like civilized adults,” she says.
I snort. “You’re incapable of civilization.”
“True.” She grins. “Which is why we’re playing Truth or Dare: Halloween Edition.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
She flops dramatically onto the couch, legs crossed, skirt riding up in a way that should be illegal. “Scared?”
“I don’t play drunk party games.”
“This isn’t drunk. This is scary drunk. Big difference.”
“Still not happening.”
She watches me from her sprawled throne of throw pillows she smuggled in. “Fine. You pick the game.”
“We’re not playing any game.”
“We could always play strip—”
“Truth or Dare it is,” I cut her off, sitting across from her before she can finish that suicidal sentence.
She beams. I already regret breathing.
“Okay!” She claps once. “I go first.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
I glare. “That’s my line.”
She leans forward, eyes wicked. “Not anymore.”
I don’t blink. “Go.”
“Thorne Maddox.” She points at me like she’s Moses laying down a commandment. “Truth or dare?”
“Dare.”
“Thank God.” She bolts off the couch, rummages inside her ridiculous Halloween crate, and comes back with a paintbrush and a tiny jar of neon-orange body paint.
“No,” I tell her.
“Yes,” she sings.
“That’s not happening.”
She pops the jar open and wiggles the brush at me. “Take your shirt off.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then you fail. Which means…” She taps her chin dramatically. “You have to surrender one of your rules.”
My jaw flexes. Little menace knows exactly what she’s doing.
“One rule,” she repeats. “Gone. Permanently.”
I could walk away. End it now.
Instead, I peel off my shirt.
Her thighs press together.
I notice.
Her cheeks get pink.
I notice that, too.
She steps closer, suddenly quieter. Lips parted. Paintbrush poised. “Lay down,” she says.
I don’t move. “Why.”
She cocks her head. “Because I’m painting a jack-o’-lantern on your abs. Obviously.”
I stare at her. “You’re deranged.”
“And you’re ruining the vibe. Down.”
I exhale once—through my nose—and lie back across the rug in front of the fire.
She kneels beside me, straddling one thigh for balance, body heat brushing against me through layers of cotton and denim. Fake casual. Real dangerous. Her scent hits me—sweet, warm, vanilla with something darker beneath.
She dips the brush in paint. Pauses. Looks at my stomach like she’s about to worship or destroy it. Maybe both.
“Hold still,” she murmurs.
“Not a problem.”
“That sounds like a problem.”
Then she touches me.
Paintbrush trails across my abs in slow strokes that feel nothing like paint.
No. They feel like fingertips. Like curiosity. Like temptation in bright Halloween orange.
I watch her face instead of her hand. Her concentration is infuriating. Lips parted, brow pinched. There’s a smear of paint on her wrist and a little freckle near her collarbone that I never noticed before.
“You’re staring,” she mutters.
“You’re climbing me.”
“This is art.”
“This is harassment.”
“Then sue me.”
“You’d like that.”
Her brush dips lower. My muscles tighten—and her eyes flick up.
“Sensitive?” she dares.
“Focused.”
She drags the bristles slowly over my lower abdomen, dangerously close to a boundary we haven’t talked about yet. Electricity crackles under my skin.
“You’re enjoying this,” I say.
She grins—sharp and bright. “Immensely.”
She finishes the first pumpkin, complete with sharp teeth and devil horns—cute—and then paints two more, making a whole unholy trio grinning up from my torso.
She sits back, proud and breathless. “Beautiful. Festive. Terrifying.”