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)
“Try.”
Her fist smacks my back. “You can’t manhandle me into obedience.”
I slap her ass. “Already did.”
She gasps. Freezes. And yeah—I feel the way her breath stops. I feel the way her body reacts to mine.
So I keep walking.
She stops shouting when we reach my room. Probably because she notices the fireplace—the only other source of heat in this place. The stacks of quilts. The size of my bed.
She stiffens. “No.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sharing a bed with you.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“I always have a choice.”
“Not when that choice is hypothermia.”
She crosses her arms. “I’ll sleep in the bathtub.”
“Frozen pipes.”
“The kitchen.”
“Colder than outside right now, temperatures dipped below freezing last night and the wind coming off the peak keeps knocking out the pilot light–the old boiler can’t keep up.”
She throws her hands up. “The floor near the fire then.”
“You’re fucking high,” I say. “Get in the bed.”
“No.”
She tries to stomp past me. I catch her wrist. She jerks, but I don’t let go. My grip is firm, not cruel. Her breathing changes instantly. Mine does too.
Slowly, deliberately, I step closer. “Do you think I’m the kind of man who asks the same thing twice?”
Her pulse flutters. She hates that it does. Hates that she likes this.
She tilts her head, eyes gleaming. “Do you think I’m the kind of woman who follows orders?”
“Yes,” I say. “Mine.”
She sucks in a breath.
For a second—one long beat—we don’t move.
Then she yanks her hand back and glares. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Get in the bed anyway.”
She barricades herself under two quilts and faces away from me, like that’ll save her. Good luck with that.
I throw another log on the fire, strip off my shirt, and lay down. The mattress dips under my weight. She goes rigid like I’m a hungry bear and she’s covered herself in honey.
“You’re—why are you—no,” she sputters.
“What?”
“You can’t be shirtless.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You’re doing it on purpose.”
“Existing? Breathing? Sleeping? You tell me, witch. Which is the problem?”
Her voice goes tight. “All three.”
We lie in silence for a few minutes. The storm claws at the windows. She shivers.
I ignore it.
She shivers again.
I swear, she’ll drive me to violence.
I drag the quilt back an inch. “Come here.”
“No.”
“It’s colder on your side.”
“I’m fine.”
I reach back without looking and find her arm. Goosebumps cover her skin. She jerks back.
“I said I’m fine.”
I move closer until my back warms hers. I feel every point of tension inside her snap like brittle twigs.
“That better?” I ask.
“No,” she lies.
I shift anyway. Closer. Enough body heat to thaw her bones.
Minutes pass. Our breathing syncs. I feel her shoulder blades brush my chest with each inhale. Feel her thighs tremble under the quilts.
She thinks I’m falling asleep. I don’t sleep easy. She’ll learn that eventually.
She shifts once. Then again. Then, so quietly I almost miss it—
“Do you always radiate this much anger when you have a woman in your bed? Or is it just me?”
I stare at the flames in the fireplace. “You’re not anger.”
Silence. Then her voice, smaller now. Curious. “Then what am I?”
I roll onto my back, drag a forearm over my eyes, and breathe. If I say the wrong thing, she’ll run harder. If I say the right thing, she might burn me down.
“Noise,” I say finally. “Bright. Unignorable.”
She makes a soft sound.
It isn’t a laugh. It isn’t a sigh.
It’s interest.
And interest is dangerous.
I turn my head to her. That messy hair spills over the pillow. Her mouth is stained in red again—smudged now. Ruinable.
She licks her lower lip and says, quiet but deadly, “I thought you hated noise.”
“I do,” I say. “I just hate the wrong kind.”
Her breathing falters.
“What kind am I?”
Mine, I almost say.
Instead: “The kind you can’t get rid of.”
Her gaze widens. Something hot and electric passes between us. She doesn’t look away. Neither do I.
She whispers, “And what if noise stays?”
I lean in an inch. Maybe two. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in her eyes.
“Then I’ll handle it,” I promise.
“How?”
“Any way I fucking want.”
She swallows. Her hand brushes mine under the covers by accident. I catch it.
She gasps—just a little.
I lace our fingers together.
She lets me.
Minutes pass. Then hours. We stay like that. Neither of us sleeps. Neither of us speaks.
She feels too good next to me. Too right. Like I’ve been walking with a bullet in my lung for years and now—suddenly—I can breathe. And that terrifies me more than a thousand miles of combat.
I don’t do comfort. I don’t do vulnerability. I don’t do this.
I grip her hand tighter.
She squeezes back.
A silent fucking war.
We’re doomed.
Wind howls.
Logs crackle.
Her breathing starts to slow. Finally.
“You awake?” she asks.
“No,” I growl.
She laughs softly. “I can feel you looking at me.”
“Go to sleep, Aspen.”
“Can’t.”
“Why.”
“Too quiet.”
“It’s not quiet.”
She exhales. “…Because I’m here?”
My lips twitch. There she goes again—thinking she’s the chaos in the room. She has no idea she walked straight into a storm already burning.