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Her attention remains rapt on the ever-changing canvas above.
“Legend has it…” I lean in, the tendrils of my breath curling around hers. “The souls of the dead dance in the aurora, carrying torches and guiding us through the arctic night. They’re here to remind us of our connection to this land and each other.”
“You believe that?”
“I did once. When I was a child. I wanted to believe my mother was still with me.”
Her eyes don’t leave the sky as her hand slips into my bandaged one.
The lights intensify, rippling and swaying, as if responding to the crescendo of my heartbeats. I’m unable to tear my gaze away from her. It feels as though I’m standing in the presence of something divine. Something far greater than a passing infatuation.
This isn’t a feeling I understand. It’s not the hunger that’s plagued me since puberty. This ache is deeper, bigger, impossible to slack with my hand. It reshapes organs, opens arteries, and spills my guts at her feet.
“If I didn’t know you, I would think he broke you. Your vacant glances, heavy drinking, detachment from my brothers—all signs of giving up. But I do know you. I’ve been watching you for seventy-one days. While you eat, while you read, while you sleep, while you silently plot your escape.”
“You’re a stalker.”
“There’s a fine line between stalking and research.”
“What do you want?”
“Five minutes ago, I thought I knew.”
“And now?”
I notice the small things about her—the way she discreetly lifts her shoulder to trap my hand against her neck, how she blinks rapidly when warding off tears, the longing glance she gives every winged creature that flies overhead, and the kindness in her eyes, even when she’s pissed.
It’s not just her physical beauty that enthralls me. It’s the beauty of her soul, the depth of her character. She faced down the ugliest, scariest evil known to man, and she didn’t buckle.
No, she’s still fighting.
As I stand beside her in awe, under the watchful eyes of my ancestors, I feel a profound connection with her and the world around us.
If I were a spiritual man, I would believe my mother sent this fiery redhead to save us.
Not from Denver. But to save us from ourselves.
Thinking back to the way we treated her over the past months, how we excluded, rejected, and bullied her, we believed we were doing the right thing. It was vital to keep her at a distance. But our methods were needlessly cruel. We were fucking assholes.
Maybe we’re misogynists at heart, and who can blame us? We’ve spent our lives watching women show up, give up, and die. After years of pain, abuse, and constant disappointment, we’ve lost our way. We don’t know how to hope or trust or…love.
But I think…
That’s changing.
Because of her.
A warm, creeping glow rises within me, shifting and swelling with a life of its own, illuminating my darkest corners.
Frankie isn’t here to lie down and die.
She’s here to fuck shit up.
“You’re not a quitter.” I slide my hand from her neck to her hair, wrapping the snow-frosted tangles around my wrist and yanking her head back. “You’re not a victim or a sacrifice or a casualty. You’re nothing like the others. You’re stronger. Smarter. Smarter than him. And stubborn as hell.”
“I’m just beginning.”
“Fuck yeah, you are.” That’s all the confirmation I need before my cock stiffens and lengthens in my jeans. “Being out here alone with you, knowing you’re built for nightmares, it fucks with my head. It encourages me. Invigorates me. The things I want to do to you are dangerous and uninvited.”
“What are you saying?” She shivers.
“We need to talk.” My fist tightens in her hair. “But right now, I’m hungry, and when I’m hungry, I hunt.”
Her green eyes, brighter than the stardust in the sky, shift to mine, studying, analyzing, seeing me. The way she looks at me makes me feel like the only man in her orbit, and right now, that’s exactly what I am.
The urge to bite her is staggering. It’s an unstoppable development, a transformation of emotions, as the warm glow of affection gives way to the intense flames of voracious, inconsolable need.
I want her.
I want her like I’ve never wanted anything in my life. And as miserable lives go, there’s been endless wanting.
I’m fucking starved.
“You need to…” I wrench her close and scrape my teeth along her neck. “Run.”
Her eyes widen. A gasp bursts past her lips. She pushes. Spins free from my grip.
Then she runs.
My hackles rise, and my muscles tense, coiling like springs. I inhale deeply, drawing in the scent on the breeze—the scent of her vulnerability—a tantalizing aroma that hits my blood just right.
I prowl after her, a predator on the hunt, slowly, patiently, conserving my energy while my quarry wears herself out.
My night-adapted eyes catch every flicker of movement. I taste her fear, her ragged breaths, a metallic tang on my tongue, exciting my heart. My skin twitches, detecting the changes in the wind, carrying whispers of her path.
