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I tear my gaze away from them to stare at Denver, terrified of what this means for me.
How could I be so naïve? The deep lines around his eyes, the gray in his goatee…I knew he was in his forties. It makes sense that his children would be twenty-something.
They stand eerily still, spread out on the front porch of the cabin, waiting. Two of them wear long-sleeved shirts and jeans. The third has on some sort of robe, open in the front, exposing a lean, pale chest, shorts, and fuzzy boots. His dark hair falls past his chin, whipping around his face.
“The one in the purple housecoat, that’s Wolfson.” Denver lowers the plane to the ground with practiced ease, bumping along the terrain. “He’s my youngest. Strange kid. But you’ll love him.”
I don’t love anything about this and won’t be sticking around long enough to rectify that. But first, I need to know what I’m up against. “How young is Wolfson?”
“Twenty-three.”
“How old are you?”
“Forty-eight.”
Twenty years older than me. Yeah, I can totally outrun middle-age Brad Pitt. It’s the youthful, physically fit sons I’m worried about.
“Kodiak is twenty-five.” He steers the plane to the front door and powers it down. “Leonid just turned thirty.”
They’re around my age, only bigger. Stronger. And they have the advantage of knowing this land and how to navigate it.
I remove the seat harness and earphones, my palms slick with sweat.
Wolfson. Kodiak. Leonid.
How long have they lived here? Their entire lives? Have they ever been around a woman other than their mother? Or am I just one in a long line of captive deliveries?
“Go on.” Denver removes his headset. “They’re not going to maul you.”
The painful knot in my stomach disagrees. “Why am I here?”
He sighs. “You’re braver than this, Frankie.”
I’m not. I’m fucking frozen with fear. “I don’t want to be here. Take me home. Right now!”
“Suit yourself.” He climbs into the back and unlocks the crates.
Then he opens the cargo door, letting in a burst of cold air. I shiver as he steps out and leaves me alone in the cockpit.
My gaze slides over the dashboard, searching for a gauge or dial that could clue me in on how to get this thing off the ground.
There’s no use. I’d end up crashing into the cabin or driving off the cliff. There must be another way.
I scan the surrounding buildings and spot something inside the open door of the workshop. A snowmobile?
My breathing accelerates. Now that I can operate. What are the chances the key is in the ignition?
Hope fills my chest as I twist in the seat.
Deep voices come from behind the plane. I can’t see them, which means they can’t see me.
Were his sons expecting me? Or am I some kind of depraved surprise—What did he call it? A reward?—to be shared by all?
Run. Run. Run.
Every bone in my body shakes with the instinct to race toward that faraway hunting cabin and whomever lives there. But I wouldn’t make it that far. Not without supplies.
I dive into the closest crate, digging through packages of seeds, beans, flour, spices—all things that require planting, harvesting, or cooking. I keep rummaging, quickly and quietly, all the way to the bottom until I find oatmeal, granola, dates, and crackers.
Score.
Packing as much as I can fit into the waistband of my jeans, I zip up the coat and hope the bulky material will hide the stolen food. In the next crate, I locate boxes of matches, wool socks, and waterproof gloves. I grab a package of each and freeze at the sound of approaching steps.
Dammit.
Tucking everything into the coat, I start to turn back, and my eyes snag on a flash of silver behind the pilot’s seat. I reach for it, heart racing, and wrap my hand around the handle of a small ax.
As I pull it free, a tall figure fills the cargo doorway.
The man in the purple robe—Wolfson—climbs in, his arctic blue eyes fixated on the crates. I don’t move, don’t breathe, as he tears through the supplies with single-minded focus.
He doesn’t spare me a glance, not a twitch of acknowledgment, and I don’t know what to do. I sit two feet away, my fingers white-knuckled around the ax, holding it in clear view.
Stylish, shaggy black hair frames his face. A face that’s pale as snow and angelically sculpted. His eyelashes are so thick and black it looks like he’s wearing mascara and eyeliner. Maybe he is.
The dark hair on his chin and upper lip forms a barely-there shadow as if he’s trying and failing to grow it in.
Purple silk drapes his long, lean muscles. A swimmer’s body in a woman’s robe. His features are so ethereal and angular they might be considered feminine, like that of an androgynous male fashion model.
He’s so insanely beautiful I can’t process it. Denver is attractive on a Hollywood level, but they look nothing alike.
