I’m sitting in my truck, engine off, watching sheets of rain cascade down my windshield like a waterfall. The hail has stopped, but the storm shows no signs of letting up.
Dad comes back on the line, and his voice is grim. “Emergency services are swamped. Four confirmed slides in the county, power lines down, roads flooded. They’ll get to Ridgeline when they can, but you’re looking at three to five days minimum before they can bring in the heavy equipment.”
Three to five days. I slump back against the driver’s seat. “Well, the truck’s comfortable enough. I’ve got my sleeping bag, plenty of food—”
“That’s a long time to be stuck up there. You sure you’ll be okay in the truck for that long?”
“Yeah, I mean, we used to camp up in this mountain for a week every summer with Mom. It’ll be just like that. Just another camping trip.”
His voice softens at the mention of Mom. “You’re right, Junebug. You’re as tough as they come.” He pauses. “Just… find somewhere safe and clear to park, okay? Away from any slopes that might decide to follow suit. And keep checking in with me every few hours, or if it gets worse.”
“I will, Dad. Don’t worry about me.”
“Can’t help it. You’re my girl. But I know you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Just be careful up there.”
After I hang up, I sit in the growing twilight, listening to the rain hammer against the roof. The storm rages on, and the temperature is already dropping. Five days in the truck is doable, but it’s not going to be pleasant.
I glance back at the package sitting on my passenger seat.
Riven’s delivery.
Well, I’m stuck up here anyway. Might as well complete my route.
I start the engine and get moving.
The drive to Riven’s propertyfeels surreal in the storm. My headlights cut through sheets of rain, illuminating a world that looks like it’s dissolving around the edges. When I finally reach the turnoff to his driveway, I’m surprised to see a dark figure already standing at the edge of the road.
Even through the downpour, there’s no mistaking that silhouette. Twelve feet of arachnid predator, perfectly stillexcept for the subtle shift of his eight legs as he tracks my approach.
I pull up and kill the engine, grabbing his package and my jacket. The moment I step out of the truck, Riven is moving toward me with a speed that should be impossible for something his size. His usual measured grace is completely abandoned—he’s covering ground like his life depends on it.
“June.” My name comes out as a rumble of relief so profound it stops me in my tracks. Before I can react, his hands are on me, running over my shoulders, my arms, checking for injuries with an urgency that takes my breath away. “Are you hurt? The mountain has been shaking all over, so much I couldn’t even sense your engine—” He stops abruptly, as if catching himself, but his hands don’t leave my shoulders.
“I’m fine,” I say, and force a smile as I try to appear unshaken. “You felt the mudslide from here?”
“Multiple mudslides, all over.” His six eyes are scanning me frantically, and I can see fear behind them. “The entire mountain shook. I’ve been monitoring the tremors for the past hour, trying to map the damage pattern. But with the hail and the tremors, my senses were overwhelmed…” He trails off as his mandibles click in agitation. “I would have come to you but…” He swallows hard. “I wouldn’t have known where to go. Not with all the interference. So I stayed here, hoping you’d come to me.”
A little gasp escapes me. Somehow it didn’t even occur to me that he would have been worried. This ancient predator was afraid that I’d been hurt. The intensity of his protective reaction is overwhelming, and something warm and dangerous unfurls in my chest.
“Hey,” I say softly, reaching up to touch one of his armored hands where it rests on my shoulder. “I’m okay. I saw it coming and got clear.”
His relief seems to melt away, and he looks at me with softer eyes. “You’re soaked,” he says, as if just noticing the rain that’s been drenching us both. “Come inside. Now.”
A command. Just like when he told me to wear the panties he made me.
And it excites me just like before.
But I want to give him an out. I don’t want him to feel obligated to help me. “Actually, I was going to just camp out in my truck,” I say, raising my voice over the storm. “The slide took out the road. I’m trapped up here for the next few days, but I’ve got emergency supplies, so I can—”
“No.” The word comes out as a growl that I feel in my bones. His hands tighten on my shoulders, not painfully, but possessively. “You are not sleeping in a truck during a storm when I have a perfectly good home for you.”
“Riven, I appreciate the offer, but we barely know each other—”
He goes very, very still. The kind of stillness that makes every prey instinct I have sit up and take notice. When he speaks, his voice is low and precise, each word deliberate.
“We barely know each other?” One of his hands moves to cup my face, and I’m struck again by how carefully he handles me. “I felt your every breath, felt the beat of your heart when I tended to you as a mate should.” His thumb traces my cheekbone withdevastating gentleness. “We may not know each other’s favorite colors or childhood stories, but we’ve already connected in ways that matter more.”
Heat floods through me, completely at odds with the cold rain. He’s right, and the intensity in his voice makes it clear this isn’t just about offering shelter to a stranded driver. This is about something much more fundamental.
