“Besides,” Riven adds, his usual dry humor creeping back into his voice, “if you die of hypothermia in your truck, who’s going to deliver my impulse purchases?”
Despite everything, I laugh. “Well, when you put it like that…”
“Practical concerns,” he says solemnly, but there’s a gleam in his many eyes. “I’m nothing if not logical.”
“Right. Totally logical.” I hold up his package, water dripping from the brown paper. “Speaking of impulse purchases…”
His entire demeanor shifts, a subtle tension entering his posture. “Oh. Yes. That.”
I hand it over, and he handles it with surprising care given the weather. “What mysterious necessity did you order this time? Please tell me it’s not a bulk order of googly eyes.”
“Nothing so frivolous.” He tears open the soggy packaging with surgical precision, and I catch a glimpse of something soft and burgundy before he’s holding it up for inspection.
It’s a scarf. Beautiful, clearly expensive, made from what looks like the softest cashmere I’ve ever seen.
“I noticed you don’t wear adequate neck protection,” he says, and there’s something almost shy in his voice. “Montana winters are harsh. This is… This is for you. To keep you warm in the upcoming season.”
“Riven…” I start, but he’s already moving closer, lifting the scarf toward my neck with an eagerness that’s almost endearing.
“May I?” He pauses mid-motion, mandibles clicking once in what might be embarrassment. “I suppose I should have waited until we were inside. But I got so excited…” He trails off, looking uncharacteristically flustered.
The sight of this massive, ancient predator getting tongue-tied over giving me a gift is absolutely adorable. “It’s perfect timing,” I say softly. “I’m freezing.”
Relief flashes across his features as I nod my permission. His hands are impossibly gentle as he wraps the scarf around my neck, careful not to catch my damp hair. The cashmere is like a warm embrace against the cold rain.
“There,” he says, adjusting it with the same meticulous care he brought to removing my clothes two days before. “Better.”
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
For a moment, we just stand there in the rain, him looking down at me with an expression I can’t quite read, me drowning in a cashmere scarf and the growing certainty that I’m in way over my head.
“Now,” he says, breaking the spell, “will you please come inside before we both catch a cold?”
I smile and tease, “I bet it’s cute when a spider sneezes.”
“It most decidedly is not, I assure you.”
I pull out my phone, checking for a signal. Still two bars. “Let me just text my dad first. I doubt there’s reception in your giant cliff mansion.”
Riven nods and waits patiently while I compose the message:Found shelter with a client who has a guest room. Much better than the truck. Will check in tomorrow morning.
Dad’s response is almost immediate:Thank God. Stay safe, Junebug. Keep me posted.
I pocket the phone and look up at Riven, who’s watching me with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken. “Okay,” I say. “I’m ready.”
His smile is small but genuine, and there’s something almost predatory in his satisfaction as he gestures toward his home. “After you.”
As I follow him up the path to his door, the scarf soft and warm around my neck, I’m acutely aware that everything is about to change.
Three to five days trapped in a mountain cabin with a giant spider whose touch makes me weak in the knees…
What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter 8
The Art of Slow Heat
Riven
