I brush my hand through her hair, dislodging more glass shards. She moves again, twisting into my hold. Her legs shift,as though to bring them up, but fails. She’s trying to curl into herself because she’s cold.
Of course, she is. It’s in the deep negatives, and for a human, it isn’t safe.
She isn’t supposed to be cold, though. Or safe. She’s supposed to be dead. By now, I should be walking away with her blood running through my system.
Now, the thought of that has me wanting to rip out my own undead heart. Oh, I still long to drain her dry—her scent is too tempting not to—but only to link her to me in ways no one else ever will. A way that’ll ensure I’m all she thinks about, all she sees, all she knows.
It’s an obsessive sort of need that pushes me to my feet, while retaining a tight hold on her body, curling her into my chest.
So strange.
Back when learning how my immortal body functions, Alec Dormer, the vampire king of North America, taught me that very few human emotions carry into immortality. Love, namely, does not. Instead, being a vampire amplifies that kind of positive feeling of possession to the maximum degree—intoobsession.
I think I understand him now.
Because the woman in my arms isn’t going anywhere ever again. She’s injured, so I’ll heal her. Then I’ll feed her, learn about her, care for her, feedfromher, and make her mine.
Forever.
Once again…Merry Christmas to me.
CHAPTER 3
Sawyer
My body is encompassedin warmth, which makes little sense considering the last thing I recall was being outside in the snow. Driving…and then vague memories of frost on my skin, like the window was opened.
Why would the window be open while driving in sub-zero temperatures? The trip’s already having me question my IQ, but I’m notthatdumb.
Wherever I am, my limbs are weighted when stretching. Pain in my skull radiates as if I have a hangover, but drinking definitely didn’t happen last night. With a groan, my hand applies pressure on my head to end the thumping, but as my fingers slide through the strands, they’re…wet?
My eyes pop open to a wooden ceiling lit up by a dull yellow glow.
Strange, since I have zero recollection of arriving at the rental cabin. Am Ithatout of it, last night was a blur lost to exhaustion? If that’s the case, I should be thankful to still be alive.
Rubbing my head isn’t really making the throb go away, but rather, reminds me of the darkness of last night—seconds after the moose rammed into my car. Then there was snow. And glassshattering onto my lap. My gaze dives down to find a blanket covering my legs.
An accident? Fuck, my head hurts too much to be thinking about this.
Pushing my elbows into the bed, I manage to get myself into an upright position and determine what form of hell the universe is now putting me through. Everything in life lets me down, so it only makes sense that my holiday does as well.
There, I discover my next form of hell in the shape of a man sitting on the end of the bed, watching me.
As presumed, this vacation will result in my death. Mountain man probably rescued me only to tie me up, torture me, and eventually murder me. As long as he doesn’t rape me beforehand, I think I’ll be okay with it. Not actually, but of all options…
Man or bear? Always choose the bear.
He hasn’t moved, despite me being awake. His dark hair is slightly shaggy and is parted to reveal the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen on a person. They seem as black as a pupil, but it’s probably only the dull light shadowing them. His skin is pale, which makes sense considering it’s the middle of winter and no one’s tanning this time of year.
He exudes danger. As we size each other up, he remains still—deathly still. It’s eerie, really. His chest isn’t even rising and falling with his breaths. My own body tenses in response. Whether from him or this situation, I don’t know…
He’s a man in the mountains, and you’re in his bed. This is everything opposite of safe.
Yet, I find myself leaning forward to inspect his fair skin and aristocratic features. He kind of reminds me of the rich assholes who come into the restaurant I waitress at. The ones who act like they own the place—and, by extension, me. Sans suit, anyway.
Being compelled to be near the probable-killer indicates the crash certainly gave me brain damage.
I wonder what he’s thinking, if he’s regretting bringing the frozen woman into his house. It’s tempting to take in my surroundings, but looking away from the would-be murderer is the moment he’ll undoubtedly lunge.
