“Hi.”
That’s something to start with.
At my barely whispered greeting, he moves so quickly, Iswearhe’s a blur. I yelp, jerking as far back as possible until my back crashes into the wall, rendering escape another silly dream. His toned arms circle me; his hands press into the pillow I’m presently making my life raft, which puts him at an unnervingly close distance.
Two inches, which he divides into one by leaning closer. He clearly has no concept of personal space, but pointing this out may anger my kidnapper-slash-rescuer, and who knows what he’ll do in response.
His eyes—which are definitely pure black—study my face. My lips, cheeks, up to my hairline, but never my eyes. After three passes, in which my breath remains trapped by the question of his next action, his head slightly tilts to the side.
A few tense seconds pass. His unearthly gaze roves down my chin and pauses on my neck. He inhales sharply, nostrils flaring, and then his lips part slightly and a deep rumble fills the room.
Okay?
He continues down to my shirt: the tank top I dressed in yesterday, beneath a woolen cardigan. Since my car’s weak heating system struggled to keep out Alberta’s ungodly cold, I was also wearing my winter jacket while driving. Thankfully, the coat seems to be theonlything he removed.
Him being honourable is a good start.
He stops at the dip in my breasts, and when I’m about to not-so-subtly cover myself with my cardigan, he moves on, skimming the rest of my body until his gaze erases the numbness created by both fear and the chill. He’s openly checking me out, having me rethink my last point about his honour.
All this, and still no verbal greeting.
If I scream and push him away, I question the likelihood of escape and if we’re close enough to others to even have a chance of getting away. If escaping will beneeded, is the bigger question. A stranger in the dark woods sounds like the making of a horror movie, but he hasn’t done anything…yet.
When he reaches my thighs, his gaze jerks back up to my face, and his brows dip low. “Why do I want to both eat and protect you?”
What the actual fuck?Who says something like that, especiallytothe person they’re talking about?
“Um…”No, seriously, how does one respond to that?“Thanks? And thank you for saving me.”
Maybe moving off the topic of eating me will make him less hungry.
“You were in an accident. A moose hit your vehicle.”
Like his aristocratic features, his voice is something else entirely. Most guys grunt, and complete sentences are a thing requiring energy. While their voices can be downright annoying, his is something I could and would happily listen to for hours on end.
“It came out of nowhere.”
“It came from the woods because that’s where it lives, and you were trespassing.”
Right… Way to make this awkward.
“You were outside in the cold, and what, found me?” Only psychopaths go on nighttime walks in negative temperatures, which says enough about this guy.
“Something like that.” He grins, and I’m so thrown by the sudden youthfulness, my mind blanks. He doesn’t seem much older than me, but somehow gives off older vibes. It doesn’t make sense, but like his voice, there’s something about him that is hard to place.
He’s a snowflake that’s a bittoounique.
“Well, thanks.” With recollection of my accident, I prod the place on my head that was throbbing but isn’t anymore. There are pain relievers in my purse, but a quick scan of the room tells me he didn’t grab that from the crash.
His eyes track my movements, and he slowly backs to the end of the bed, removing the immediate potential threat caused by his proximity. “You were bleeding a little, so I cleaned you up.” Annoyance sharpens his tone, so either I’m a disruptor to his life or the possible-murderer did something good for a change and he doesn’t like wasting resources.
Thinking about my purse has me wondering how he pulled me from the wreck and got me to this cabin—wherever we are. It’s negative a billion degrees, and no one in their right mind would be taking an evening walk, especially carrying another.
Questions flicker through my head. I start to speak but stop when his brow lifts. The details don’t matter. Getting out alive does.
I’d like to say saving me, cleaning the blood, and letting me rest is indicative of good intentions—but I’ve watched TV. You can never be too careful. This could just be the calm before the storm.
“Why are you this far up the mountain?”
