I shake my head. "Nothing since yesterday. With the internet down, I can't check emails anyway."
"Sierra has my satellite number if there's an emergency," he says, referring to my best friend who's acting as our point person while we're on the mountain. I'd introduced them briefly via video call before the wedding, making sure someone knew where I was going and with whom.
"Good." I push a piece of pancake around my plate. "I hate not knowing what Marc is planning next."
Dario studies me over his coffee. "He always been vindictive?"
"Only when he doesn't get his way." I meet his gaze. "But then, I guess most men with power and privilege are."
"Not all of us." Something flashes in his eyes, gone before I can interpret it.
I don't push, focusing instead on finishing my breakfast. Dario clears his plate, then stands.
"I'll be outside most of the morning. Fire's stocked. Generator should keep the essentials running. Make yourself at home." He pauses. "But stay out of the workshop. Tools can be dangerous if you don't know what you're doing."
"I'm not completely helpless, you know." I bristle at his assumption.
"Never said you were. But those are my livelihood."
Fair point. "I'll find ways to entertain myself that don't involve power tools."
Once he's gone, bundled against the cold and trudging through snow toward the generator shed, I set about exploring the cabin more thoroughly. The bookshelves lining one wall are filled with an eclectic mix—military history, woodworking manuals, classic literature. A collection that speaks of depth beyond the gruff exterior.
Near the back of the house, a door stands slightly ajar. Curiosity draws me forward. I hesitate only briefly before pushing it open to reveal Dario's bedroom.
Unlike the guest room upstairs, his space is minimalist to the extreme. A king-sized platform bed dominates the room, its handcrafted frame clearly his own work. The bedding is simple but high quality, in shades of charcoal and navy. One wall features floor-to-ceiling windows with the same stunning view as upstairs. Another holds a small collection of framed photographs—the only personal touch in the room.
I know I should leave, that this invasion of his private space crosses a boundary. But something compels me forward to examine the photos. An older man with Dario's sharp jawline standing beside a much younger version of my temporary husband, both holding fishing rods. A group of men in military uniform, arms slung around each other's shoulders, desert backdrop behind them. Dario kneeling beside a completed piece of furniture, face serious but eyes holding quiet pride.
Nothing of a woman. No evidence of romantic entanglements past or present.
I'm about to turn away when something catches my eye. A door, nearly invisible in the wood paneling of the far wall. Almost hidden, as if deliberately obscured.
The rational part of my brain screams to leave now, to respect the privacy of the man who's already doing me an enormous favor. But the investigative part, the part that's made me successful in my career, propels me forward.
The handle turns easily, revealing a staircase leading downward. A basement? I hesitate at the top step, listening. The house is silent save for the distant howl of wind and the crackle of the fireplace.
I shouldn't.
I do.
The stairs lead to a space that makes me stop dead in my tracks. The basement has been converted into what can only be described as a private playroom. One wall displays an array of implements—floggers, paddles, riding crops—arranged with extreme precision. Another features various restraint systems anchored to reinforced points. A custom Saint Andrew's cross dominates one corner, while a king-sized bed with subtle but unmistakable attachment points occupies another.
Everything is meticulously organized, immaculately clean, and undeniably high quality. This is no amateur space but a carefully crafted environment for serious BDSM play.
My heart thunders against my ribs as pieces click into place. The commanding presence. The precise control. The contract with its emphasis on following instructions without question. Dario Wallace isn't just a mountain man with control issues—he's a Dominant. And apparently a serious one.
I should be backing away, closing the door, pretending I never saw this. Instead, I find myself moving further intothe room, fingers trailing lightly over the leather of a flogger. The craftsmanship is exquisite, the materials premium. Like everything else in Dario's world, his toys reflect careful selection and quality.
"Find something interesting?"
The deep voice from behind me nearly stops my heart. I whirl around to find Dario standing at the foot of the stairs, expression unreadable, snowflakes melting in his dark hair.
"I..." For once, words fail me. There's no excuse for this invasion of privacy.
"You shouldn't be down here." His voice is calm, controlled, but with an edge that sends a shiver down my spine.
"I know. I'm sorry." I force myself to meet his gaze. "I was curious."
