The promise in his words sends another wave of heat through me. I climb the stairs on unsteady legs, hyper aware of his presence behind me.
In his bedroom, he moves with efficient purpose, pulling gear from a closet. "I'll likely be gone overnight. There's plenty of food. Keep the fire going. If the generator fails, there's a manual in the kitchen drawer."
"I'll manage."
He pauses, looking at me directly. "This doesn't change anything about what I walked in on."
"I know." I cross my arms. "I shouldn't have invaded your privacy."
"No, you shouldn't have." He shrugs into a heavy weather jacket. "But now that you have, we'll need to establish some new boundaries."
"Be careful out there." I'm surprised by the genuine concern in my voice.
He studies me for a long moment. "Always am."
Twenty minutes later, I stand on the porch watching the snowmobile disappear down the mountain, Dario's broad form growing smaller until the trees swallow him completely. Thecold air burns my lungs as I breathe deeply, trying to process what just happened.
I discovered my temporary husband's secret dungeon. He caught me. And instead of anger, there was... interest? The memory of his voice asking if I'd ever submitted sends renewed heat spiraling through me.
Back inside, I build up the fire as instructed, then sink onto the couch, staring into the flames. My phone remains stubbornly without service, the internet still down. I'm alone in this beautiful prison with nothing but my thoughts and the lingering image of Dario standing amid implements of pleasure and pain, looking at me like he could devour me whole.
What the hell have I gotten myself into? And why does the danger of it thrill me more than it should?
CHAPTER FIVE
DARIO
The snowmobile engine roars beneath me as I navigate the treacherous path down the mountain. Wind whips snow into my face despite the protective visor, but my mind isn't on the cold or the danger. It's fixed firmly on what I left behind.
Judith in my playroom.
The image burns in my memory. Her slender fingers trailing over the leather of my favorite flogger. The widening of her dark eyes as understanding dawned. The unmistakable flush creeping across her cheekbones that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with arousal.
I force the thoughts aside, focusing on the narrow trail. One wrong move on these slopes could be fatal. The storm has transformed familiar terrain into an alien landscape, pristine and deadly.
Two hours later, I pull into Crimson Hollow's main street. The small mountain town is already decked out for Christmas despite it being only mid-November. Garlands hang between streetlights, and wreaths adorn nearly every door. Under different circumstances, it might look charming. Today, againstthe backdrop of a potential disaster, the festive decorations seem jarringly out of place.
I park the snowmobile outside the fire station, which serves as our emergency response center during winter crises. Inside, familiar faces turn as I enter, nodding in acknowledgment. Silas approaches immediately.
"Dario. Thanks for coming."
"Situation?" I keep it brief, shedding my outer gear.
"Unstable snow pack on North Ridge. Cabin up there with three hikers trapped. Been out of contact for twelve hours, but their emergency beacon activated an hour ago."
"Avalanche already triggered or still a risk?"
"Still a risk. That's why we need experienced people." He hands me a topographic map. "Micah is assembling equipment. We've got six volunteers so far."
Micah Kane.Of course he'd be involved. The youngest Kane brother, with his military background and intimate knowledge of these mountains. One of the few men in the area with both the skills and the temperament for high-risk rescue work.
"Timeline?" I study the map, noting the marked cabin location.
"Moving out in thirty. Forecast says we've got a six-hour window before the next system hits."
I nod, already mentally preparing. "I'll gear up."
Micah finds me in the equipment room, checking avalanche beacons. His powerful frame fills the doorway, dark-brown eyes assessing.
