"Perfect," I mutter, fumbling for my phone on the nightstand. The screen illuminates: 3:17 AM. No service, battery at 42%.
I shine the phone light around the room, grateful I slept in thermal leggings, wool socks, and one of Dario's sweatshirts I found in the laundry room. The thick fabric swallows me, but it's warm and smells like him mixed with cedar, and leather.
The temperature must have dropped twenty degrees since I fell asleep. I need to restart the fire immediately. Throwing back the covers brings a full-body shiver as I slip my feet into boots and wrap myself in the duvet.
Downstairs, the great room is eerily silent without the usual hum of the generator. My phone light catches on the fireplace, where only cold ashes remain. The woodpile Dario stacked beside it looms like a shadow sculpture.
I set to work rebuilding the fire, grateful for wilderness survival classes my father insisted on. "Military brats need practical skills," he'd say. The kindling catches quickly, and I feed it carefully until flames lick at larger logs. The dancing light gradually pushes back the darkness, casting long shadows across the room.
Next problem: the generator. The thought of venturing outside into the howling storm makes my stomach knot, but the alternative is freezing. I bundle up in layers, finding Dario's heavy coat by the door. It engulfs me like a tent, but it's better than nothing.
I locate the generator shed with my phone light, fighting through knee-deep snow that's still accumulating. The wind knifes through every layer, stealing my breath. Inside the shed, I fumble with cold-numbed fingers to follow the restart procedure from Dario's meticulously written manual.
When the generator roars to life, I nearly sob with relief. Lights flicker on inside the cabin, visible through the driving snow. The return journey feels endless, but finally, I stumble back inside, shedding ice-crusted layers by the growing fire.
"Not so helpless after all, mountain man," I say to the empty room, imagining Dario's grudging approval.
With heat gradually returning and the immediate crisis averted, I curl up on the couch, watching flames dance while my mind inevitably circles back to yesterday's discovery.
Dario's playroom.The tools of pleasure and pain. The look in his eyes when he caught me there. Not anger, but something darker, more dangerous. Interest.
Have you ever submitted to anyone, Judith?
His question haunts me. The answer is no, never. But not for lack of curiosity. I've read books, watched videos, explored enough to know the concept intrigues me. The idea ofsurrendering control to someone worthy of that trust has always sparked something deep inside.
But Marc would have weaponized such vulnerability. Used it to control rather than cherish. With him, submission would have been another form of captivity.
With Dario... the thought sends heat curling through me.
I shake my head, forcing practicality to override fantasy. This is a business arrangement with an expiration date. Getting tangled up in Dario's sexual preferences would only complicate things.
Still, sleep remains elusive. With the heat returning and morning hours away, I decide to explore more of the cabin. There must be something to occupy my restless mind.
A door off the main living area leads to what appears to be a storage room. My curiosity piqued, I step inside, phone light scanning shelves of neatly organized supplies. Canned goods, extra blankets, emergency equipment. The precision of it all screams Dario.
In the corner stand several large plastic bins labeled in precise handwriting:CHRISTMAS.
Despite myself, I'm intrigued. Mountain Man celebrates Christmas? I pry open the nearest bin to find carefully packed ornaments nestled in tissue paper. Another contains strings of lights, and a third holds what appears to be parts of an artificial tree.
"Curiouser and curiouser," I murmur, examining a hand-carved wooden ornament of a bear. The craftsmanship is exquisite, clearly Dario's work.
I replace everything exactly as I found it and continue exploring. Beyond the storage room lies a small office. A desk holds a closed laptop and neat stacks of paperwork. Bookshelves line the walls, filled with volumes on woodworking, military history, and surprisingly, classic literature.
My fingers trail over leather-bound copies of Hemingway, Steinbeck, and Thoreau. A worn copy of "Walden" sits prominently on the desk, bookmarked halfway through. The isolation philosopher. Fitting.
What catches my eye, however, is a book partially hidden behind others on the top shelf. Standing on tiptoe, I ease it out: "The Art of Dominance and Submission: Psychological Foundations." Not pornography, but a serious psychological text with academic citations and clinical language.
I return it carefully and step back, considering this new puzzle piece. Dario isn't just playing with whips and chains for thrills. He's studied the psychology, the foundations. This isn't a hobby but a lifestyle he approaches with the same meticulous care he brings to everything else.
Morning findsme dozing on the couch, fire crackling comfortably. I've maintained it through the night, adding logs at regular intervals creating a warm sanctuary. I make coffee and check the satellite phone. No messages from Dario. The thought of him sends an unwelcome flutter through my stomach. Is he safe? Warm? Thinking of me?
Stop it, Judith. This is business. Not romance.
But my treacherous mind keeps returning to the playroom. To the possibility of exploring something I've only imagined.
To distract myself, I decide to bake. The simple chemistry of it always centers me. The pantry yields ingredients for gingerbread cookies, appropriately festive given the season. Soon the kitchen fills with the scent of molasses and spice.
As I work, I realize I'm humming Christmas carols. The mood of the season has infected me despite my circumstances. Or perhaps because of them. Trapped in a snowy cabin with a mysterious mountain man during the holidays feels like the setup for every Hallmark movie Sierra forced me to watch.
