There’s beautifully maintained wood siding and a pitched metal roof, no doubt for the snow load. A wide porch has numerous, sturdy chairs that can stand up to the harsh climate.
It’s secluded, the kind of place where no one will find us. “Hawkeye safe house?” I guess.
“You could call it that.” He cuts the engine and glances at me. “State of the art security. All linked to my phone and watch.”
A warning, I realize. There’s no escape.
I need to make sure he underestimates my determination.
Inside, the space is warm but sparse. A rug anchors the living room. A small table sits near the window. The kitchen is compact but well stocked. Cast iron pans hang from a rack above the stove.
It’s not luxury, but it’s not far from it.
And after today’s events, that feels like heaven.
We carry the grocery bags inside, and he immediately locks up. As we put things away, I glance down the hallway.
“Only one bedroom,” he asserts, despite the fact there are two closed doors.
My spine stiffens.
“And only one bed.”
Stunned, I look at him. He’s watching me, his expression unreadable.
My face heats. “No problem. I’ll can take the couch.”
He arches a brow. “You could.”
I turn away, pulse stuttering.
Then I feel him move behind me, and he clamps his hands on my shoulder and leans forward to speak into my ear. “But I’m not going to let you.”
A flash of awareness rockets through me, and I yank myself out of his grasp. Then I pivot and look up at him.
He sweeps his gaze over me, deliberate and slow.
“I don’t trust you not to try and escape. You’ll be sleeping with me, Allie. And you’ll consider yourself lucky if I don’t shackle you to my side.”
Chapter Eight
Lyra
Trying to process what he just said, I stare at him.
Share his bed. Not the cabin. His bed.
My pulse picks up speed, but I struggle to keep my expression neutral.
I’ve gotten good at that over the years—hiding what I’m really thinking behind a mask of calm. It served me well at society events when someone asked too many questions about my past, or when a client wants to know why I moved to Denver.
But Stryker sees through everything.
He studies me, reading the microexpressions I can’t quite control. The way my breath catches. The slight widening of my eyes before I school them back to indifference.
“Problem with that arrangement?” His voice carries that edge of humor and implacability that makes my stomach flip.
“No.” The lie is bitter and necessary. I give him a polite smile. He has to sleep sometime, and I can move to the couch. “Just…clarifying.”
