When he pauses to catch his breath, the mist of it hangs around him, a halo in the morning light.
For a second, I swear he looks up at me—right at me—and something wordless passes between us.
“I’ll…uh…” I need to do something. “Wash the dishes.”
With a nod, he turns back to the work, and I force myself to move.
After I gather the mugs, I head toward the cabin.
The shift from the cold air to the cozy inside is abrupt and a little jarring.
The buzzing of my phone slices through the quiet. My pulse jumps. I reach for it without thinking. One message glows on the screen.
Remy: Where are you, kid? Need your coordinates.
The words are cold, clinical, a stark reminder of the life I’ve always known—running, hiding, surviving. My throat goes dry.
Outside, the steady rhythm of Stryker’s axe continues, each strike a heartbeat counting down.
I type I’m safe… Then I delete the message. Because I’m not. Not from what’s chasing me and definitely not from the man I’m sharing a bed with.
Finally I give Remy a general idea of my location.
Weather is going to make this impossible unless you can get to an easy extraction place soon.
I can’t.
Sit tight. Help is coming.
The screen goes dark.
My reflection flickers across the black glass before disappearing altogether.
I slip my phone back into my duffel.
I busy myself with the dishes, the clink of plates grounding me as I glance out the window.
Despite the frigid temperature, Stryker has unfasted the top few buttons of his flannel shirt, revealing the sculpted lines of his chest.
He swings, the blade splitting a log clean through, his biceps bulging, sweat glistening on his skin despite the cold. It’s raw, masculine, a display of strength that makes my insides tighten.
Memories of last night flood back—his hands bruising my hips, his cock filling me, his voice claiming me as his. And my complete, total surrender to his commanding control.
Wanting him has become permanent, and I grip the sink, my breath shallow.
What’s wrong with me? It’s not like I’ve never had the attention of a man before.
While he continues, focused on his work, I dump the dregs of his caffeine fix and grab the bag of coffee. I pour grounds into a fresh filter. Is that strong enough? Not knowing for sure, I tip the bag again.
When the coffee maker finally spits out the last few drops, I pour a fresh mug for him.
Even though I shouldn’t flirt with temptation, I bundle up and step outside again.
The chill that bites my cheeks is angrier than it had been a little while ago. But he’s still got his shirt unbuttoned.
He looks up, his smile warm but edged with sexual hunger, and I instinctively respond to the awareness arcing between us.
“I thought…” I hold out the mug. “You might want this. I’m not sure I made it right.”
