I toe off my boots, now caked in mud and oil from the drainage ditch. The heavy thud of them hitting the floor echoes. Setting them aside feels oddly intimate. Like shedding armor. Like stepping out of one life, the life of Dr. Iris Kincaid, respected physician, and into the gravity of another.
My skin feels suddenly exposed. Too aware. Too tuned in to the space between us. To the weight of his presence. To the fact that if he turned around right now, he’d see exactly how affected I’m becoming.
And the most dangerous part.
I don’t think he’d be surprised.
He speaks without turning, his voice vibrating against the glass walls.
“It keeps you alive. There’s a correlation.”
I stand in my socks on the heated concrete floor. The warmth seeps up through my soles, a startling, disorienting luxury in this fortress of ice.
I look around, really taking in the space for the first time.
The place is breathtaking. And terrifying.
It’s a glass box suspended over a black abyss. The walls are floor-to-ceiling panes, revealing nothing but the darkness of the mountains and the driving snow. It feels like we’re floating in a void, untethered from the earth. Outside, the wind howls, asavage, unrelenting force battering against the structure. Inside, the silence is hermetically sealed.
Everything is sharp angles and minimalist surfaces. White leather couches that look like they’ve never known the weight of a human body. A kitchen island that looks like a surgical slab, pristine and cold.
There are no photos. No books. No clutter. No throw blankets. No signs of life. It’s a space designed for existence, not living.
The words slip out, unfiltered.
“It’s not a home. It’s a sterile field.”
He ignores my assessment and moves toward a control panel on the far wall. He punches a code into the keypad. A green light blinks, followed by the heavy clack of magnetic locks engaging throughout the house.
“Kitchen is fully stocked. The master suite is yours. I’ll take the den.”
“Is this place yours? Do you live here?”
“I exist here. Occasionally.”
He turns finally, looking at me.
In the harsh recessed lighting, he looks even more dangerous than he did in the truck. The shadows clinging to his face accentuate the sharp angles of his jaw, the scar bisecting his neck into the collar of his shirt. His gaze is dark, bruised with exhaustion, but alert.
He’s looking at me, really looking at me, and that gaze lands like a physical touch. It sweeps over me, assessing, cataloging. He’s looking for injuries. He’s looking for signs of shock. He’s looking for threats.
But God help me, I want him to look for something else.
“System is armed. Do not open the windows. Do not open the exterior doors. If you do, the silent alarm will trigger, and atactical team will arrive in forty minutes. Assuming the weather holds.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then you’re on your own.”
The bluntness of it stings, but it grounds me. He isn’t selling me false hope. He isn’t promising me safety he can’t guarantee.
“You need to eat.”
The command is flat, practical.
“Adrenaline crash is coming. You’ll shake. Your blood sugar will tank. Eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
