Page 155 of These Tears

And while my mind is busy staring in horror at the man-bear, my body has an entirely different take on it; pressure builds low and treacherous around the base of me until I drag my eyes away and remind myself that strength is only impressive when it is not being used to keep me trapped.

He swings one leg over the seat, settling in with the ease that makes my own ineptitude feel painfully obvious.

Before we set off, however, I manage to bargain for a moment of reprieve, claiming I need the lavatory. He doesn’t say yes, but doesn’t deny me either – just stares at me as if to remind me what happened the last time I asked.

I strut into the cabin without waiting for his answer, or for the memory to lodge itself in my chest. I have just enough time to retrieve my phone and slip it into my pocket.

Back outside, I approach while zipping up my suit. Elias makes a slow rolling motion with one finger, a silent command for me to turn around.

‘What?’ I blink incredulously.

‘This is for the trip.’ He holds up a length of thick, black fabric. A scarf? Or something?

I frown. ‘Where’s that supposed to go?’ I extend my hand, but he yanks it out of reach.

‘Over your eyes.’

I stare at the thing for a breath longer. The grin dies without me even feeling it leave my face.

Five minutes ago, my hands were on the handlebars, with his own warming my knuckles. Now he wants the road taken away from me altogether.

‘Sit facing me.’

My head jerks up. ‘How’s that supposed to work?’ I glance down the length of the snowmobile, then back at him.

‘Like sex on a motorcycle.’

My mouth falls open. Heat floods my face – takes my ears first, then my tongue. Thank God again for the stupid face cover.

He lowers his head with mock exasperation. ‘Please tell me you’ve at least had that. How old are you, Leah?’

‘Thirty-three. Age is not a sexual curriculum vitae!’ I snap, stomping over and climbing on clumsily.

He grunts as I settle too fast into his lap but lets me off too easily. ‘Legs around my waist.’

Damn it, when he gets all bossy like that it makes me want to do everything he says.

Stiff and sulking, I raise my boots.

‘What’s the blindfold for?’ I ask tightly.

‘In case you want to take a detour again.’

‘Funny. I was convinced you liked the chase.’

He pauses briefly. I’m almost certain I overdid the bite, but then he ties the blindfold, pulls down my goggles and rearranges them to fit properly. The breath between us is almost palpable in the cold. The blindfold keeps me from knowing whether the remark landed somewhere tender or gave him something new to play with. Either way, he doesn’t let it show.

He holds me close to him as he starts the engine. Our cheeks would be touching if it weren’t for the hoods and the goggles.

My mind reels, keeps circling back to what I know about this man.

Was Melody the one who’d made him this way?

Only one woman, he’d said. He’s ever been with only one woman.

Dougal’s voice crawls back into my head, dragging the interview with it.

His brother would know more, the journalist had said. Because brothers know about the private wars no one else sees. The rivalry. The rot beneath the family name.