Page 34 of Craving Consequences

Not sure how to respond, I say nothing. I stand rooted, transfixed by the flex of muscles across his back. The artwork shifts with every motion like an animated tapestry, but it’s his words that lock around my chest.

Flustered, I shuffle to the preparations table. A fold-up containing all the condiments and side dishes wrapped in Saran Wrap. As it is every other time, it’s in a state of disarray with everything everywhere and zero space for anything else.

I start the process of separating the bottles from the jars. Setting them along the outer edges and organizing the dishes along the middle.

I’m setting the plates at the right corner when the faintest sound of a metal door slamming shut catches my attention. Mygaze darts to the shed built at the very far corner of the yard, tucked barely out of sight in the shadows of the spruce trees crowding around it. But it’s the figure that emerges that has the skin at the back of my neck prickling.

Van Weaver stands in the path of cut sunlight, an armload of logs stacked high against his chest. An axe hangs loosely in his other hand. His strong frame moves with a quiet confidence that is unmatched as he stalks to the pit.

The chunks of wood tumble to his feet. Deposited in a noisy clatter that cuts through the muggy silence.

With the power of some Norse God, he stands over them, the blade fisted in his beefy hand. The sharp edge is driven into the nearest block with a satisfying thwack. It sticks, red handle jutting up towards the flawless blue sky while the man twists both hands into the hem of his black t-shirt and peels his sweat-soaked top off his chiseled back.

Lord, help me.

But not a single thought in my head is pure as my wandering gaze slides over the rigid hills and dips of his biceps where the collage of ink dances across toned skin. The sharp cut of his abs, the sculpted lines of his chest, the ink bleeding over his skin. Broad shoulders gleam with sweat. His arms flex as he tosses the shirt aside, veins thick and raised down his forearms, a road map straight to hell.

Van must have been a Viking in a past life. A tall mountain of a man built for battle. For carnage and violence and for tossing a woman around without asking. He would not be gentle. He’d take and conquer and destroy. He’d make them beg and crawl, and...

The spiraling horror of my thoughts slaps me across the face with the full force of reality. It’s a jarring assault that leaves me momentarily reeling as I remind myself,no, Everly, you have a boyfriend, remember?

I do remember. I swear I do.

And the guilt hits me all over again, a punishing blow I feel in my gut.

Bron and I aren’t pinnacles of a perfect relationship. I could write a textbook outlining all the reasons we make no sense, but I have committed to him and that counts for something.

Yet eyes the silver of liquid mercury take that moment to lift beneath eyelashes I would kill for, and my muddled brain isn’t fast enough to save me when they find me from across the manicured yard like he’d known exactly where to find me without trying.

Ridiculous, obviously. Aside from Lachlan at the end of the wide patio and Lauren sprawled in her lounging chair, I’m the only one standing at the railing, clinging to a fistful of napkins I have no memory of grabbing off the table.

I quickly flash him a smile and give a little wave.

Both elicit zero reaction as he reaches down and jerks the axe free. His fingers flex around the grip, testing its balance. I notice the way his shoulders roll with motion, the muscles in his forearms straining with every lift.

The world shrinks down to the rhythmic thud of the axe splitting wood.

Another chunk splits clean down the center, two halves tumbling to the grass like broken pieces of my composure. Van barely spares them a glance. He lifts the next log, thick hands gripping the grainy sides, and balances it atop the stump. His movements are effortless, a predator disguised as a man, pouring pure power into the simple act of survival.

Somewhere in the corner of my brain, I hear Lauren laugh. The sound faint, like it belongs to another life entirely. A life I am not living in this moment.

Because here, in the heavy, shimmering heat of the afternoon, her stepfather is all there is.

Sweat slicks across his bare chest, sliding along the cut of his pecs, tracing the sharp ridges of muscle as if even his body cannot help but worship itself. Each swing of the axe is a study in power and precision. His hips pivot, his thighs balance, the thick muscles beneath his jeans straining with the effort.

I grip the railing tighter, the napkins crinkling under the force of my hold. My mouth is dry. My heart slams itself against my ribs, a frantic and betraying rhythm I’m too weak to tame.

He moves with a kind of primal grace that something inside me answers to. Something ancient and unspoken that makes my thighs press together and my breath come short. I should not be feeling this. Not for him. Not for Lachlan. Not when I have Bron. Not when Bron, for all his faults, for all his distance, is supposed to be mine.

And yet, when Van straightens, dragging the back of his hand across his jaw, smearing a line of sweat along the dark stubble peppering his chin, I am utterly wrecked.

As if sensing the shift inside me, his gaze flicks back up again.

The blade of his attention slices clean through the humid air, cutting straight to where I stand like an idiot in the sun, trembling inside my own skin. His eyes are molten silver. They pin me against the railing, daring me to look away. Daring me to acknowledge the pull tightening between us.

I offer another brittle smile, one I am sure looks more like a grimace, and tear my gaze away. I pretend to fuss with the stack of plates at my elbow. My hands shake as I rearrange them, over and over again uselessly.

In the distance, I hear the axe crack with a force that echoes in my bones.

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