Page 150 of Kentrell

His voice reached me before his touch did—deep and warm, pulling me out of sleep like a tide.

“Wake up, baby. We here.”

My eyes fluttered open to the low light of the cabin. Kentrell stood beside the bed, dressed again in black, silhouetted by the faint glow from the window behind him.

I blinked slowly, letting my surroundings return to me. The leather. The hum of engines winding down. The champagne flute on the side table.

And him.

Always him.

“I fell asleep?” I murmured, sitting up as the blanket slid down my bare shoulders.

“Out cold,” he smirked, offering me one of the robes from the cabin’s closet. “Get dressed. We got a car waitin’.”

I pulled the blanket tighter around me for a moment, still trying to register how I got from being on top of him to now halfway across the sky.

“You don’t play fair,” I yawned.

“I don’t play at all,” he said, low and smooth, before leaning down and kissing the crown of my head.

I got dressed quietly, slipping into a soft cream sweatsuit he must’ve packed for me—because I damn sure didn’t. It still smelled faintly like his cologne.

Outside, the air was still. Cold.

The night wrapped around the jet as we descended the steps, the wind kissing my cheeks with frozen lips. I gasped, pulling the hood over my head as Kentrell held my hand and guided me down to the blacked-out SUV already waiting just off the tarmac.

The driver nodded, took the bags, and opened the back door. Once inside, the warmth hit me instantly—followed by the soft scent of cedar and mint that seemed to be woven into every inch of this man’s world.

I leaned against him as we rode in silence.

The city had long disappeared behind us.

No noise.

No lights.

Just snow-dusted trees and winding roads that seemed to climb higher with each turn.

“You good, man?”

“Yeah.” I squeezed his arm, I was still holding onto tighter.

The car crept up a long, private drive that curved through evergreens dusted in white. The moonlight danced across the frozen edges of a still, black lake—so still it looked like glass. Beyond it, tucked deep into the mountainside, sat a wooden marker.

Summit Lake Lodge.

Stone. Timber. Firelight flickering in every window. The kind of quiet that felt sacred. Untouched.

We passed the main lodge and kept going—up toward a private cabin perched higher, half-hidden by pines. A soft trail of smoke curled from the chimney. Fresh snow blanketed the steps and glistened under the porch light.

The driver parked.

Kentrell stepped out first and came around to open my door himself. I took his hand and stepped into the snow, boots crunching softly beneath me.

My breath hitched.

The air was sharp. Clean. So cold it bit—but beautiful. Like the whole world had been muted. No calls. No emails. Just this.

---