Page 7 of Mountain Storm
Finally, she adjusts beneath the blanket, drawing it snug around her. "Why didn't you come forward? Back then?"
"I didn't save you for credit."
She narrows her eyes. "No. You saved me only to haunt me."
The fire crackles. Outside, the wind rattles the windowpanes.
I walk to her slowly, boots echoing against the floorboards. She doesn't flinch. But her throat moves as she swallows.
"You weren't supposed to find me again."
She's shivering. Not just from the cold. From adrenaline. I can feel it in the air between us—tight, electric. She didn't come here by accident. She came looking for a story. But maybe, deep down, it was always me she wanted to find. Even if she doesn't know it yet.
"I didn't," she says softly. "You found me. Again."
I stop in front of her, close enough to see the shiver she tries to hide. My hand twitches at my side, wanting to touch her again—to test if that reaction is fear, arousal, or something tangled in between. I shouldn't want her like this. She's hurt. Cold. Disoriented. But none of that seems to matter when she looks at me like she already knows what I'll do next.
My instincts are screaming—half of them warning me to back off, the rest demanding I stake a claim. She's the trespasser, but it's me who feels exposed. Like her presence scrapes against the parts of me I buried after the war, after I became something more feral than man.
I want to protect her. Not from cold. From me. I want to devour her. And I don't know which urge scares me more.
"Why are you here, Caryn?"
She tilts her chin up. "Maybe I'm looking for answers."
"Or maybe," I say, letting my fingers hover just a moment longer than necessary before brushing a damp strand of hairfrom her cheek. I do it slowly, intentionally, and measured. Not just to move it. To feel the way her breath hitches, to watch the way her lashes flutter when I invade that last inch of space. I want her to feel the control in my touch. I want her to know it's mine to give—or take. "You wanted to be caught."
She exhales sharply, a flush climbing her neck. "You've got a hell of an ego for a man who lives in a shack."
I grin, slow and sharp. "I've got a hell of a memory of a girl who got lost once and never stopped dreaming about it."
Her breath hitches. Her gaze flicks to my mouth, then back to my eyes.
"How do you know that?" she asks, looking around before fixing her gaze back on me. "Have you been watching me?"
"I see what I see."
She doesn't move away. I think about stopping myself but decide not to.
I reach down, grip her chin, and tilt her face up, slowly and deliberately, giving her every second to pull away. Her skin is flushed and damp, the kind of warm that only comes after nearly freezing. I can feel the rapid pulse beneath my thumb, the shudder that ripples through her as our eyes lock.
Her breath catches. There's resistance there—stubbornness, pride—but no fear. Her pupils dilate, her body still but tense, like she's caught mid-decision. The kind of tension that doesn't say no. The kind that dares me to push just a little further.
I lean in until her breath fans against my lips, close enough to taste her heat but not to kiss. Not yet. I want her teetering on the edge, unsure if she'll be devoured or saved. And I want her to know I can do both. She stiffens but doesn't pull away. My thumb brushes her lower lip. Soft. Warm now. Still trembling.
"Tell me to stop."
She doesn't.
Part of me wants her to say it—to draw a line in the snow and remind me what restraint feels like. To prove she still has control. But she doesn't flinch. Doesn't speak. And that silence says everything. She's not surrendering. Not exactly. She's daring me. Testing how far I'll go before I pull back. Or if I will at all.
I lean in, but I don't kiss her. Not yet.
Her eyes are wide, pupils blown, breath shallow.
"You're not safe here," I murmur.
She exhales and exhaustion takes over. The last thing she mumbles before she falls asleep is, "No. I'm not."
