Page 3 of Wrecked By the Mountain Man
"Hello? I know you're in there... please, open up!"
Oh, for fuck's sake.
I grip the rifle tighter, the wood digging into my palm.
What in the actual hell is she doing here? She is the antithesis of everything I am, everything this cabin represents.
She’s shouldn’t be here.
I've seen her down in the town when I reluctantly have to leave my cabin on the rare occasion my pantry needs restocking.
Penny is life, vibrant and unapologetic, and I am… death, lingering.
My first instinct is to simply let her freeze. It might be cruel, maybe even inhuman on another level completely, but my internal logic is a twisted mess these days.
She’ll be better off. Away from you. Away from anything you could possibly taint.
But then her eyes, wide and luminous even through the downpour, meet mine through the foggy glass of the peephole. A flicker of genuine desperation, a childlike plea, slices through my hardened shell.
And just like that, the beast inside me quiets, replaced by an unfamiliar, unwelcome pang of something akin to…concern.
Right on cue, the wind rips through the valley again, a guttural groan from the forest. Penny stumbles, pressing herself closer to the door, a faint, frustrated whimper escaping her lips.
"Please! Come on! Open up!"
"Damn it. Damn it all to hell."
With a frustrated grunt, I unlatch the heavy bolts, the metal groaning in protest.
Instantly, the icy wind howls into the cabin, bringing with it a swirl of snow and the scent of wet wool and…something sweet. Strawberries, maybe?
Despite the ridiculousness of the situation, the scent causes a momentary, inexplicable flicker of something almost pleasant in my chest, quickly extinguished by that old permanent resentment I've carried around since the war.
"What in God's name are you doing out here, Penny?" My voice is a low growl, rough with days of disuse and years of annoyance.
I keep the rifle pointed at the floor, but its presence is a clear warning:Don't get too comfortable.
She peers up at me, her eyes widening even further at the sight of the rifle. A faint tremor runs through her, but she doesn’t flinch. Her chin juts out, a stubborn defiance that is as familiar as it is irritating.
"Edward," she gasps, her teeth chattering so hard I can barely make out the word. "The storm… it came out of nowhere. My car… it slid off the road... and... and... I don't know. I knew your cabin was up here… I walked… I think…"
She trails off, a fresh wave of shivers racking her curvy as fuck body.
Her hair is no longer blonde; it’s a dark, sodden mess, plastered to her forehead and cheeks. Her lips are blue, her fingers almost purple as she squeezes her arms around herself.
Even through the bulky, drenched raincoat, I can see the soft, appealing curve of her body, a shape that's so fucking sexy, the sight alone makes something stir deep within me.
This woman is a walking, breathing, vibrant spark of life. She's absolutely fucking gorgeous, but I'm not sure I'm even allowed to think that. She must be at least ten years younger than me, probably more.
"You thought what?" I demand, my voice still gruff, but a subtle shift has occurred without my conscious permission.
The threat assessment has moved from external danger to internal inconvenience. She is here. She is freezing.
And for some ungodly reason, I can’t just let her stand there.
"I thought you'd… help me," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the wind, a desperate plea that breaks through the last vestiges of my eternal cruelty.
Help her? I can barely help myself.
