Page 21 of Possessed By the Mountain Man
“A truce,” he says.
My brows knit. “With rules?”
“Three each.”
“What happens if one of us breaks one?”
His fingers curl around mine when I slip my hand into his—big, warm, calloused. “Then we settle it.”
“How?”
His gaze scorches me. “Any way we want.”
We shake on it.
A stupid, dangerous handshake.
And the moment his palm slides from mine, I feel it like a mark burned into skin.
I spin away before I melt into a puddle of poor life choices and haunted lust. “Great,” I chirp with forced cheer. “Then I’ll get back to working.”
“Don’t blow a fuse,” he warns.
I toss hair back over my shoulder and start toward the décor box. “Don’t blow a gasket.”
“Aspen,” he calls.
I look back.
“Leave the lips,” he says again, voice gravel-dark. “I like the red.”
I shouldn’t shiver.
But I do.
The storm howls outside, and the bats glow hotter.
Game on.
It takes another hour to restore the room to my standards—cobweb drapedperfectly, skull mantle balanced, candles arranged safely far from fabric. I’m adding finishing touches toa centerpiece (fog machine + ravens = romantic ambiance, fight me) when Thorne reappears, wiping grease off his hands.
He jerks his chin toward the dining room. “Dinner.”
I pad over, curious and cautious. He lifts the lid off a cast iron skillet, and a waft of something warm and savory fills the air.
“Is that… stew?” I blink.
“Elk,” he says.
My jaw drops. “Like… an actual elk?”
He stares. “No, the imaginary kind.”
“Touché.” I take a seat across from him while he ladles it into two bowls. “So you hunt.”
He grunts. “I live.”
“And cook.”
