“Well, you don’t get that choice,” I tell her, scooping her into my arms despite her weak attempts to fight me. “I’ve already risked everything to keep you alive. I’m not letting you throw your life away now.”
She tries to struggle, but her body won’t cooperate. The cold has taken her strength, leaving her helpless in my arms. She makes a sound that might be a sob or might just be her body’s response to being moved.
“I h-hate you,” she manages.
“I know.” I walk back toward the cabin, holding her tight against my chest. “And you’ll hate me even more tomorrow when we get married. Because you’re smart enough to choose survival, even when survival looks like surrender.”
She doesn’t respond. Might not have even heard me. Her head lolls against my shoulder, consciousness slipping. That’s bad.Shit.
I move faster, retracing my steps the best I’m able. The cabin isn’t far, but in this storm, with visibility nearly zero, it feels like miles. Blood from my head wound drips onto the snow, leaving atrail. My head still pounds, but I ignore it. Pain is nothing. Fear for Saint? That’s everything.
The trees thin, and suddenly, there it is—the cabin, warm light spilling from the open door. I climb the porch steps and kick the door shut behind us, sealing out the storm.
The warmth of the cabin hits like a wall. I carry Saint straight to the fire, setting her down on the floor in front of the hearth. She’s not shaking anymore. Not moving at all except for the shallow rise and fall of her chest.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
I strip off my coat first, then start on her clothes. Her flannel shirt is soaked through and frozen stiff in places. Her skin underneath is ice cold, lips and fingernails blue. I peel off everything until she’s down to her underwear, then grab every blanket in the cabin.
But blankets won’t be enough. Not for hypothermia this severe.
Body heat. That’s what she needs—direct skin-to-skin contact.
I strip off my own wet shirt and jeans, leaving me in just boxers, then pull her against me. She’s so cold it’s shocking, like holding a corpse. I wrap us both in blankets, surrounding her with my warmth, trying to will heat back into her frozen limbs.
And that’s when my brain catches up with my body.
Her skin against mine. Soft and cold and everywhere. Her breasts pressed against my chest, with only the thin fabric of her panties and my boxers separating us below. The curve of her hip under my hand. Her thighs tangled with mine. The sweet, vulnerable length of her body aligned perfectly with mine.
Christ.
This is not the time. She’s dying—hypothermic and needing medical attention—not, fuck, not whatever my body thinks is happening right now. But biology doesn’t care about timing.My cock is already stirring, responding to the feel of her nearly naked in my arms despite the fact that she’s blue-lipped and barely conscious.
I’m going to hell. Definitely going to hell. Not that there was ever a question.
I adjust my hips, trying to put some distance between us without stopping the heat transfer she desperately needs. But there’s nowhere to go. We’re tangled together, skin to skin, and every breath slides her body against mine, making my jaw clench.
“Come on, Saint,” I murmur against her hair, trying to focus on keeping her alive rather than how good she feels pressed against me. “Don’t you dare die on me. Not after everything.”
Her breathing is shallow and irregular. I hold her tighter, one hand rubbing up and down her back, trying to generate friction, heat, anything. My palm slides over the smooth plane of her spine, the curve of her lower back, the soft skin that’s slowly losing its corpse-like chill.
Stop noticing. Stop feeling. Just keep her alive.
It’s impossible not to notice. Impossible not to feel every inch of her against every inch of me. The soft weight of her breasts. The smooth skin of her stomach pressed against mine. The way her legs are tucked between my thighs, so close to?—
I close my eyes and focus on counting my breaths. On the crackle of the fire. On anything except the growing pressure in my boxers and the fact that I’m holding a nearly naked woman who hates me.
A nearly naked woman I’m going to marry.
A nearly naked woman who will eventually be mine in every way.
The thought doesn’t help. At all.
This is my fault. I pushed her too hard, too fast. I should have given her more time to process everything. Should have been less brutal with the threats. Should have?—
Should havewhat?Let her go? Told her the truth about why I can’t kill her?
That my obsession and need have grown out of control. That the fiasco with Martin gave me the perfect opening. Admitted that somewhere between the night in my truck and the night at her door, she stopped being a witness and started being something else entirely?
