Chapter 3 – Ariel
"Get inside," Joel commands, his voice still rough from shouting over the storm, and I don't need to be told twice.
I step across the threshold on unsteady legs, my boots immediately creating puddles on the worn wooden floor as the accumulated snow begins to melt. My fingers are so numb I can barely feel them, and when I try to unwrap my scarf, they fumble uselessly at the knots.
The door slams shut behind us with a finality that makes my pulse spike. We're alone now. Truly alone, with nothing but the howling wind outside and the crackling fire casting dancing shadows across the walls.
The cabin is smaller than I expected, but it feels secure. Everything about it speaks of a man who lives deliberately, who owns nothing he doesn't need.
Maps are pinned to the log walls—topographical surveys of the surrounding wilderness marked with precise notations in what must be Joel's handwriting. Shelves hold an assortment of well-maintained tools and equipment.
"Jesus, you're shaking like a leaf." Joel's observation is more assessment than sympathy, but there's something underneath it that makes my stomach flutter. He moves past me toward the stone fireplace, his boots making no sound on the wooden floor despite his size. "Get those wet clothes off before you get hypothermia."
Heat floods my cheeks. "I'm not—I mean, I'm fine. Just cold."
He turns to look at me, and those steel-gray eyes catalog every detail of my appearance with the same tactical precision I noticed outside.
"You're not fine," he states matter-of-factly. "You're hypothermic. Early stages, but still dangerous." He jerks his head toward a doorway I assume leads to a bedroom. "There are dry clothes in there. Put them on."
It's not a suggestion. The authority in his voice makes it clear that arguing would be pointless, but something in me rebels against being ordered around like a child.
"I can take care of myself," I say, lifting my chin despite the chattering of my teeth. "I've been hiking and camping for years. I know how to handle the cold."
Amusement flickers in his eyes, or so I think. "Is that so?"
"Yes, that's so." I set my camera on a rough-hewn table near the fire, my movements still clumsy from the cold but determined. "I'm not some helpless city girl who's going to fall apart the moment things get a little challenging."
"A little challenging." He repeats my words with what might be a smirk, though it's hard to tell with that granite-carved face. "You call a whiteout blizzard in sub-zero temperatures 'a little challenging'?"
I want to fire back with something sharp and witty, but a violent gust of wind chooses that moment to slam into the cabin, making the walls creak and sending a shower of snow sliding off the roof with a sound like thunder. The lights flicker, and for a heart-stopping moment I think we might lose power entirely.
Joel doesn't even flinch. He just continues to watch me with those unnerving eyes, reading my reaction like he's gathering intelligence.
"The storm's getting worse," I whisper, more to myself than to him.
"Yes, it is." He moves to adjust something on the wood stove. "We'll likely lose power within the hour. Phone lines are probably already down."
The implications of that hit me hard. No power. No phone. No way to call for help or let anyone know where I am. I'm trapped here with a man I don't know, a man who appeared out of the forest like something from a fairy tale and whose presence makes my pulse race for reasons I don't fully understand.
I should be terrified. Instead, I'm... exhilarated.
"How long do storms like this usually last?" I ask, pulling off my gloves and flexing my fingers in the warmth. The returning sensation is painful, but it's better than the frightening numbness.
"Could be hours. Could be days." He straightens from the stove and fixes me with that penetrating stare again. "Depends on the wind patterns, atmospheric pressure, a dozen variables most people don't understand."
"But you do."
"I do." There's no false modesty in his tone, just fact. "I've lived through way worse than this."
There's a darkness in his voice, a weight of experience that speaks of hardships I can't even imagine.
I shrug out of my coat, hanging it on a peg by the door where it immediately begins dripping onto a strategically placed mat. Underneath, my sweater is damp with melted snow and clings to my curves in a way that makes me suddenly self-conscious. Joel's gaze follows the movement, lingering on the swell of my breasts, the curve of my waist, before snapping back to my face.
The heat in his eyes makes my breath catch.
"You should still change," he says, his voice rougher than before. "That wool will take hours to dry, and wet clothes will steal your body heat."
He's right, of course. But the thought of putting on his clothes, of wearing something that's touched his skin, makes my stomach do strange flips.
