I don't want to feel sympathy for him. It's easier when he's just the enemy.
My body is already wanting more. There's a low hum under my skin. I can feel the heat building in the heaviness of my limbs, the sensitivity of my skin, the way my thoughts keep drifting back to Carter's hands on my hips, Carter's mouth on mine, Carter inside me.
I stay in the bath until the water goes cold.
I don't want to get out and face more stilted conversation. As long as I'm in here, I can pretend I'm alone and pretend this is just a nice cabin with a nice view and not a cage I've locked myself into with an alpha who represents everything I despise.
But eventually the cold becomes uncomfortable, and the horniness that's been building all afternoon pulls at me. It’s sharper with each passing hour. My body doesn't care about politics. It just wants the alpha on the other side of that door.
I haul myself out of the bath, water streaming down my skin, and reach for a towel.
My bag is still in the main room. I left it by the couch when we were unloading the car. I either have to dress in my old clothes or walk out there in my towel to get clean clothes.
I take a breath. This is ridiculous. Carter has seen me naked. Carter has had his hands and mouth on every part of my body. There's no reason a towel should feel more exposing than that.
I open the bathroom door.
Carter is in the kitchen area, his back to me, doing something at the stove. I smell garlic, herbs.
I cross the room quickly, hyperaware of the towel around my hips, of my bare chest and damp skin. Carter doesn't turn around. He doesn't acknowledge me at all. But I see the tensionin his shoulders, the slight stillness that tells me he knows exactly where I am and what I'm wearing.
I grab my bag and retreat to the bedroom, closing the door behind me.
The bedroom is small but comfortable. There’s a brass bed frame with a thick quilt, a dresser with more photos on top, a window that looks out at the darkening trees. I dress quickly in joggers and a loose t-shirt and take a moment to breathe.
When I come out, Carter has set two places at the small wooden table. The candles he's lit are practical. The cabin's lighting is limited, but they cast a warm glow that makes everything feel more intimate than it should.
Whatever he's cooked smells incredible. My stomach growls, reminding me that I barely ate today. I was far too anxious about the drive and what was coming.
"Sit," Carter says. "It's ready."
He brings over two plates. It’s some kind of chicken in a cream sauce with herbs, roasted vegetables on the side. There's even a garnish—a sprig of something green that he must have brought specifically for this purpose.
I sit. Take a bite. And stop.
"This is incredible," I say, before I can think better of it.
Carter's eyes widen in surprise, then he smiles. "It's just chicken."
It's notjustanything. It’s amazing. I take another bite. I've eaten at expensive restaurants that couldn't match this. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"
"Here, mostly." Carter sits across from me, starts eating. "My grandmother taught me. I spent a lot of time in the kitchen with her when I was young."
"She was a good teacher," I manage.
"She was." There's warmth in his voice when he talks about her. The same warmth I heard when he mentioned Kate.
"My mother couldn't cook at all," I find myself saying. I don't know why I'm offering this. "We lived on frozen dinners and takeout. She worked too much to learn, and by the time she had more time, she was too sick to care."
Carter looks at me. I've said too much. I’ve given away something personal, something real. I brace for him to push, to ask about my mother's illness, to pry into territory I don't want to discuss.
But all he says is, "That must have been hard."
"It was what it was."
We eat in silence for a while. It's less oppressive than before. The food gives us something to focus on, something to do with our hands and mouths that isn't talking or fucking.
"This isn't what I expected," I say eventually.
