Iwake up alone in Callum's bed.
Not the guest bed. His bed. The massive king in the playroom that smells like cedar and sex and something I'm not ready to name.
Afternoon light streams through the high windows, which means I slept for hours after he wrung me out like a dishrag and held me while I cried for reasons I still don't fully understand. My body feels loose in a way it hasn't in years. Muscles I didn't know I was clenching have finally released.
I stretch against the sheets and take inventory. Slight soreness in my shoulders from the restraints. Tender spot on my ass where he spanked me. A deep, satisfied ache between my thighs that pulses when I press my legs together.
I want more.
The thought arrives without shame, which surprises me. I expected to wake up embarrassed. Expected the daylight to bring regret and rationalization and all the defense mechanisms I usually deploy after showing someone too much of myself.
Instead I just feel hungry.
I find my clothes folded neatly on a chair near the door, which means Callum came back at some point while I was sleeping. The idea of him watching me, unconscious and vulnerable in his space, sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with cold.
The cabin smells like food when I emerge from the playroom. Real food, not the protein bars and airport sandwiches I've been surviving on. I follow my nose to the kitchen and find Callum standing at the stove, stirring something in a cast iron skillet.
He's changed into fresh jeans and a gray henley that stretches across his shoulders in ways that make my mouth water. His feet are bare, which feels strangely intimate. Like I'm seeing something private.
"You cook."
He glances over his shoulder, and the look he gives me is warm enough to melt snow. "You sound surprised."
"I assumed mountain men survived on jerky and whatever they killed with their bare hands."
"I save the bare handed killing for special occasions." He gestures toward the kitchen island. "Sit. This is almost ready."
I slide onto a barstool and watch him work. Confident, efficient movements. No wasted energy. He cooks the same way he does everything else, with complete control and focus.
"What are we having?"
"Frittata. Caramelized onions, goat cheese, fresh herbs from the greenhouse." He plates two generous portions and sets one in front of me. "Eat. You need fuel after this morning."
The first bite makes me groan out loud. "Holy shit."
"Good?"
"This is incredible. Where did you learn to cook like this?"
"Necessity." He settles onto the stool beside me with his own plate. "Four boys, no parents, limited budget. We learnedto make good food out of whatever we had, or we ate a lot of ramen."
"Your brothers cook too?"
"Declan's the best. He could've been a chef if he hadn't fallen in love with chainsaws." Callum takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Flynn burns water. Ronan's decent but he gets distracted and forgets he has things in the oven."
I try to picture it. Four orphaned brothers learning to take care of each other, building a life out of tragedy. It explains things about Callum that I couldn't quite place before. The caretaking instinct. The need for control. The way he held me like keeping people safe was programmed into his bones.
"The snow's tapering off." He nods toward the window. "I'll plow the driveway this afternoon. If the county clears the main road by tomorrow morning, we can make the wedding with time to spare."
"And tonight?"
"Tonight we're still stuck here." His gaze holds mine. "Unless you'd rather I drive you down to the B&B once the roads are passable."
The question underneath his words aren’t lost on me. Do you want to stay? Do you want more of what we started?
"I don't want to go to the B&B."
"What do you want?"
