"You're rattling apart, Avery. Let me work."
I make quick work of the laces, pulling the boots off and setting them on the stone hearth to dry. Then I peel off her soaked socks. Her feet are ice cold, pale and delicate. I wrap my large hands around them, rubbing briskly to generate friction.
She gasps. Her toes curl against my palms.
"Warm?" I ask, not looking up.
"Getting there." Her breath hitches.
I look up then. She leans forward, watching my hands on her skin. Her lips part, pink and swollen from the cold. A flush rises on her neck that has nothing to do with the fire.
Touching her is a mistake. I should toss her the towel and go chop wood in the shed until the storm passes.
But I can't let go.
"You have no idea what you're doing, do you?" I ask quietly.
She blinks. "What do you mean? I'm... I'm surviving."
"You're playing house in a war zone," I correct her. "The mountain isn't a backdrop for your self-discovery, Avery. It's a living thing. It eats people who aren't ready."
"Then teach me," she dares. It’s soft, but steel reinforces the words. "Don't just yell at me. Show me how to survive."
The request hangs in the air between us, heavy and loaded.Show me.
I stand up abruptly, breaking the contact. The loss of her skin leaves my hands feeling empty.
"Get changed," I say, tossing the towel into her lap. "I'll make coffee. Strong. You're going to need it."
"Why?" she asks, clutching the towel to her chest.
"Because the storm is getting worse," I say, walking toward the kitchen, my back to her. "And the power lines down in the valley just flashed. We’re going to be in the dark soon."
"I'm not afraid of the dark," she says.
I stop at the counter and look back at her over my shoulder. She looks small and determined, yet incredibly soft.
"You should be," I tell her. "You're in the woods with a wolf, Little Bird. And the cage door just locked."
I don't wait for her response. I turn to the coffee pot, hands moving through the familiar ritual of grinding beans.
I listen to the rustle of fabric behind me as she starts to undress. The sound is torture. Wet denim slides down, followed by the soft intake of breath as the cold air hits her damp skin.
I grip the edge of the counter, staring out the window at the white wall of snow beginning to fall.
She’s mine.
The thought doesn't ask for permission. It just arrives, settling into the bedrock of my mind like it’s always been there. I found her. I saved her. I brought her into my perimeter.
Now I just have to figure out how to keep her safe from the one thing on this mountain that wants to devour her most.
Me.
3
AVERY
The fabric of his flannel shirt is so thick it feels less like clothing and more like a heavy blanket, a massive weight reminding me Oliver is only a few feet away.
