"An artist," he deadpans. "Great. Just what we need. Finger paints and feelings."
"Hey," I snap, stepping forward. My anger flares, bright and hot, matching his surliness. "I don't do finger paints. And I don't need your attitude. Do you need someone to watch your kid or not? Because from the looks of this place—" I gesture vaguely at the pile of unchopped wood and the general air of masculine chaos "—you’re barely keeping it together."
His jaw tightens. A dangerous light flares in his eyes. I pushed him. I poked the bear.
Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. The wind howls through the trees, but neither of us looks away. The tension snaps like a live wire. My body reacts to his aggression in the most inappropriate way possible.
I’m fucking soaked. My pussy is already weeping, slicking my inner thighs with a desperate, hot need. My clit pulses in time with the heavy thud of my heart, hard and swollen, begging for the raw violence I see in his eyes. I don't want him to see an intruder; I want him to see prey he’s ready to mount, break, and claim.
God, Bianca, get a grip.
"Daddy?"
The small voice breaks the spell.
Shane—I assume this is Shane—doesn't flinch, but his shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. The aggression doesn't leave his face, but it shifts, becoming protective.
I look past his massive torso. Standing on the porch of the cabin is a little girl, maybe six or seven, holding a stuffed rabbit by one ear. She has his dark hair and solemn eyes.
"Maddie," he says, his voice roughening, losing some of the jagged edge he used on me. "Go back inside."
"I'm hungry," she says simply. She looks at me, curious. "Who is she? Is she the lady Uncle Tristan sent?"
Shane sighs, a sound of deep, bone-weary exhaustion. He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further. The movementlifts his arm, stretching the skin over his ribs, showcasing the serratus muscles. I force my eyes to stay on his face.
"Yeah," Shane grunts, looking back at me. "She's the lady."
He leaves the axe buried deep in the wood and stalks toward me. I have to tilt my head back just to meet those cold, storm-tossed eyes. Up close, he reads like a ledger of loss—shadowed with stubble that hints at restless sleep. Dark eyes hold a weathered patience, as if they've watched too many promises break and learned to keep their distance.
He stops inches from me, blocking out the sun.
"You walk away now," he says softly, dangerously. "You get in your car and you go back to the city. This life? It’s not for tourists. It’s dirty. It’s loud. And it’s dangerous."
"I'm not a tourist," I whisper. My voice trembles, but I hold my ground. "And I'm not afraid of loud."
His eyes search mine. He’s looking for a lie. He’s looking for the flinch. When he doesn't find it, something shifts in his expression. The hostility remains, but underneath it, there’s a flicker of heat. Possessiveness.
He reaches out. For a second, I think he’s going to grab me. My breath catches. I want him to grab me. I want to feel those rough, calloused hands on my skin. I want to know if his touch burns as much as his gaze.
Instead, he reaches for the portfolio at my side, held in a tight grip. His knuckles brush against my hip. The contact is electric. A shockwave rolls through me, and my fingers unclench, almost dropping the portfolio onto the ground. When he catches it, his arm touches mine, and the shock makes my knees buckleslightly. He feels it too; his hand clenches tight on the leather handle.
"Fine," he growls. "You want into the fire? Don't say I didn't warn you."
He turns and stalks toward the house, expecting me to follow.
"Wait," I call out, hurrying to catch up with his long strides. "That’s it? No interview? No background check?"
He stops on the bottom step of the porch and looks down at me. The vantage point makes him look like a god of war judging a mortal.
"I checked your background the second you turned onto the mountain road," he says flatly. "I know who you are, Bianca Carmine. Parking tickets in Philadelphia. Eviction notice pending. You paint weird shit that scares normal people."
My mouth falls open. "How did you?—"
"We protect our own," he says. "And if you step foot in this house, you’re under my roof. You follow my rules."
"What are your rules?" I ask, my heart thumping a frantic rhythm against my sternum.
He leans down, his face inches from mine. I can see the flecks of gold in his gray eyes. I can feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace.
