ALEXANDRIA
The storm turns the world into a howling void, but inside the loft, silence outweighs the thunder. A thick, pressurized quiet rings in my ears, anticipating an avalanche.
I lie against the bank of pillows Tristan arranged hours ago, staring at ceiling beams. My leg, encased in the splint he fashioned with terrifying competence, throbs with a dull rhythm. Pain lurks behind the chemical haze of painkillers, but it fails to demand my attention. It’s him.
Tristan sits in the leather armchair, his massive frame still. He sharpens a knife—a wicked hunting blade—with a rhythmicshhhk,shhhk,shhhkthat scrapes my nerve endings. He hasn't looked at me in twenty minutes, but his awareness permeates the room. A sleeping tiger in a cage; the predator rests, but every muscle coils, ready to snap at a shift in the air.
Heat from the wood stove stifles the air, or perhaps fever burns in my blood unconnected to my injuries. Since he tasted me then pulled back with agonized restraint, I haven't breathed right.
"You're staring, Alexandria," he rumbles. He doesn't look up. His voice acts as a tectonic shift, vibrating through the floorboards into the mattress.
"I have nothing else to look at," I reply, voice raspy. "Just the storm. And the man who kidnapped me."
Tristan pauses the whetstone. He lifts his head, firelight catching the hard angles of his face—heavy brow, scar cutting through stubble, and eyes the color of dark river-moss. "Saved you," he corrects. No apology colors the tone. "If I’d left you for the rescue team, you’d still be freezing on that ridge. The storm hit the peak ten minutes after I got you inside."
"You could have taken me to the clinic."
"No."
He sets the knife on the side table. My breath hitches as he unfolds his height. Impossibly large, a mountain making the spacious loft feel cramped. He wears nothing but gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, leaving that expanse of scarred, tattooed chest bare to the firelight. Ink swirls over his deltoids—runes, wolves, and complex geometric patterns—a map of violence and loyalty on skin that could deflect bullets.
He walks toward the bed, silent despite his size. The predator approaching the wounded doe.
"Pain?" he asks, stopping by the mattress. His hand hovers over my splinted leg. Heat radiates from his palm.
"A little," I lie. It hurts like hell, but the ache between my thighs is sharper. "The meds are wearing off."
"I can give you more."
"I don't want to be numb, Tristan."
The admission hangs. He tracks the movement of my pulse like he’s deciding where to bite. He’d stripped me and shoved me into one of his shirts while I was out, and now the fabric is heavy with him—the scent of engine grease, cast-iron, and the thick, salty musk of a man who’s been wanting someone for too long.
"You need to rest," he says, voice tight. "You have broken bones. Bruises."
"I'm not broken everywhere."
A muscle feathers in his jaw.
"Alexandria," he warns. A low growl from a beast keeping claws sheathed.
I push myself up, fighting dizziness. In the woods, you run from the bear. Here, in this warm, dim loft, I want the bear to maul me. I need him to break the agonizing restraint he holds with a death-grip on his own control.
"You kissed me," I whisper. "You put your mouth on me, then stopped. Do you have any idea what that feels like?"
"I stopped because you're injured," he snaps, restraint fraying. He leans down, planting hands on the mattress, caging me. "Because you're drugged and vulnerable. I don't take advantage of women who can't run away."
"I don't want to run." I reach up, fingers trembling as I trace the line of ink on his bicep. Granite hard. "And I'm lucid enough to know what I want. The storm trapped us here, Tristan. Just you and me. Stop being noble. It doesn't suit you."
His pupils blow wide, swallowing the green until his eyes are black voids of pure, predatory hunger. A shudder rips through his massive frame. A sound tears out of his throat—half-groan, half-snarl.
"You don't know what you're asking for," he rasps, breath hot against my lips. "I’ve watched you breathe for two days. Washed blood off your skin. Held you while you cried in your sleep. My control hangs by a fucking thread, Little Bit. If I touch you now, I won't be gentle."
"Good."
The thread snaps.
He doesn't kiss me; he claims my mouth. His tongue forces its way, rough and demanding, tasting of stale whiskey and the metallic tang of a hunter. The heat of him is a blunt force, making the throb in my broken ankle irrelevant compared to the way he's dominating my senses.
