"Let me talk to them," I'd said, placing my small hand on his massive forearm. "Please, Thorne."
The struggle in his eyes had been real. This man who'd lived alone for five years, who'd lost everything once before, was terrified of losing me too. But he'd stepped aside—barely—while keeping me tucked against his side as I opened the door.
Two men in bright rescue gear stood on the porch, relief washing over their faces when they saw me.
"Ma'am, we've been searching for weeks. Your parents reported you missing after the blizzard. We need to get you back to town."
Thorne's arm had tightened around my waist, his body vibrating with tension. I could feel him preparing to throw them off his property, possibly with violence. But before he could, I stepped forward—not away from him, just enough to address the rescuers directly.
"I appreciate your concern and the effort you've made to find me," I'd said, my voice steady and sure. "Please let my parents know I'm safe. But I'm exactly where I want to be—with my fiancé."
I hadn't planned the words. They just tumbled out, perfect and right. Thorne's intake of breath beside me was sharp enough to cut glass.
The rescuers looked between us, confusion evident. "Fiancé?"
"Yes," I'd said, reaching back for Thorne's hand. His fingers had engulfed mine immediately. "I'm staying."
They'd tried to argue, of course. Mentioned welfare checks and proper procedures. But I was twenty-five, of sound mind, and very clearly not in distress. Eventually, they'd left with a promise to relay the message to my parents, along with a number to call when I was "ready to come home."
The moment the door closed, Thorne had me in his arms, lifting me like I weighed nothing.
"Fiancé?" he'd growled against my neck, already carrying me toward the bedroom.
"If you want me," I'd whispered, suddenly shy despite everything we'd done together.
His laugh had been dark and possessive. "Want you? Little girl, I've wanted you since you stumbled through my door half-frozen, looking like a snow angel sent to save me."
He'd tossed me onto the bed with enough force to make me bounce, then covered my body with his. "Say it again," he'd demanded, already tearing at my clothes. "Tell me you're mine."
"I'm yours," I'd gasped as he ripped my panties away. "Forever, Thorne. I'm yours."
That's how we got engaged—with me breathless beneath him and him fucking me within an inch of my life, proclaiming he was the luckiest man alive. He'd come inside me so hard that day, filling me up with a savage determination. Nine months later, the twins were born.
Our wedding was small—just us, a justice of the peace from town, and my parents, who'd eventually come around after meeting Thorne. He'd shaved his beard for the ceremony, revealing a jaw so sharp it could cut diamonds and a face so handsome it made my heart hurt. When I'd walked toward him in my simple white dress, the naked emotion on his face nearly brought me to my knees.
"You're so beautiful," he'd whispered when I reached him, his voice raw. "My wife."
The beard has grown back since then, thick and dark with streaks of early silver, just like before. I don't care how he looks. I love him with or without it, though I'll admit I love the way his beard feels between my thighs when he feasts on me like a starving man.
Now, I watch him set our boys down and point them toward their toy trucks in the sandbox he built them. He says somethingI can't hear, and they nod solemnly before trudging off to play. Always obedient when it comes to their daddy. They worship the ground he walks on, and who can blame them? He's everything a father should be—strong, protective, loving.
I turn back to the vegetables I'm chopping for dinner, but I feel him before I see him. The air changes when Thorne enters a room. It gets thicker, charged with something primal. The floorboards creak under his weight as he approaches, and then his heat is at my back, his massive hands sliding around my waist.
"You were watching me," he murmurs against my ear, his beard tickling my neck. "I could feel your eyes on me, little girl."
Even after all this time, that name makes me shiver. I'm twenty-seven now, a mother of two, but to him, I'll always be his little girl.
"I like watching you with our sons," I admit, leaning back against his solid chest. "You're so good with them."
His hands slide up to cup my breasts through my thin cotton shirt. They're fuller now after nursing the twins, more sensitive. He knows this and uses it against me mercilessly.
"They're down for their afternoon playtime," he says, his voice dropping to that register that means only one thing. "Which means Daddy gets some playtime too."
My core clenches in anticipation. "The boys?—"
"Are fine in the sandbox for twenty minutes," he finishes, already turning me around to face him. His eyes are dark with want. "And I need you, baby. Need to be inside you."
Five years together and he still makes me weak in the knees. I reach up to touch his face, feeling the rough texture of his beard against my palm.
