But I'm not scared. Not really. Something in his stance, in the careful way he holds himself, speaks of restraint rather than threat.
Finally, he moves, gesturing toward the fire with one massive hand. An invitation.
"Thank you," I whisper, stumbling toward the hearth on numb feet. I sink down onto a bearskin rug that feels sinfully soft against my frozen fingertips. The heat from the flames makes my skin prickle painfully as circulation returns.
He disappears for a moment, returning with a thick woolen blanket that he drapes around my shoulders. His movements are deliberate, careful—like a man accustomed to measuring his strength. When his fingers brush my shoulder, a different kind of warmth sparks through me.
He vanishes again, this time coming back with a steaming mug that smells of chicken and herbs. Soup. He places it in my hands, making sure I have a firm grip before letting go.
I sip gratefully, the hot liquid bringing my throat back to life. "I'm Lila," I offer, hoping to coax a name from him in return.
Nothing. Just that steady, unwavering gaze.
The fire pops and cracks as I drink the soup, studying him while trying not to be obvious about it. His hands draw my attention—huge, calloused palms with long fingers marked by small scars and nicks. Working hands. Creating hands. They match the craftsmanship of the furniture around us.
Outside, the storm intensifies, rattling the windows with its fury. I'm trapped here, at least for tonight, with this silent mountain man whose eyes never leave me.
I should be planning my escape, counting the hours until daylight. Instead, I find myself wondering what his voice sounds like. Wondering why he chooses silence. Wondering why, despite everything, I feel more at peace in his wordless presence than I have in months.
The soup warms me from the inside out, but it's nothing compared to the heat of his gaze. Something primal and inexplicable pulls at me—like gravity, like fate. I don't even know his name, but my body recognizes something in him that makes my heart beat faster.
The wind screams across the roof like a banshee, and I just sit there staring at my massive savior.
And then…he speaks.
two
. . .
Thorne
Five yearsof silence shattered by a knock on my door. Five years of seeing no one but my own reflection in the creek water when I wash. Five years of nightmares where I hear Amy screaming as the flames lick higher, where I feel Jamie's tiny hand slipping from mine as the smoke thickens. Five years since I've heard another human voice. But now there she is—small and soft and soaking wet—standing in my cabin like some forest spirit I conjured from my loneliness. And fuck me if I don't want to drop to my knees and thank whatever god sent her my way.
She's tiny. That's my first thought. Tiny and curvy, with wide hazel eyes that remind me of the forest after rain. Her chestnut hair hangs in wet tendrils around a heart-shaped face. Snowflakes melt on her eyelashes, and her pink lips tremble from cold.
Mine.
The thought comes unbidden, primal and certain. Something deep in my chest, something I thought died in the fire along with my family, my sister and my little niece, roars back to life at the sight of her.
I stand frozen in the shadows, watching her take in my home. The furniture I carved during endless silent nights. The hearth I rebuilt stone by stone when I couldn't sleep for the memories haunting me. My fingers twitch at my sides. I want to touch her, to see if she's real or if madness has finally come for me after all these years alone.
She speaks—apologies, explanations—but I barely register the words. I'm too busy drinking in the sight of her. The way she hugs herself against the cold. The perfect curve of her hips. The vulnerability in her eyes that calls to something protective and fierce in me.
I gesture toward the fire, not trusting myself with more. She moves past me, and her scent hits me like a physical blow—woman and winter and something sweet underneath. My cock stirs for the first time in five years, hardening painfully fast against my thigh. Oh, Jesus. One look at this little thing and I'm ready to rut like a fucking teenager.
In the firelight, she looks like a painting. Like something I shouldn't touch with these scarred, rough hands. But I grab a blanket anyway, draping it around her shoulders. My fingers brush her skin—soft, so soft—and electricity shoots straight to my groin.
I retreat to the kitchen, gripping the counter until my knuckles turn white, willing my heart to slow its frantic pace.Five years. Five years of choosing silence, of punishing myself for not saving them. Five years of existing, not living. And now this girl stumbles in from a blizzard, and suddenly I'm a man again, with a man's needs and hungers.
The soup is simple—rabbit and vegetables—but it gives me something to do, something to focus on besides the curve of her neck or the way her wet clothes cling to her breasts. I bring it to her, careful not to spill, careful not to linger too close.
"I'm Lila," she says, and the name settles in my chest like it's always belonged there.
Lila.MyLila.
She drinks the soup, stealing glances at me when she thinks I won't notice. I make a show of stoking the fire, but all my attention is on her. On the graceful way she brings the mug to her lips. On the soft sigh she makes when the warm liquid hits her throat. On the way the firelight dances across her face, turning her into something magical.
What would she taste like? Would she moan if I spread her thighs and buried my face between them? Would she scream my name when I pushed inside her for the first time?
