I shift, uncomfortable with how hard I am, with how vividly I can imagine taking her right here on the bearskin rug. Christ, I haven't even heard her voice outside of pleasantries, and already I'm thinking of breeding her, of watching her belly swell with my child.
The storm outside is nothing compared to the one raging inside me. Years of isolation have left me feral, uncivilized. I want to claim her, mark her, keep her here in my mountain fortress where no one else can touch her.
She's watching me, those wide eyes curious and a little wary. Something passes between us—a current of awareness, of possibility. Her cheeks flush pink, and it's not just from the fire's warmth.
I clear my throat, and it feels like gravel shifting in my chest. How long since I've used my voice? Since I've needed to?
"You're safe now, little girl."
The words come out rough, unused, like a rusted hinge finally moving after years of stillness. They hang in the air between us, and I see the shock register on her face—not just at what I said, but that I spoke at all. Something in her expressionmakes me think she understands what it cost me to break my silence.
Her lips part slightly, and my cock throbs in response. I want those lips around me. Want to see them stretched wide, taking what I give her.
"Thank you," she whispers, and her voice is like water in the desert to me. I nearly nut right then. Instead, I jump up and mumble something about going to get her some dry clothes. At least I think that’s what I say. Fuck, I don’t know. This little thing has me all tied up in knots.
Of course, seeing her swimming in my t-shirt that nearly comes down to her calves doesn’t help my rock-hard state. It gives me more pleasure than a man should probably feel to see her draped inmythings, withmyscent all over her.
Christ, being out here in the woods all alone really has turned me into an animal.
She finishes her soup in silence, stealing glances at me and blushing every time her gaze meets mine. But she doesn’t speak again. It’s like she’s respecting my silence, and something about that makes me extremely grateful to her. She just lets me look at her because God help me, but I can’t look away. I stare at her like a man starved.
And I am. Starved forher.
Later, when exhaustion finally claims her, I tuck her onto the couch with another blanket. I should give her my bed, but I can't bear to have her scent on my sheets if she leaves tomorrow. Better this way. Better to keep something between us until I know she's mine to keep.
I sit in my chair across from her, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest. In sleep, she looks even younger, more vulnerable. My hands clench and unclench with the need to touch her, to slip beneath the blanket and feel her warm skin against mine.
But no. Not yet. Not until she's ready. Not until she's begging for it.
I adjust myself, uncomfortably hard at the thought of her begging. Would she call me sir? Or would she instinctively know what I want to hear? What I need to hear?
Daddy.
My cock jumps at the thought of that word on her lips. Of those wide, innocent eyes looking up at me while I praise her, while I fill her with my seed. I don’t know where the fuck the desire to be called daddy has come from, but looking at her, it just feels right.
Because that is what I would be to her. Her protector. Her lover. The one to wipe away all her tears and make everything alright again.
The storm outside shows no sign of stopping, and satisfaction settles in my chest. She's not going anywhere soon. Not tomorrow. Maybe not ever, if I have my way. And I will. I'll make her want to stay. Make her need me as desperately as I already need her.
My Lila. My little girl.
Mine to protect. Mine to praise. Mine to breed.
The thoughts should shame me. But after five years of emptiness, I can't bring myself to care. The world took everything from me once. I won't let it happen again.
She's mine now. And I'll die before I let her go.
three
. . .
Lila
I waketo the scent of frying bacon and something sweeter—pancakes, maybe. For a moment, I forget where I am, reaching for my phone that isn't there. Then it all rushes back—the blizzard, the cabin, the mountain man who broke his silence to call me "little girl." My body flushes hot at the memory, my thighs pressing together under the blanket. What the hell is wrong with me? I should be planning my escape, not getting wet at the thought of a stranger's gruff voice. But when I sit up and see him at the stove, his broad back flexing under a flannel shirt as he flips pancakes with careful precision, I know I'm not going anywhere. Not yet.
The storm still rages outside, rattling the windows like it's trying to break in and reclaim me. Heavy snow blankets the world beyond the glass, turning everything into a blinding white prison.
"Power's out in the valley," he says without turning around, making me jump at the sound of his voice. It's deep and rough, like he's gargling gravel, but there's something soothing in it too. Like the rumble of distant thunder promising rain to parched earth. "Lines are down. Roads too, probably."
