Page 41 of Undone By The Mountain Daddies

“Don’t be embarrassed about me walking in.” His eyes darken. “There’s no need to be. Trust me.”

I swallow thickly.

“I’d watch you finger yourself on repeat for the rest of my life, and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

Heat grows in my belly, dispersing out into the rest of my body. I'm dripping in sweat and still counting on Eli’s hand to keep me upright.

I’ve always been good at holding my own, even if it’s all pretend. I can fake my way through interviews, smile and make it look convincing. I’m an actress, which works in my favor in things like that.

But this is the first time I can’t act. I can’t do anything but lean into Eli’s hand and pray he doesn’t let go, or else I’ll go down. He has full control over me.

And for the first time ever, I think I like it.

Chapter 12

Sienna

Two days later, the snow is still coming down, and I’m no closer to getting out of here.

I sit by the fire as the wind whistles through the chimney. The flames dance, changing direction depending on the gusts. I watch the fireplace like it’s a TV. It’s the next best thing, since there’s no television in this cabin.

My phone picks up WiFi well in the main cabin, which means I’m often tempted to check it. I’m trying to only use it to text Jules, but sometimes I can’t help myself. Before I know it, I’m scrolling through social media feeds, watching videos of myself.

I’m the talk of the fucking town.

“Where is she?”

“It’s like she fell into a hole.”

“Maybe she has, after watching Holden propose to Valentina.”

The social media conspiracies, podcasts and interviews are all bullshit, but that doesn’t stop me from looking. The boys often catch me on my phone and tear the device from my hands. They hide it, and yesterday afternoon, I played the longest game of hide-and-seek. Bastards.

“It’s all garbage,” says Knox, and I couldn’t agree with him more.

But I still spend hours overthinking the garbage. To a certain extent, it controls my life.

I stare harder at the dancing flames as the wind builds. I will not look at my phone. I will not ruin my three-hour streak.

The past two days here have been far more tolerable than the online gossip. I eat gluten-free bread, catch the men staring at me at random intervals throughout the day, spend the next half hour spiraling over how unfairly hot they are, and then carry on as if nothing happened.

Henry is my saving grace in all of this. He keeps my mind off of everything, teaching me new board games I’ve become heavily invested in. He calls me “See-See” because he hasn’t quite mastered my name. It’s cute.

Yesterday, I taught him one of my old dance routines. He struggled to get the hang of it.

“It’s too hard, See-See,” he told me.

I told him he’d get there eventually. “Practice makes perfect, Hen-Hen.”

Generally speaking, practice does make perfect.

But apparently not when it comes to getting over men you find incredibly attractive.

I try to forget them. When I’m not searching for my phone or hanging out with Henry, I’m locked up in my room— Knox’s room— trying to meditate. But I come out of the meditation feeling worse. It doesn’t matter how deeply I inhale and then exhale. They’re still on my mind.

It doesn’t help that I’m in Knox’s room. His bedsheets smell like him, like the outdoors mixed with something undeniably male. It’s delicious. Holden used to smell like Christian Dior, and I thought it was hot.

Now I take it all back. Real men don’t smell like Dior—they smell like these three guys.