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“Once the snow hits, dropping you into town will be more difficult, but we can work out an alternative arrangement then.”

When the snow hits. It’s not too far away. “How long does fumigation take?”

Jack looks at his colleague who offers nothing but stony silence. “Not just the fumigation, Aspen. You’ll remain here, with us, for as long as the police investigation into Merda’s death takes.”

Ho—ly. Fucking. Shit.

Elijah, Jackson, and I are sprawled out in front of the fireplace in his sunken living room, watching it like toddlers would stare at cartoons. He fed us with reheated, frozen food from a selection of dishes that could be a high-end meal delivery service, or a private chef with a flair for portion control and organization. Eli abandoned a well-loved copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez along with a pair of sexy reading glasses. Maybe he’s torn between wanting to be alone and needing affection. He had love in marriage, and now he’s on his own. Rather than setting off the nuclear reactor again, I make a mental note to ask Jackson about the professor and his idiosyncrasies. They work together; they must share some aspects of life.

I’m about to bid them both goodnight and read in the guest room Elijah assigned as mine, when he stands. Wanting to spare him the embarrassment of us both ascending the staircase, I play off my twitching leg as a stretch, flexing and pointing my toes for effect. Elijah says nothing, scooping up the paperback before taking a measured step toward his bedroom. On the briefest house tour ever, I didn’t dare look inside his doorway. He’d announced the words “My room” with such force, I swear everyone dwelling below this mountain home heard him. A warning around his personal space and what he covets most? Privacy? One Hundred Years of Solitude might not be enough for this frustratingly broody man. Once he’s out of sight and earshot, I blow out the trapped breath between my teeth, and a sigh follows.

“Don’t mind him,” Jackson adds, sliding closer and lifting my legs over his knees. This is an intimate position; one two lovers might share when watching television or discussing their respective workdays. We are teacher and student. Guilt and shame roar through me like misguided fury. Who am I angry with? Myself? When we first met, we both withheld the real reason we were at that bar. That night happened, and neither of us can claw it back. One look at his hooded eyes, the firelight licking over his lids with amber shadows, and I’m certain he doesn’t want to.

Jay pulls me to straddle his hips, his erection digging into me through my jeans. My knees bracket his thighs, and I’m open enough for him to cup me through the denim and squeeze. The moan he draws out is long, and not as quiet as it should be for a share house. He swallows the last down when his lips crash into mine. His tongue probes my lips, easing past the break in my own to roam inside. His warm breath tastes a little like the wine he drank with dinner; plump berries and notes of chocolate, the label said.

“I’ve missed your mouth on mine,” he says, breaking our kiss and letting our foreheads touch instead. His hands cup my face with a reverence I wouldn’t expect for this rugged man—all long, messy hair and an unkempt beard. This softness is at odds with his hardness; a rigid, masculine potency versus the cherished hold and delicate, almost tender, words. These men are maddening, and my allocated room is in between both of theirs. I’ve always viewed sex as transactional. A release for a body holding too much coiled tension and a mind fraught with indecision and guilt. A heart never factored into the equation before, because feelings were messy, emotional theatrics that belonged on cinema screens and not inside ribs. Even worse, these feelings were sending down roots into rich compost and preparing to unfurl leaves and shoots for not one man, but four! Jackson, rugged and responsive, with a libido to shame a man half his age, and the knowledge of the female anatomy second to none; Elijah, brooding and brilliant, sexy and sinful, but so detached from intimacy I wonder who hurt him. His pinecone punishment still provides me with enough self-care material to have me coming inside a minute. Lukaz, the effervescent goofball with a dimple I want to lick while riding his cock into the promised land and never stop, and Foxglove Muir; a mute man lost in mourning with eyes that dance like a marriage of sapphire and diamonds. Both of us lost our families when we pinecone. His all at once, mine in cruel increments. Our bond speaks the language we both know and understand all too well. One of loss over love. No one stays.

“Jackson. I can’t do this. Not here,” I say, pulling back.

He releases the hold on my face, frowning down at me. His hair has come loose from his half-up, half-down style, falling in sexy waves around his shoulder blades and distracting me so beautifully. No. Focus, Pen! If you made it through Eli’s slutty fireside glasses, you can make it through anything.

“I want you so fucking badly, Aspen. Eli won’t mind. Ask him yourself.”

He nips at my neck, but I pull back before he can make contact.

“I’m sorry, Jay. I want to. I do. But we’re in Professor Wyldan’s house, as his guests, and I don’t feel comfortable doing this on his sofa, in his living room.”

Jay smooths his hand down his face, the callouses catching on the fine hairs. He exhales while his brow pinches, letting me know I’m right and he agrees. He doesn’t like it, but he respects Eli enough to stop.

“He’ll be fine,” he says, attempting to dissuade me, but I stand firm.

“It’s not just him. It’s Lukaz and Fox as well. I don’t feel comfortable doing this to any of them. I just…” How do I catalog the words I need to best describe my conflict? Sex with Jay was explosive, part of the ecstasy yielding to the anonymity of it all. Then the realization of us being so forbidden added another layer, but not a deterrent.

His nod is brief. His hands retract, allowing me to climb off his lap so he can adjust his raging erection. Noticing me looking, he shrugs as if it’s not a big deal. It is a big deal, and a big dick. Yet I’m reluctant to start anything we can’t finish.

“I’m going to bed,” I say, pointing up to the impressive staircase, the rosy timber also absorbing the lick and crackle of the shadowed flames nearby. Before I take a step, though, we hear several from upstairs, followed by a door closing.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Fox

TWO, ZERO, ZERO, TWO, FOUR, SEVEN

Professor Donnelyn arrived back at Wyldan with little fanfare, other than pulling Aspen aside before Poisons and Tox class, wanting a “quick word.” When I’d stayed glued to her side, ignoring her polite smiles and dismissals, she knew I wasn’t going anywhere. Aspen is not to be left alone, ever, and I take my responsibilities seriously. One perk about not being expected to contribute to typical conversation is that people forget you’re even there. They slip up and say something they shouldn’t, and I’m always vigilant, always watching, and always fucking listening. My other senses compensate because I’m nonverbal, and they haven’t failed me yet.

“This is between Aspen and me, Foxglove. There is no need for you to hover.”

When I tighten my hold around my little tree, she sighs and continues regardless.

“Aspen, I believe you and I may not have started off on the best possible foot.”

Fuck, you think? No wonder she’s a professor; she’s not dim, this one. I’m tall enough that neither of them notice my rolling eyes. Pity.

“Anyway. I think we need to start again. A clean slate and all that. Time to put the past where it belongs and start anew.”

“You were in my bedroom while I wasn’t home, Professor. That behavior is not okay.”

“As I said, there is no need to rehash this…”