Chapter 1 Jaggar
ONE
JAGGAR
My hands skim over muscled shoulders, biceps, and down to forearms that make my mouth water.
Who am I kidding? Every part of the body above me makes my mouth water.
Muscles gained from years of physical labor.
Skin… I trail my hands up and down his arms and shiver at the coolness of it.
I move to pull away but change my mind when lips trail from the base of my ear to the pulse point in my neck.
His tongue flicks over my rapid pulse, and I moan, stretching my neck as encouragement for more.
Eyes the color of… What color are his eyes?
I drag my gaze up to find they’re… glowing?
My heartbeat picks up as dread creeps up my spine.
He smiles down at me, two pointed canines shining white in the moonlight peeking in through the slit in the velvet curtains.
A scream builds in my chest, but only the melancholy cry of a raven somewhere in the distance pierces the silence.
He presses his nose to my neck, inhaling with a hum, and I freeze.
I want to move, but I can’t. My limbs, heavy and weighted down, refuse to be controlled.
But the pinch of his canines scraping my skin jolts me into action, and I push the sexy, albeit deadly being off me. With lightning speed, he grips my wrists, pinning them above my head.
“You’re mine now.” His eyes glow red, and the air around us turns icy.
My body screams at me to get out from under him. My heartbeat takes off like a galloping horse running for its life as I thrash and scuffle to get away.
“Get up,” I scream at my sinister bed partner.
His laughter sends chills through me, but I fight harder. “Get up! Get up!”
My eyes slam open, my breath coming fast, bedding tangled around my legs, and the stranger vanishes. I grab my phone, charging on the nightstand, to check the time and knock my dog-eared copy of Dracula to the floor. Of course, I wake up ten minutes before my alarm goes off.
It’s bad enough I have to set my alarm on a Saturday, but I want to be up and ready when the new desk chair that’s been on back order for the last six months is delivered.
Plus, I promised Hawk I’d play in his animal rescue’s charity event at noon, and I want to get there early in case he needs an extra set of hands corralling the rescue dogs up for adoption.
Having neither a dog nor a someone of my own, I’m weirdly excited for a Valentine’s Day spent playing softball in the snow with the furry, four-legged friends looking for their forever home.
I switch off the alarm and fall back onto my pillow with a huff. My breath mists the air with a white puff.
Huh…
I blow out another and another, and, yep, I can see those too. The exposed skin of my leg prickles from the frostiness of the air hitting it.
“What the hell?” I fling the down comforter from my body. Instantly, I regret that decision and wrap the comforter around myself, cocooning my body in the warmth left over from sleeping.
The Persian rug my interior designer friend found at a flea market, in North Dakota of all places, provides some warmth under my bare feet.
I pad to my mid-century modern dresser and pull out a pair of wool socks from the top drawer of the five-drawer work of art.
I slip them on, shove my phone into my pocket, and head down the stairs that still need staining.
Icy air surrounds me. My teeth chatter, and goosebumps pop over my skin.
Having grown up here in New Island, I’m used to Vermont winters, but it feels as frigid in here as it was outside last night when I shoveled the driveway.
The forecast called for more snow overnight, with temperatures dipping into the low teens.
But the snow was supposed to end by this morning, the temps rising with the sun to the mid to upper thirties, making it a great day for Hawk’s event.
What started out with Hawk rescuing a litter of kittens he found in a ditch on the side of the road, has turned into him running one of the fastest growing animal rescues in Vermont.
Tugging the comforter tighter around me, I pull it over my head.
The stupid HVAC system better not be on the fritz again.
I specifically asked George, my HVAC guy, if I needed to replace it, and he told me I had another two to three years at the very least before I needed to budget for a new one.
And I’m counting on it. With the number of renovations this place needs, money pit would not be an exaggeration, but I fell in love with the old secluded Victorian cottage and the property surrounding it.
Making it my own has been rewarding, even with the periodic frustrations. Like now.
As I make my way past the living room, the sound of dripping has me groaning.
Maybe I should have stayed in bed, even if I was at risk of getting frostbite on my nose.
I thought I had fixed the leaking kitchen faucet when I replaced it with the vintage lookalike, which cost more than I should have spent.
But who could resist when it was so perfect?
Before I check on the faucet, I beeline it to the thermostat, which reads thirty degrees.
“Fuck.” I press buttons, knowing that doing so won’t do any good, but it’s worth a try.
I give up any hope that the heat is going to kick back on and call George.
The phone rings for an eternity before finally switching over to voicemail.
Frustration swirls through me as I leave a message for him, then shove my phone back into my pocket.
“It’s too early to deal with this crap.”
Okay, maybe nine o’clock isn’t that early, but it’s Saturday, Valentine’s Day, and my best prospects for a date will have four legs and a tail, but most importantly, I haven’t had coffee yet.
I tuck my hands into the warmth of the comforter as I walk to my newly renovated kitchen, which went over budget and took six months longer than planned because of unexpected issues and material delays.
But as I step into the bright space, I'm reminded once again that the result was worth all the effort.
The four rectangular windows span the length of the white marble countertop, topped with square windows, reaching the crown molding.
Instead of competing with nature outside, the pale sage green of the cabinets and molding brings the outdoors inside, creating a relaxed yet elegant feel.
My only regret is not splurging for the Aga.
Had I not been so concerned about my budget, I could be warming up in front of it now.
I check the faucet that beautifully accents the white porcelain farmhouse sink, exhaling relief that the area is dry, then peer out the windows.
Snow blankets the trees and overgrown bushes.
The morning sunlight reflects off the snowy yard, giving the effect of thousands of diamonds sparkling.
Come spring, I’ll implement my plans for the yard.
Other than removing the underbrush and taking down a few dead trees, I haven’t done much with the grounds of the house.
My focus has been on the inside for the last few years, but other than a few setbacks, I’m on schedule with my multiyear plan for the house and the property.
The drip, drip, drip that drew me picks up speed, pulling me out of my thoughts of future plans. I open the cabinet below the sink and bend down to peer inside. “Shit.”
Water puddles below the pipe, spreading underneath, centimeters from spilling onto the floor.
I fling cleaning supplies and the box of trash bags from the cabinet and grab the hand towel from the countertop to sop up the mess.
Water soaks through it immediately. The last thing I want is anything happening to my beautiful natural hardwood floors that I spent weeks refinishing.
I fiddle with the knob to shut the water off to the sink, but it doesn’t budge.
My fingers sting from the cold, and my pajama pants aren’t made for below freezing temperatures, but I keep trying. The only thing my efforts seem to do is make the dripping more of a slow drizzle.
I jump up, banging the shit out of the back of my head on the sink's underside. “Fuck.”
Pain erupts, radiating across my skull. I rub at the bump that immediately begins forming, and carefully scoot out from under the sink.
The thought of icing the injury makes my chilled skin break out with more chills, causing shivers on top of my shivering.
Pain and cold slice through my every step as I hurry to the drawer where I keep my hand towels and grab a bunch to soak up the water.
Then I get a bowl from one of the glass-door cabinets and return to the sink.
Blinking back the throbbing of my head, I spread the towels over the water, layering them one on top of another, and position the bowl so it catches most of the leak.
I fold my comforter in half, and half again, then kneel on it, protecting my knees from the hard floor as I shimmy my shoulders and position myself under the sink to get better leverage to turn off the water. I twist and turn, reposition, and repeat, but the stupid thing still doesn’t move.
Taking care to duck my head, I sit back on my haunches and think. Obviously, I need to call my plumber, but if I could just get the water source turned off, I’d feel better.
Hands resting on my thighs, I take a breath and make an ineffective attempt to calm myself. I should have stayed in bed; at least I’d be somewhat warm.
A strange hissing sound seizes my attention, and I bend to see if it’s coming from under the sink.
Knocking joins the hissing. Water bursts free, smacking me in the face with the precision of my dart enthusiast friend Conall hitting the bullseye of a dartboard.
The frigid water takes my breath and stuns me for a second before I jump to my feet.