Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
JUDITH
Iwake to the soft glow of early morning light filtering through unfamiliar windows.
For a moment, I'm disoriented, the king-sized bed and rustic wood ceiling strange until memory returns.
Right. I'm married. Living on a mountain.
With a man who could model for Lumberjack Monthly if that were a thing.
The storm howled all night, rattling windows and moaning through the trees like a living creature. I'd lain awake for hours, listening to the wind and wondering what fresh hell I'd gotten myself into. It's morning now, and the silence suggests the storm has finally passed.
I stretch, enjoying the luxurious feel of high-thread-count sheets against my skin.
Whatever else Dario Wallace might be, the man appreciates quality.
The bedroom he's given me is stunning, spacious yet cozy, with panoramic views now blanketed in pristine white.
The adjoining bathroom features a rainfall shower and deep soaking tub that could comfortably fit two people.
Not that I'm thinking about that.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, wiggling my toes in the plush area rug. My phone shows no service bars, confirming what Dario warned about yesterday. The storm has knocked out both power and internet, leaving us truly isolated.
Fantastic.
I pull on leggings and an oversized sweater, then pad to the bathroom to freshen up. The hot water still works, thankfully, though Dario mentioned something about a backup system for essential services.
Downstairs, the aroma of coffee and woodsmoke greets me.
Dario stands at the massive stone fireplace, stoking flames that cast dancing shadows across his broad shoulders.
He's dressed simply in worn jeans and a black thermal that clings to his muscular frame.
His dark hair is still damp from a shower, making me wonder if he's an early riser or never actually slept.
"Morning," I say, making my way toward the kitchen and the coffee pot calling my name.
He glances over his shoulder, blue eyes assessing. "You slept."
"That's generally what people do at night."
A slight quirk of his lips. Not quite a smile, but close. "Some people. Storm kept me up."
"Me too, for a while." I pour coffee into a mug, wrapping my hands around its warmth. "How bad is it out there?"
"Three feet in some places. More where it drifted." He straightens, towering in the open space. "We're not going anywhere for at least a few days."
I take a deep breath, fighting the panic rising in my chest. "So we're really completely cut off from civilization?"
"Not completely." He leans against the counter, studying me over his mug. "I have a satellite phone for emergencies. And a snowmobile if we absolutely need to get to town."
"That's something, I suppose." I sip my coffee, grateful for its grounding bitterness. "Does this happen often?"
"Few times each winter." His gaze remains steady, watchful. "Problem?"
I straighten my spine. "Not at all. I just have work deadlines."
"Nothing you can do about them now."
The matter-of-fact statement should irritate me, but he's right. Nothing I can do except adapt. "So what does one do on a mountain when snowed in?"
"Survive." He takes another sip. "Read. Work. Wait it out."
"Sounds thrilling."
That almost smile again. "You were expecting entertainment?"
"I was expecting to at least maintain contact with my clients." I move to the large windows, taking in the breathtaking winter scene. Snow blankets everything, transforming the rugged landscape into something from a fairy tale. "It's beautiful, though. I'll give you that."
"It is." Something in his tone makes me turn. He's not looking at the view but at me, his expression unreadable.
Heat crawls up my neck. I turn back to the window, clearing my throat. "So what's on the agenda today?"
"Breakfast. Then I need to clear paths to the generator and workshop." A pause. "You any good with eggs?"
"I can manage not to burn them."
"Good enough."
While Dario dresses for outdoor work, I explore the kitchen, familiarizing myself with its contents. The pantry is impressively stocked—clearly, he takes winter preparation seriously. I find eggs, bacon, and the ingredients for pancakes.
By the time he returns, dressed in heavy boots and a thick flannel shirt, I've got breakfast well underway.
The familiarity of the scene isn't lost on me.
Less than forty-eight hours ago, we were strangers signing a contract.
Now I'm cooking breakfast in his kitchen while he prepares to battle the elements.
"Smells good." He grabs a plate, helping himself to a stack of pancakes and several strips of bacon.
"Basic survival skills." I flip the last pancake onto my own plate. "My dad made sure I could cook the basics before I left for college."
"Good man."
"He was." The simple past tense acknowledgment of his absence still aches. "The army made hm practical."
Dario nods, understanding without needing elaboration. We eat in companionable silence for several minutes, the only sounds the clink of cutlery and the crackling fire.
"Has your lawyer reached out about the contest paperwork?" he asks, surprisingly breaking the silence first.
I shake my head. "Nothing since yesterday. With the internet down, I can't check emails anyway."
"Sierra has my satellite number if there's an emergency," he says, referring to my best friend who's acting as our point person while we're on the mountain. I'd introduced them briefly via video call before the wedding, making sure someone knew where I was going and with whom.
"Good." I push a piece of pancake around my plate. "I hate not knowing what Marc is planning next."
Dario studies me over his coffee. "He always been vindictive?"
"Only when he doesn't get his way." I meet his gaze. "But then, I guess most men with power and privilege are."
"Not all of us." Something flashes in his eyes, gone before I can interpret it.
I don't push, focusing instead on finishing my breakfast. Dario clears his plate, then stands.
"I'll be outside most of the morning. Fire's stocked. Generator should keep the essentials running. Make yourself at home." He pauses. "But stay out of the workshop. Tools can be dangerous if you don't know what you're doing."
"I'm not completely helpless, you know." I bristle at his assumption.
"Never said you were. But those are my livelihood."
Fair point. "I'll find ways to entertain myself that don't involve power tools."
Once he's gone, bundled against the cold and trudging through snow toward the generator shed, I set about exploring the cabin more thoroughly.
The bookshelves lining one wall are filled with an eclectic mix—military history, woodworking manuals, classic literature.
A collection that speaks of depth beyond the gruff exterior.
Near the back of the house, a door stands slightly ajar. Curiosity draws me forward. I hesitate only briefly before pushing it open to reveal Dario's bedroom.
Unlike the guest room upstairs, his space is minimalist to the extreme.
A king-sized platform bed dominates the room, its handcrafted frame clearly his own work.
The bedding is simple but high quality, in shades of charcoal and navy.
One wall features floor-to-ceiling windows with the same stunning view as upstairs.
Another holds a small collection of framed photographs—the only personal touch in the room.
I know I should leave, that this invasion of his private space crosses a boundary.
But something compels me forward to examine the photos.
An older man with Dario's sharp jawline standing beside a much younger version of my temporary husband, both holding fishing rods.
A group of men in military uniform, arms slung around each other's shoulders, desert backdrop behind them.
Dario kneeling beside a completed piece of furniture, face serious but eyes holding quiet pride.
Nothing of a woman. No evidence of romantic entanglements past or present.
I'm about to turn away when something catches my eye. A door, nearly invisible in the wood paneling of the far wall. Almost hidden, as if deliberately obscured.
The rational part of my brain screams to leave now, to respect the privacy of the man who's already doing me an enormous favor. But the investigative part, the part that's made me successful in my career, propels me forward.
The handle turns easily, revealing a staircase leading downward. A basement? I hesitate at the top step, listening. The house is silent save for the distant howl of wind and the crackle of the fireplace.
I shouldn't.
I do.
The stairs lead to a space that makes me stop dead in my tracks.
The basement has been converted into what can only be described as a private playroom.
One wall displays an array of implements—floggers, paddles, riding crops—arranged with extreme precision.
Another features various restraint systems anchored to reinforced points.
A custom Saint Andrew's cross dominates one corner, while a king-sized bed with subtle but unmistakable attachment points occupies another.
Everything is meticulously organized, immaculately clean, and undeniably high quality. This is no amateur space but a carefully crafted environment for serious BDSM play.
My heart thunders against my ribs as pieces click into place. The commanding presence. The precise control. The contract with its emphasis on following instructions without question. Dario Wallace isn't just a mountain man with control issues—he's a Dominant. And apparently a serious one.