Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
JUDITH
Iwake to complete darkness and bone-deep cold. The fire must have died hours ago, and the generator with it. Even buried under three blankets, I can see my breath clouding in the frigid air. The storm howls outside, a living beast clawing at the cabin.
I shine the phone light around the room, grateful I slept in thermal leggings, wool socks, and one of Dario's sweatshirts I found in the laundry room. The thick fabric swallows me, but it's warm and smells like him mixed with cedar, and leather.
The temperature must have dropped twenty degrees since I fell asleep. I need to restart the fire immediately. Throwing back the covers brings a full-body shiver as I slip my feet into boots and wrap myself in the duvet.
Downstairs, the great room is eerily silent without the usual hum of the generator. My phone light catches on the fireplace, where only cold ashes remain. The woodpile Dario stacked beside it looms like a shadow sculpture.
I set to work rebuilding the fire, grateful for wilderness survival classes my father insisted on.
"Military brats need practical skills," he'd say.
The kindling catches quickly, and I feed it carefully until flames lick at larger logs.
The dancing light gradually pushes back the darkness, casting long shadows across the room.
Next problem: the generator. The thought of venturing outside into the howling storm makes my stomach knot, but the alternative is freezing. I bundle up in layers, finding Dario's heavy coat by the door. It engulfs me like a tent, but it's better than nothing.
I locate the generator shed with my phone light, fighting through knee-deep snow that's still accumulating. The wind knifes through every layer, stealing my breath. Inside the shed, I fumble with cold-numbed fingers to follow the restart procedure from Dario's meticulously written manual.
When the generator roars to life, I nearly sob with relief. Lights flicker on inside the cabin, visible through the driving snow. The return journey feels endless, but finally, I stumble back inside, shedding ice-crusted layers by the growing fire.
"Not so helpless after all, mountain man," I say to the empty room, imagining Dario's grudging approval.
With heat gradually returning and the immediate crisis averted, I curl up on the couch, watching flames dance while my mind inevitably circles back to yesterday's discovery.
Dario's playroom. The tools of pleasure and pain. The look in his eyes when he caught me there. Not anger, but something darker, more dangerous. Interest.
Have you ever submitted to anyone, Judith?
His question haunts me. The answer is no, never. But not for lack of curiosity. I've read books, watched videos, explored enough to know the concept intrigues me. The idea of surrendering control to someone worthy of that trust has always sparked something deep inside.
But Marc would have weaponized such vulnerability. Used it to control rather than cherish. With him, submission would have been another form of captivity.
With Dario... the thought sends heat curling through me.
I shake my head, forcing practicality to override fantasy. This is a business arrangement with an expiration date. Getting tangled up in Dario's sexual preferences would only complicate things.
Still, sleep remains elusive. With the heat returning and morning hours away, I decide to explore more of the cabin. There must be something to occupy my restless mind.
A door off the main living area leads to what appears to be a storage room. My curiosity piqued, I step inside, phone light scanning shelves of neatly organized supplies. Canned goods, extra blankets, emergency equipment. The precision of it all screams Dario.
In the corner stand several large plastic bins labeled in precise handwriting: CHRISTMAS.
Despite myself, I'm intrigued. Mountain Man celebrates Christmas? I pry open the nearest bin to find carefully packed ornaments nestled in tissue paper. Another contains strings of lights, and a third holds what appears to be parts of an artificial tree.
"Curiouser and curiouser," I murmur, examining a hand-carved wooden ornament of a bear. The craftsmanship is exquisite, clearly Dario's work.
I replace everything exactly as I found it and continue exploring. Beyond the storage room lies a small office. A desk holds a closed laptop and neat stacks of paperwork. Bookshelves line the walls, filled with volumes on woodworking, military history, and surprisingly, classic literature.
My fingers trail over leather-bound copies of Hemingway, Steinbeck, and Thoreau. A worn copy of "Walden" sits prominently on the desk, bookmarked halfway through. The isolation philosopher. Fitting.
What catches my eye, however, is a book partially hidden behind others on the top shelf. Standing on tiptoe, I ease it out: "The Art of Dominance and Submission: Psychological Foundations." Not pornography, but a serious psychological text with academic citations and clinical language.
I return it carefully and step back, considering this new puzzle piece. Dario isn't just playing with whips and chains for thrills. He's studied the psychology, the foundations. This isn't a hobby but a lifestyle he approaches with the same meticulous care he brings to everything else.
Morning finds me dozing on the couch, fire crackling comfortably.
I've maintained it through the night, adding logs at regular intervals creating a warm sanctuary.
I make coffee and check the satellite phone.
No messages from Dario. The thought of him sends an unwelcome flutter through my stomach. Is he safe? Warm? Thinking of me?
Stop it, Judith. This is business. Not romance.
But my treacherous mind keeps returning to the playroom. To the possibility of exploring something I've only imagined.
To distract myself, I decide to bake. The simple chemistry of it always centers me. The pantry yields ingredients for gingerbread cookies, appropriately festive given the season. Soon the kitchen fills with the scent of molasses and spice.
As I work, I realize I'm humming Christmas carols. The mood of the season has infected me despite my circumstances. Or perhaps because of them. Trapped in a snowy cabin with a mysterious mountain man during the holidays feels like the setup for every Hallmark movie Sierra forced me to watch.
Except those movies don't usually feature BDSM dungeons in the basement.
The thought makes me laugh out loud, the sound strange in the empty cabin.
I've never been prone to hysteria, but something about this situation brings a giddy edge to my emotions.
Maybe it's the isolation, or the aftermath of adrenaline from the generator crisis, or simply the absurdity of my circumstance.
Whatever the cause, it leaves me singing "Jingle Bells" at full volume while cutting out cookie shapes. The domestic scene feels surreal, like I'm playing house in someone else's life.
The first batch emerges golden and fragrant. I set them to cool and move to the living room windows. The storm shows no sign of abating, snow whirling in hypnotic patterns. Will Dario make it back today? The thought brings a confusing mix of anticipation and anxiety.
What happens when he returns? Will we address what I found? The question he asked? Or will we retreat to our business arrangement, pretending the tension between us doesn't exist?
The satellite phone rings, startling me from my thoughts. I answer immediately.
"Hello?"
"Judith." Dario's deep voice sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. "Status update."
Always direct. "Generator failed during the night. I restarted it. Everything's fine now."
A pause. "You restarted the generator? In the storm?"
"Yes." I can't help the pride that creeps into my voice. "Your manual was very thorough."
Another pause, longer this time. "Good work. Most people wouldn't have managed that."
"I told you I wasn't helpless."
"Clearly." Something like respect colors his tone. "Storm's clearing here. I should make it back by early afternoon if the road crews work fast."
"The cookies will still be warm." The words escape before I can stop them.
"Cookies?"
"Gingerbread. I stress bake, remember?"
A low chuckle, the first I've heard from him. The sound does unreasonable things to my insides. "Save me one."
"If you're lucky."
"I make my own luck."
After we disconnect, I stand motionless, phone clutched to my chest like a lovesick teenager. This is dangerous territory. The arrangement is clear: business only. Temporary. Expiring December 26th. Getting emotionally entangled would be disastrous.
And yet.
I return to the kitchen, focusing on the tangible task of decorating cookies. The precision work requires concentration, pushing all other thoughts aside. By midday, I've created three dozen gingerbread people in various festive outfits.
I'm contemplating starting another batch when I hear it: the distant roar of a snowmobile engine. My heart leaps traitorously in my chest.
I move to the window, watching as Dario's broad form materializes through the swirling snow. He manages the machine with effortless skill, navigating the deep drifts that have transformed the landscape. Power and control embodied.
For a wild moment, I consider running upstairs to change from my leggings and oversized sweatshirt, maybe apply some lip gloss. The impulse horrifies me. Since when do I care how I look for a man? Especially one who's essentially my business partner?
Instead, I stay where I am, watching his approach with a outward calm that belies my racing pulse. When he finally kills the engine and dismounts, removing his helmet to reveal snow-dusted dark hair, I realize I've been holding my breath.
I step away from the window before he catches me staring, busying myself with arranging cookies on a plate. The door opens, bringing a blast of frigid air and the solid presence of Dario Wallace, snow melting on his broad shoulders, blue eyes finding mine immediately.
"Welcome back," I say, aiming for casual but hearing the slight breathlessness in my voice.
He stamps snow from his boots, shrugging out of his heavy coat. "Quite the storm."
"Yes." Brilliant conversation, Judith.
His gaze sweeps the cabin, noting the well-maintained fire, the orderly kitchen, the plate of cookies. Then it returns to me, intensifying. "You managed."
"I told you I would." I push the plate toward him. "Cookie?"
He crosses to the kitchen in three long strides, his presence immediately filling the space. He selects a cookie, studies it briefly, then takes a bite. His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes softens.
"Good." Coming from him, it's effusive praise.
"My dad's recipe." I busy myself with wiping down the already clean counter. "He made them every Christmas."
Dario watches me, silent and assessing.
"We should talk about yesterday," he finally says.
My heart stutters. "About the playroom."
"Yes." He sets down the half-eaten cookie. "About that, and about what happens now."
"What happens now?" I echo, searching his face for clues.
"That depends on you." His voice drops lower, intent. "On your answer to my question."
The question that's been burning in my mind since he asked it. Have you ever submitted to anyone, Judith?
"No," I say simply. "I haven't."
He nods once, as if confirming a suspicion. "But you've thought about it."
Not a question. An observation. "Yes."
His eyes never leave mine, searching, assessing.
"Our arrangement is temporary," he reminds me, though whether he's telling me or himself isn't clear.
"I know."
"Complicating it would be unwise."
"Probably."
He takes a step closer, close enough that I can feel the cold still emanating from his clothes, smell the winter air clinging to him. "I'm not a man who does things casually, Judith. When I take someone into my playroom, it means something."
My breath catches. "And what would it mean with me?"
"That's what we need to determine." His gaze is unwavering. "Because once we cross that line, there's no going back to just business."
The implications spiral through me. He's right. If we explore this attraction, this compatibility we both sense, our neat arrangement shatters. Emotions would inevitably complicate everything.
"I need time to think," I say finally.
He nods, stepping back, giving me space. "Take it. This isn't a decision to make lightly."
The moment breaks when his satellite phone buzzes. He checks it, frowning. "Micah. The town's Christmas committee wants to know if we'll be at the tree lighting ceremony next week."
The abrupt change of subject gives me whiplash. "The what?"
"Crimson Hollow goes all out for Christmas. Tree lighting, market, caroling, the works." His expression suggests dental surgery would be preferable. "They're expecting the new Mrs. Wallace to make an appearance."
"Oh." Our contract did mention maintaining appearances in public. "Do we need to go?"
"Maintaining our cover would be wise, given your ex's legal challenge." He runs a hand through his damp hair. "But it's your call."
The thought of playing happy couple in public while privately negotiating whether to become intimate sends my head spinning. "I've never been to a small town Christmas event."
"It's exactly as sickeningly cheerful as it sounds." But there's something almost fond in his tone. "Hot chocolate, carols, children everywhere."
"Sounds... nice, actually." The normalcy of it appeals after the chaos of recent weeks.
He studies me, then nods once. "I'll tell Micah we'll attend."
As he steps away to make the call, I wonder what Dario Wallace looks like under Christmas lights, surrounded by seasonal cheer rather than storm warnings and rescue missions.
The domestic image clashes with the dominant I glimpsed in the basement, creating a contradictory whole that intrigues me more than it should.
Our arrangement may be temporary, but the feelings developing within me don't feel temporary at all. They feel dangerous, unpredictable, and thrillingly real.
Like standing on the edge of a precipice in a snowstorm, knowing I should step back to safety but tempted to leap into the beautiful unknown below.