Chapter 1 Avery #2
He closes his eyes for a second, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he’s dealing with a migraine. "So you have no heat. You’re wet. And you’re alone."
"I'm fine," I repeat, though I’m hugging myself now, the cold finally seeping into my bones deep enough to hurt.
He opens his eyes, and the intensity is back, focused entirely on me. It feels like being pinned down. He takes a step closer, crowding me against the newly fixed railing. The rain continues to pour, but he acts like it doesn't exist. He’s creating a shelter with his body, blocking the wind.
"You're not staying here tonight," he says.
"Excuse me?" I blink, water dripping from my eyelashes. "I most certainly am. I have blankets. I have cans of soup. I’m not leaving my house."
"This isn't a house, Avery. It’s a coffin waiting for a snowfall." He says my name like he’s tasting it, testing the weight of it on his tongue. "My cabin is a mile up the ridge. It has a generator. It has heat. And it has a roof that won't collapse."
"I'm not going to your cabin," I say, incredulous. "I don't even know you. You could be an axe murderer."
A corner of his mouth twitches. It’s almost a smile, but it’s too dark, too dangerous. "If I wanted to hurt you, you wouldn't be standing here arguing with me."
He looks at my hands, which are shaking uncontrollably now. He reaches out and takes them in his. His grip is firm, encompassing both of my hands in one of his. The heat transfer is instant.
"Look at you," he says softly, his voice rough. "You're shaking apart."
"I'm just cold," I whisper.
"You're hypothermic," he corrects. "Or close to it."
He releases my hands and steps back, but he doesn't leave. He looks around the porch, his gaze landing on my pathetic toolbox. He bends down, snaps it shut with a loud click, and picks it up.
"Hey!" I protest. "That's mine."
"I'm taking it," he says. "So you don't try to 'fix' anything else and bring the whole house down on your head."
"You can't just take my tools!"
He ignores me again, walking to the edge of the porch. He sets the toolbox down on a dry patch of decking under the eaves, then turns back to me. The playfulness—if you could call his grim humor that—is gone. He looks deadly serious.
"Get your bag," he commands.
"What?"
"Pack a bag. Clothes. Toothbrush. Whatever you need for two days."
"I am not going with you," I insist, planting my feet. "I appreciate you fixing the railing, really. But I’m staying here. This is my home."
He stares at me for a long beat. The rain is getting heavier, turning to slush as the temperature drops. I can feel the ice forming on the sleeves of my jacket.
"You're stubborn," he observes.
"I've had to be."
"Stubborn gets you killed on this mountain." He steps toward me again. "I'm not asking, Avery. The pass is going to close in an hour. When the snow hits, no one is getting in or out of this valley for days. If you stay here without heat, you won't wake up."
His words hang in the air, heavy and ominous.
I look at my cabin. Really look at it. The dark windows.
The sagging roof. The chimney I can't get to draw properly.
I think about the night before, huddled under four blankets, seeing my breath in the air, listening to the wind howl through the cracks in the walls.
I was terrified then, though I wouldn't admit it to anyone.
I look back at him. He’s a stranger. A giant, terrifying stranger who appeared out of the woods like a bear. But there’s something in his eyes—that mossy green depth—that feels solid. Grounded. He fixed my railing. He checked my warmth.
"Who are you?" I ask again, softer this time.
He holds my gaze. "Oliver. Oliver Gunnar."
The name rings a bell. The Gunnars. I heard the locals whispering about them at the hardware store in town.
The family that runs the mountain. They talked about them with a mix of fear and respect.
Don't cross the Gunnars, the old man at the counter had said.
They keep the peace, but they keep it their way.
"You're one of them," I say.
"I'm the one who's going to keep you alive tonight," he says. "Get your bag."
I hesitate, my survival instincts warring with my common sense.
Stranger Danger is screaming in one ear, but the bone-deep cold is screaming louder in the other.
And underneath that... there’s a pull. A magnetic drag toward him.
I feel safer with him standing on my porch than I have in the two weeks I’ve been living here alone.
"Why do you care?" I ask. "I'm just a dumb city girl."
He looks at me, his gaze dropping to my mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up. The intensity in his expression makes my breath hitch.
"Because you're on my mountain," he says, his voice dropping to that low, vibrating rumble again. "And I take care of what's mine."
The words send a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold. What's mine. He’s talking about the territory. The land. But the way he looks at me... it feels personal. Possessive.
He checks the sky, which is turning a bruised purple as twilight approaches. "Five minutes, Avery. Or I carry you out of here over my shoulder."
He isn't joking. I can see it in the set of his jaw, the rigid line of his shoulders. He would do it. He would throw me over his shoulder like a sack of feed and march me up the mountain, and there wouldn't be a damn thing I could do about it.
"Fine," I snap, turning toward the door. "But only because I don't want to freeze."
"Whatever you need to tell yourself," he murmurs.
I fumble with the door handle, my fingers so numb they barely work. I finally get it open and stumble into the dark, freezing interior of the cabin. It’s actually colder inside than it is outside, the damp air trapped within the walls.
I grab my backpack from the floor. I shove a pair of jeans, a thick wool sweater, and my toiletries into it. I hesitate, then grab the photo of my mother—the only one I have—from the mantle and tuck it into the front pocket.
When I turn around, he’s standing in the doorway. He fills the frame completely, blocking out the light, the storm, the world. He’s watching me pack with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. He’s not just waiting. He’s guarding. Ensuring I don't try to bolt out the back.
"Ready?" he asks.
"As I'll ever be," I say, slinging the bag over my shoulder.
I walk toward him. He doesn't move out of the way until I’m right in front of him. I have to squeeze past him to get out the door, and for a second, our bodies brush. His chest is like a rock wall. His arm brushes mine, and the heat seeps through my layers instantly.
He smells like danger. He smells like safety.
He follows me out, pulling the door shut behind him. He tests the handle, making sure it’s locked, then turns to me.
"Stay close," he orders. "The trail is iced over."
He starts walking toward the woods, not looking back to see if I’m following. He knows I am. He knows he’s won.
I trudge after him, my boots sinking into the slush. As we hit the tree line, the canopy of the pines blocks out some of the rain, creating a quiet, dark tunnel. I look at his broad back, the way his muscles move under that heavy canvas jacket.
I’m walking into the woods with a man who looks like he could wrestle a grizzly bear and win. I’m leaving the only home I own to stay in his fortress. It’s reckless. It’s insane.
But as I watch Oliver Gunnar cut a path through the storm, breaking branches out of the way so they don't hit me, I realize something terrifying.
I’m not scared of him.
I’m scared of how much I want to follow him.
The wind howls above us, shaking the tops of the pines, but down here in his shadow, the air is still. He stops suddenly, turning back. I nearly run into him.
"Give me the bag," he says.
"I can carry it," I protest.
He doesn't argue. He just reaches out and takes the strap from my shoulder, sliding it down my arm. His fingers graze my bicep, a slow, deliberate touch that leaves a trail of fire. He swings the bag over his own shoulder like it weighs nothing.
"Keep up, Little Bird," he says softly. "We're almost home."
Home.
The word echoes in my head as we climb higher into the darkness, my body molded against the rock-hard heat of the man who just decided I was his to keep.