Chapter 3 Avery #2
"I build things," he says. "Forge work. Metal. Wood. Whatever needs doing."
"Like railings?" I tease.
He pauses, knife hovering over the cutting board. He turns his head to look at me, a smirk ghosting his lips beneath that thick beard. "Yeah. Like railings. But I use bolts, not rusted nails."
I pull the flannel tighter around me, tucking my nose into the collar. It smells incredible. "Show off."
He grunts, turning back to the food.
I watch him cook. Strangely domestic for a man who looks like he could wrestle a bear. He moves with economy, cleaning as he goes. Within fifteen minutes, the smell of searing steak and onions fills the cabin, chasing away the last of the chill.
He brings two plates over, handing me a fork and a knife.
"Eat."
The steak is perfect. Rare, seasoned simply. I eat like I haven't seen food in days.
Oliver eats in silence, eyes darting to the window every few minutes. The wind picks up outside. It sounds like a freight train screaming through the trees. The cabin groans under the assault, but it holds.
"The storm is getting worse," I say, pushing a piece of pepper around my plate.
"Blizzard," he corrects. "Going to dump two feet by morning. Maybe three."
"Three feet?" My eyes widen. "My car..."
"Is buried," he finishes. "You aren't going anywhere, Avery. Not tonight. Probably not tomorrow."
Panic flares in my chest. "I have to... I have work on Monday. The diner..."
"Dolly can wait. Roads will be closed anyway. No one is getting in or out of the Peak District."
Trapped.
We are trapped here. Just me and this mountain of a man in a cabin miles from civilization.
"Where will I sleep?" I ask, glancing around the one-room setup. There’s a door to the left—bedroom, presumably—and the bathroom.
"You take the bed," he says. "I’ll take the couch."
"I can't take your bed. This is your house."
"You’re injured. And you’re a guest." He stands up, collecting the empty plates. "I don't sleep much anyway."
"Why not?"
He pauses. His back goes rigid. "Ghosts," he mutters, so low I barely hear it.
He takes the plates to the sink. I watch the tension held in his shoulders. He served in the military. I saw the way he scanned the room, the way he reacted to the noise. The 'Vanguard' title makes sense now. He’s a sentry. Always on guard.
I struggle to stand, testing my weight on the bad ankle. It throbs, but it holds. I limp over to the large bookshelf near the fire, needing to move, needing to see something other than his broad back.
The books are eclectic. Structural Engineering. Metallurgy. Classic Philosophy.
"You read a lot," I say, running a finger down the spine of a worn copy of The Odyssey.
"Keeps the mind sharp," he says from the kitchen.
"You have a lot of books on... fortification," I notice. "Survival. Traps."
"Like I said. I like my privacy."
"Are you expecting an invasion?"
He shuts off the water. Silence returns, heavier this time. He dries his hands on a towel and crosses the room until he’s standing just a few feet away.
"The world is a messy place, Avery. It pushes. I push back."
"And what about me?" I ask, craning my neck to meet his gaze. "I pushed into your world."
"You fell into it," he corrects. He steps closer. He’s so big he blocks the firelight, casting me in his shadow. "And now you’re here."
He reaches out. I hold my breath. His hand hovers near my face, then his knuckles graze my cheek. His skin is rough, creating friction against my softness.
"You have soot on your face," he says quietly. "From your stove."
He rubs his thumb over my cheekbone, erasing the smudge. The contact is mesmerizing. I lean into his hand involuntarily, seeking the warmth.
His eyes darken. Pupils dilate until the green is almost swallowed by black. He stares at my mouth, then back up to my eyes. The air between us crackles with static electricity.
As if on cue, the overhead lights flicker. Once. Twice. Then they die completely.
The cabin plunges into darkness, lit only by the orange glow of the fireplace.
I gasp, stumbling back a step.
Oliver’s hand shoots out, grabbing my waist to steady me. His grip is firm. Possessive. He hauls me flush against his hard body.
"Easy," he murmurs in the dark.
"The power..."
"Generator will kick in if I want it to," he says, his voice a rough growl near my ear. "But I prefer the fire."
We stand in the semi-darkness, the fire throwing long, dancing shadows against the walls. The wind howls outside, a beast trying to tear the door down. But inside, the only sound is the crackling wood and the ragged hitch of my breath.
His hand slides up my back, broad palm pressing me closer, molding my softness against his granite chest. I can feel the heat radiating off him, burning through the thick flannel shirt.
"You’re safe here," he says. It sounds like a vow.
"I know," I whisper.
He looks down at me, face half in shadow, half in golden light. A king in his castle. And I’m the stray he dragged in from the cold. But the way he looks at me... it’s not pity. It’s hunger.
His thumb traces the line of my jaw, tipping my head back.
"I should let you go," he rasps, his gaze dropping to my lips. "I should send you into that room and lock the door."
"Don't," I breathe, the word slipping out before my brain can check it. My hands find purchase on his biceps, gripping the rock-hard muscle.
"Don't?" He leans closer, his beard grazing my cheek. "You don't know what you’re asking for, Little Bird."
"I don't care."
A low groan rumbles in his chest. His resistance snaps.
His mouth crashes down on mine.
It’s not a gentle first kiss. It’s a claiming. His lips are hot, firm, demanding a response I give without hesitation. My mouth opens under his, and he tastes me, deep and thorough. He tastes like coffee and danger.
I melt against him, my injured ankle forgotten as he lifts me effortlessly, my feet dangling inches off the floor. His arm bands around my waist like iron, crushing me to him. I thread my fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, needing more friction, more heat.
He growls against my mouth, a primal sound that vibrates straight to my core. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, taking ownership, stroking against mine in a rhythm that makes my knees weak.
For a moment, the blizzard outside doesn't exist. The cabin doesn't exist. There is only Oliver, and the overwhelming, terrifying reality of being his.
He breaks the kiss but doesn't let me down. He rests his forehead against mine, both of us breathing hard in the firelight.
"Go to bed, Avery," he commands, his voice raw, wrecked. "Go. Before I decide not to let you leave this room at all."
He sets me down, his hands lingering on my waist for a heartbeat too long before he rips them away.
I stumble back, lips throbbing, body humming with a live current of need. I turn and limp toward the bedroom door, feeling his gaze burning into my spine with every step.
I open the heavy wooden door and slip into the bedroom. I close it, leaning back against the wood, my fingers touching my swollen lips.
I don't lock it. I wouldn't dare.