Chapter 3 #2
He invades my space again. Soap and leather fill my nose. "Because I said so. You work for me, Bianca. Those are the terms. You stay here, where I know you're safe."
"Safe from what?" I wield the spatula like a weapon.
He stares down at me. "From everything." He walks out the back door. The lock clicks loudly behind him.
"Can we paint today?" Maddie asks.
I look at the closed door, pulse thrumming in my neck. He didn't just give an order. He staked a claim. "Yes," I say to Maddie. "We can paint."
The day passes in a blur of primary colors.
We cover the kitchen floor in newspaper.
Maddie slaps colors together with reckless abandon while I show her how to mix green.
Peaceful. But I feel him. Through the window, I see him moving between the house and the detached garage.
He chops wood, the rhythmic thwack of the axe echoing against the trees.
I catch myself watching the way his shirt strains across his back.
The focused brutality of his movements decimates the logs.
Around two o'clock, Maddie goes to her room for some quiet time with her books.
The house falls silent. I scrub a stubborn spot of red acrylic off the floor when the back door opens.
A gust of cold wind swirls in, carrying the smell of snow and exhaust. Shane stomps his boots on the mat.
Grease stains his hands and dirt smears his forehead.
He brings the cold in with him. He stops when he sees me on my hands and knees.
"What happened?" he asks, voice rough.
I sit back on my heels, blowing a stray curl out of my face. "Creative explosion."
He eyes the newspaper piles. Resigned . "I told you she’s messy."
"It cleans up," I say, dipping my rag into the soapy water.
He grunts and walks to the sink, scrubbing grease off his hands with a bar of harsh soap. Muscles in his forearms flex as he works. "Did you eat?" I ask.
He pauses. "No."
"I saved you pancakes. And there’s ham."
He dries his hands on a towel and turns. I’m still on the floor, at a severe disadvantage. He towers over me. "You're feeding me now?"
"Part of the job. Care and feeding of the household."
"Maddie is the household. I'm the landlord."
"You're the dad," I correct. "And dads need to eat."
His lip twitches. "I'm always grumpy, Sunshine.
Default setting." He walks over. Instead of stepping around me, he crouches.
Knees pop. Eye level. The kitchen feels too intimate, the air thick.
He reaches out. My breath hitches. His thumb brushes my cheekbone.
Rough, calloused sandpaper against my softness. He rubs firmly.
"Blue," he murmurs, eyes locked on mine.
"We were making skies."
He doesn't pull away. His thumb traces the line of my jaw, dropping to the sensitive spot just below my ear. My heart hammers against my ribs. "Paint on your neck, too," he says, a low vibration I feel in my bones.
"I do?" My voice whispers.
He leans in, his heat radiating off him like a furnace.
I catch the scent of motor oil, sharp pine, and the heavy, musky pheromones of a man who’s been exerting his dominance over the mountain all day.
It triggers a primal, biological demand that makes my pussy clench and start to soak through my clothes.
My body isn't just screaming; it’s drenched in the need to be claimed by him .
He tilts his head, putting his nose right behind my ear.
He inhales deep, scenting me like an animal.
I freeze, my knuckles turning white around the wet rag.
"Right here," he rumbles against my skin.
His lips graze my throat, and his breath is hot.
My legs go weak and I let out a wrecked breath.
I don't push him away; I lean into him. He grabs my jaw, his grip hard and possessive as he tilts my head back. He’s putting off so much heat I can barely breathe.
I want him to bite me. I want his mark on my skin.
"Shane," I breathe.
The sound of his name snaps him out of the trance. He pulls back abruptly. Cold air rushes into the space between us. He stands, face a mask of stone, eyes blazing. "Finish cleaning up," he says, voice harsh. "And stay out of the garage."
He stalks to the fridge, grabs a water bottle and the plate of cold pancakes, then takes the stairs two at a time. Retreating. I stay on the floor, clutching the wet rag. My body hums, alive and aching. He almost kissed me. And worse, he knows I wanted him to.
By evening, the temperature plummets. Wind howls around the corners of the cabin, a mournful sound.
Shane hasn't come back down. I feed Maddie grilled cheese and tomato soup, then put her to bed with stories about bears.
When I return downstairs, the house feels massive.
I check the locks. The bolts slide home with a reassuring thunk.
Restless energy coils tight in my stomach.
I wander into the living room. Freezing.
I kneel on the rug before the massive stone fireplace and arrange logs.
It takes three matches, but the kindling catches.
Fire crackles, casting dancing shadows against the log walls.
I curl up on the leather couch, charcoal pencil in hand.
My hand moves across the sketchbook without permission.
Sharp jaw. Heavy brow. The scar cutting through the eyebrow.
The messy charcoal captures him perfectly.
"You're good."
I jump, sketchbook sliding off my lap. Shane stands at the bottom of the stairs, half-lit by firelight. He’s changed into a fresh white t-shirt that makes his tan skin and dark tattoos pop. "You move too quietly for a man your size," I say, retrieving my book.
He enters the room. Firelight glints off his eyes. "Keeps me alive." He comes around the couch and sits on the heavy coffee table, facing me. His knees almost brush mine. "Let me see," he says, nodding at the book.
I clutch it to my chest. "Private."
"You're drawing in my living room, by my fire. Let me see." A command, softer this time. Slowly, I lower the book and flip it around. He studies the sketch. Rough, unfinished, undeniably him.
"You made me look…" He trails off.
"Human?"
He looks up. That laser-focus returns, making me feel like the only thing in the world. "Haunted," he corrects.
"Are you?"
He leans forward, elbows on knees. "Everyone on this mountain is haunted, Bianca. Remember that. To keep you safe. From me. From my world."
"I don't feel unsafe with you."
He laughs, a dry, humorless sound. "Then you're not paying attention.
" He stands, his shadow stretching long across the floor, consuming me.
He reaches down, gripping the sketchbook and tossing it onto the table.
"You should run," he growls, stepping into the V of my legs.
"You should pack your bags and drive that yellow deathtrap back to the city. "
I look up at him, heart battering my ribs. "I'm not running."
"No?" His eyes darken to black pits. "Then you're a fool."
He bends down. His hands grip the back of the couch on either side of my head, caging me in. The heat rolling off him suffocates me. "Shane," I whisper, a plea and a challenge.
"Don't say my name like that unless you want trouble."
"Maybe I do."
Something snaps in his face. A restraint breaking.
He slams his mouth onto mine, a violent collision of raw aggression.
He isn't asking; he’s taking. His tongue thrusts past my lips, tasting of coffee and dominance, and I whimper as my pussy gives a hard, wet throb.
He moves his hand to my throat, his grip firm and possessive, his thumb pressing right over my pulse while his other hand snakes down to cup my rear, squeezing the flesh hard.
He’s claiming me. He kisses me like he wants to rip my clothes off and bury his cock so deep inside me that I forget my own name.
Just as my body melts, preparing to surrender everything, he tears himself away. He stands, chest heaving, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks at me—lips swollen, eyes wide—and a curse rips from his throat. "Go to bed, Bianca," he rasps, voice wrecked. "Lock your door."
"Shane—"
"Lock it!" he roars. "Before I forget I'm supposed to be the good guy."
He turns and stalks toward the kitchen, leaving me breathless by the fire. I touch my lips. They still burn. I scramble up and head for the stairs on shaky legs. I rush to my room, slam the door, and turn the lock.
Click.