Chapter 3
Three
Kaden
The world narrows to the fragile figure in the center of the frozen lake. My heart, a muscle I long thought numb, seizes in my chest. The sound of the ice cracking is a physical blow, a sharp, sickening report that echoes the splintering of my own composure.
"No," the word is a raw whisper, stolen by the wind.
She is a doll made of glass, and she is dancing on a floor that is about to give way.
Every instinct screams at me to run to her, to snatch her from the danger, but I am frozen on the shore, rendered powerless for the first time in a decade.
If I step out there, my weight will guarantee the ice collapses, taking us both down into the black, suffocating water.
For a torturous second, she is paralyzed, a doe caught in the headlights of her own impending doom.
Then, adrenaline kicks in. Her graceful glide shatters into a desperate, frantic scramble.
She leaps from one shifting plate of ice to another, her ridiculously bright gown a beacon of her struggle.
The ice groans and heaves around her, the dark water licking at the edges of the cracks, hungry.
My fists are clenched so tight my knuckles are white, my nails digging into my palms. A guttural roar of pure frustration builds in my chest. Rage at her for her foolishness.
Rage at myself for letting the chase go on this long.
Rage at the universe for daring to threaten what I have just decided is mine.
With a final, desperate leap that seems to defy gravity, she clears the last stretch of fractured ice and collapses onto the snowy bank of the far shore. She lands in a heap of snow and yellow tulle, a broken marionette whose strings have been cut.
The relief that floods me is so potent it makes my knees feel weak.
It’s a disgusting, foreign sensation, and I hate it.
It is immediately consumed by a fresh wave of fury.
I can’t follow her across the treacherous ice.
I’m forced to turn and sprint along the edge of the lake, my expensive dress shoes slipping on the frozen ground, the sound of my own harsh breathing a testament to my lost control.
The trees on her side of the lake have swallowed her whole.
The flash of yellow is gone. But she left a trail.
I push myself harder, my lungs burning, my mind a maelstrom of violent intentions.
When I get my hands on her, she will learn the price of making me feel this way. She will learn the price of fear.
I finally find a place where the shoreline narrows, a game trail leading across a sturdy, frozen creek that feeds the lake.
I cross it in three long strides and pick up her tracks again on the other side.
They are no longer the frantic prints of a desperate flight.
They are stumbling, uneven, the steps of someone running on the last dregs of their energy.
She is fading. Good.
Ahead, through the dense web of branches, a faint light flickers. A single, welcoming pinprick in the oppressive darkness. I know that light. I know that cabin. It belongs to Craigston, one of my men. A solid, dependable soldier who guards this quadrant of my territory.
A dark, humorless chuckle escapes my lips. The irony is exquisite. She is running from the monster, straight into his den. Her desperate bid for sanctuary will only deliver her more surely into my hands.
I slow my pace now, the urgency of the chase replaced by the grim satisfaction of its inevitable conclusion.
I let the distance grow, melting back into the shadows.
Let her have her moment of false hope. Let her knock on that door believing a kind, benevolent stranger will save her.
The disillusionment will be so much sweeter.
I circle around, approaching the cabin from the side, my steps utterly silent in the deep snow. The curtains are drawn, but a gap allows me a perfect view of the main room. Craigston is by the fire, a book in his lap. He is a large, bearded man, the very picture of a mountain recluse.
The cabin door bursts open, and Wynter stumbles inside. She slams it shut behind her, leaning against it, her chest heaving. The sheer, primal relief on her face is a beautiful thing to behold.
“Help me,” she gasps, her voice a shredded whisper. “He’s coming.”
Craigston jumps to his feet, his book forgotten on the floor, his eyes wide with shock at the sudden appearance of this half-frozen, bloodied girl in a ruined ball gown. He takes a step toward her, his hands outstretched in a gesture of assistance.
And then she collapses. Her body gives out completely, and she crumples to the floor in a boneless heap, her dark hair fanning out around her head like a splash of ink on the wooden floorboards.
That’s my cue.
I take a deep, steadying breath, reining in the possessive, violent energy coursing through me. I need to appear calm. In control. I walk to the front door and open it slowly.
The warmth of the fire washes over my chilled skin. Craigston looks up, his jaw going slack as he sees me. The surprise in his eyes morphs instantly into recognition, then to the unquestioning deference I expect from all my men. He understands immediately.
He glances from me to the unconscious girl on his floor, and his gaze becomes carefully neutral. He moves as if to help her, but I hold up a hand, a silent, absolute command. She is mine to handle.
I kneel beside her, the rough fabric of my suit trousers soaking up the melted snow from her gown.
Up close, she is even more stunning. Her face, flushed from the cold and exertion, is a masterpiece of delicate lines and pale, translucent skin.
Her lips are parted slightly, a faint puff of breath escaping them.
My fingers itch to touch her, to trace the line of her jaw, to feel the pulse fluttering in her throat.
I gently gather her into my arms. The cold dampness of her skin, the dead weight of her unconscious form—it’s the most satisfying feeling I’ve ever known. She is real. She is here. She is mine.
“Blanket,” I manage to say, my voice raw from the chase and the cold.
Craigston moves without a word, pulling a thick quilt from the back of his armchair. I wrap it around her trembling body, cocooning her, pulling her flush against my chest. Her scent fills my senses, a dizzying mix of pine, snow, and her own unique fragrance. It is the scent of victory.
“Start your truck. Heat on full,” I command, my voice regaining its familiar edge of authority.
He doesn’t hesitate, disappearing out the door into the night. A moment later, the low rumble of his truck's engine purrs to life.
I look down at the exquisite face nestled in the crook of my neck. I came here tonight to collect a financial debt from a pathetic, aging socialite. I am leaving with a queen. My queen. The world has shifted on its axis, and I am the new center of her universe. She just doesn't know it yet.