Chapter 7
Cut Off
June
My hands are shaking as I climb back into the truck, whether from the cold rain or the adrenaline crash, I can’t tell. Probably both. I fumble for my phone, praying the cell tower on this ridge is still functioning. Two bars. Thank God.
Dad picks up on the first ring.
“Junebug? I heard the weather’s getting pretty bad up there. Everything okay?”
“Dad, I’m fine, but we have a problem.” I take a steadying breath. “There’s been a massive mudslide on Ridgeline Route, about three miles up from the Hendricks turnoff. The road is completely covered.”
Silence. Then, “Jesus Christ. Are you hurt? Where are you exactly?”
“I’m safe. I’m parked at the crest pullout, maybe half a mile past where it happened.
I saw it coming in my mirrors and managed to get clear.
” I’m proud of how steady my voice sounds.
Professional delivery driver June, reporting a road hazard, despite totally panicking on the inside.
“But Dad, I’m trapped up here. There’s no way down. ”
“Shit. Okay, hold on.” I can hear him moving around, probably to the big topographical map we keep pinned to the office wall. “What about the service road that connects to Highway 2?”
I close my eyes. “That’s down-mountain from the slide. Even if it’s still there, I can’t get to it.”
More silence, then a heavy sigh. “You’re right. There’s no alternate route off that ridge. Damn, Junebug. A slide that size…” He trails off, and I can practically hear him calculating. “Could take days to clear. Maybe longer if there are others.”
“Others?”
“This kind of weather can trigger multiple slides. Let me call it in to emergency services, see what the situation is county wide.” His voice shifts into crisis-management mode. “What’s your supply situation?”
I twist around to inventory the emergency kit I keep stocked in the back. “Full emergency kit. Water for a week, MREs, sleeping bag rated to ten below, first aid, flares, camp stove. I can survive up here just fine.”
“That’s my girl.” There’s fierce pride in his voice, but it’s mixed with worry. “Okay, I’m putting you on hold to report this. Don’t go anywhere.”
As if I could.
The hold music is some tinny instrumental version of “Hotel California,” which feels darkly appropriate.
I’m sitting in my truck, engine off, watching sheets of rain cascade down my windshield like a waterfall. The hail has stopped, but the storm shows no signs of letting up.
Dad comes back on the line, and his voice is grim. “Emergency services are swamped. Four confirmed slides in the county, power lines down, roads flooded. They’ll get to Ridgeline when they can, but you’re looking at three to five days minimum before they can bring in the heavy equipment.”
Three to five days. I slump back against the driver’s seat. “Well, the truck’s comfortable enough. I’ve got my sleeping bag, plenty of food—”
“That’s a long time to be stuck up there. You sure you’ll be okay in the truck for that long?”
“Yeah, I mean, we used to camp up in this mountain for a week every summer with Mom. It’ll be just like that. Just another camping trip.”
His voice softens at the mention of Mom. “You’re right, Junebug. You’re as tough as they come.” He pauses. “Just… find somewhere safe and clear to park, okay? Away from any slopes that might decide to follow suit. And keep checking in with me every few hours, or if it gets worse.”
“I will, Dad. Don’t worry about me.”
“Can’t help it. You’re my girl. But I know you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Just be careful up there.”
After I hang up, I sit in the growing twilight, listening to the rain hammer against the roof. The storm rages on, and the temperature is already dropping. Five days in the truck is doable, but it’s not going to be pleasant.
I glance back at the package sitting on my passenger seat.
Riven’s delivery.
Well, I’m stuck up here anyway. Might as well complete my route.
I start the engine and get moving.
The drive to Riven’s property feels surreal in the storm. My headlights cut through sheets of rain, illuminating a world that looks like it’s dissolving around the edges. When I finally reach the turnoff to his driveway, I’m surprised to see a dark figure already standing at the edge of the road.
Even through the downpour, there’s no mistaking that silhouette. Twelve feet of arachnid predator, perfectly still except for the subtle shift of his eight legs as he tracks my approach.
I pull up and kill the engine, grabbing his package and my jacket. The moment I step out of the truck, Riven is moving toward me with a speed that should be impossible for something his size. His usual measured grace is completely abandoned—he’s covering ground like his life depends on it.
“June.” My name comes out as a rumble of relief so profound it stops me in my tracks.
Before I can react, his hands are on me, running over my shoulders, my arms, checking for injuries with an urgency that takes my breath away.
“Are you hurt? The mountain has been shaking all over, so much I couldn’t even sense your engine—” He stops abruptly, as if catching himself, but his hands don’t leave my shoulders.
“I’m fine,” I say, and force a smile as I try to appear unshaken. “You felt the mudslide from here?”
“Multiple mudslides, all over.” His six eyes are scanning me frantically, and I can see fear behind them.
“The entire mountain shook. I’ve been monitoring the tremors for the past hour, trying to map the damage pattern.
But with the hail and the tremors, my senses were overwhelmed…
” He trails off as his mandibles click in agitation.
“I would have come to you but…” He swallows hard.
“I wouldn’t have known where to go. Not with all the interference.
So I stayed here, hoping you’d come to me. ”
A little gasp escapes me. Somehow it didn’t even occur to me that he would have been worried. This ancient predator was afraid that I’d been hurt. The intensity of his protective reaction is overwhelming, and something warm and dangerous unfurls in my chest.
“Hey,” I say softly, reaching up to touch one of his armored hands where it rests on my shoulder. “I’m okay. I saw it coming and got clear.”
His relief seems to melt away, and he looks at me with softer eyes. “You’re soaked,” he says, as if just noticing the rain that’s been drenching us both. “Come inside. Now.”
A command. Just like when he told me to wear the panties he made me.
And it excites me just like before.
But I want to give him an out. I don’t want him to feel obligated to help me. “Actually, I was going to just camp out in my truck,” I say, raising my voice over the storm. “The slide took out the road. I’m trapped up here for the next few days, but I’ve got emergency supplies, so I can—”
“No.” The word comes out as a growl that I feel in my bones. His hands tighten on my shoulders, not painfully, but possessively. “You are not sleeping in a truck during a storm when I have a perfectly good home for you.”
“Riven, I appreciate the offer, but we barely know each other—”
He goes very, very still. The kind of stillness that makes every prey instinct I have sit up and take notice. When he speaks, his voice is low and precise, each word deliberate.
“We barely know each other?” One of his hands moves to cup my face, and I’m struck again by how carefully he handles me.
“I felt your every breath, felt the beat of your heart when I tended to you as a mate should.” His thumb traces my cheekbone with devastating gentleness.
“We may not know each other’s favorite colors or childhood stories, but we’ve already connected in ways that matter more. ”
Heat floods through me, completely at odds with the cold rain. He’s right, and the intensity in his voice makes it clear this isn’t just about offering shelter to a stranded driver. This is about something much more fundamental.
“Besides,” Riven adds, his usual dry humor creeping back into his voice, “if you die of hypothermia in your truck, who’s going to deliver my impulse purchases?”
Despite everything, I laugh. “Well, when you put it like that…”
“Practical concerns,” he says solemnly, but there’s a gleam in his many eyes. “I’m nothing if not logical.”
“Right. Totally logical.” I hold up his package, water dripping from the brown paper. “Speaking of impulse purchases…”
His entire demeanor shifts, a subtle tension entering his posture. “Oh. Yes. That.”
I hand it over, and he handles it with surprising care given the weather. “What mysterious necessity did you order this time? Please tell me it’s not a bulk order of googly eyes.”
“Nothing so frivolous.” He tears open the soggy packaging with surgical precision, and I catch a glimpse of something soft and burgundy before he’s holding it up for inspection.
It’s a scarf. Beautiful, clearly expensive, made from what looks like the softest cashmere I’ve ever seen.
“I noticed you don’t wear adequate neck protection,” he says, and there’s something almost shy in his voice. “Montana winters are harsh. This is… This is for you. To keep you warm in the upcoming season.”
“Riven…” I start, but he’s already moving closer, lifting the scarf toward my neck with an eagerness that’s almost endearing.
“May I?” He pauses mid-motion, mandibles clicking once in what might be embarrassment. “I suppose I should have waited until we were inside. But I got so excited…” He trails off, looking uncharacteristically flustered.
The sight of this massive, ancient predator getting tongue-tied over giving me a gift is absolutely adorable. “It’s perfect timing,” I say softly. “I’m freezing.”
Relief flashes across his features as I nod my permission. His hands are impossibly gentle as he wraps the scarf around my neck, careful not to catch my damp hair. The cashmere is like a warm embrace against the cold rain.
“There,” he says, adjusting it with the same meticulous care he brought to removing my clothes two days before. “Better.”
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
For a moment, we just stand there in the rain, him looking down at me with an expression I can’t quite read, me drowning in a cashmere scarf and the growing certainty that I’m in way over my head.
“Now,” he says, breaking the spell, “will you please come inside before we both catch a cold?”
I smile and tease, “I bet it’s cute when a spider sneezes.”
“It most decidedly is not, I assure you.”
I pull out my phone, checking for a signal. Still two bars. “Let me just text my dad first. I doubt there’s reception in your giant cliff mansion.”
Riven nods and waits patiently while I compose the message: Found shelter with a client who has a guest room. Much better than the truck. Will check in tomorrow morning.
Dad’s response is almost immediate: Thank God. Stay safe, Junebug. Keep me posted.
I pocket the phone and look up at Riven, who’s watching me with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken. “Okay,” I say. “I’m ready.”
His smile is small but genuine, and there’s something almost predatory in his satisfaction as he gestures toward his home. “After you.”
As I follow him up the path to his door, the scarf soft and warm around my neck, I’m acutely aware that everything is about to change.
Three to five days trapped in a mountain cabin with a giant spider whose touch makes me weak in the knees…
What could possibly go wrong?