Chapter Eleven.
Constance thanked Maddog and his wife, Faith, as she stood just inside the little house. Warmth wrapped around her immediately—not just from the heat, but from the quiet comfort of the space itself. It had everything a person needed and nothing they didn’t.
“Faith, did you decorate this place?” Constance asked, glancing around. “It’s so inviting.”
Maddog cleared his throat. “That’d be me.”
“Really?” She smiled at him. “Should’ve known. It’s very masculine.”
“No,” Frost corrected, stepping inside with both overnight bags slung easily over his shoulders. “It’s very Maddog.”
Leather furnishings anchored the room—deep, worn-in chairs and a sofa that promised long nights and lazy mornings—but they were softened by fluffy throw blankets draped with casual intention.
Comfort had clearly been the priority. Without the soft touches, she could imagine the place as an expensive man cave. With them, it felt lived in.
There was no formal dining room. Instead, a simple counter with two barstools divided the sitting area from a compact, one-wall kitchen. Everything gleamed, looking barely used. No microwave—but a sleek coffee maker and a toaster oven sat side by side, making up for the omission.
A full-sized refrigerator stood at one end, and a small studio-style stove with an attached oven completed the space. Practical. Functional. Perfectly suited to the cabin’s charm.
Constance let her hand trail across the cool stone countertop, imagining mornings here—fresh coffee brewing, sunlight spilling in through the windows, the world held at arm’s length.
The cabin wasn’t grand, but it didn’t need to be.
It felt like a place meant to exhale. To shrug off noise and expectations and simply exist.
Her gaze drifted to the window overlooking the yard. The last rays of sunshine bathed the grass in gold, tall pale blades catching the light like stained glass.
“Maddog,” she said finally, turning back to him. “You did a great job.”
He nodded, clearly pleased with himself, surveying the room like a man who knew he’d gotten it right. Faith laughed softly at his quiet pride.
“Constance,” Faith called, waving her over. “Wait until you see the tub. It’s to die for.”
“It’s big enough for two people,” Faith tossed over her shoulder as she disappeared into the other room.
Constance turned back to Frost, gave him a playful wink, and followed after her.
The tub dominated the room—deep, wide, old-fashioned porcelain with dark metal fixtures that gleamed under the warm light. It looked less like a bath and more like an invitation.
Constance stopped short. “Oh,” she breathed.
Faith smiled, clearly pleased. “Told you.” Pointing to the tub.
“Maddog insisted. Said if you’re going to soak, you might as well do it right.
” Faith directed Constance’s attention to the candles that lined the narrow ledge beneath the window, their flames flickering lazily, reflected in the mirror.
The air smelled faintly of eucalyptus and something softer underneath—clean, calming, indulgent.
“It’s… perfect,” Constance said honestly.
Faith laughed. “I’ll leave you to it.” She paused at the door, her gaze flicking meaningfully toward the hall. “Enjoy yourself.”
When the door clicked shut, the room seemed to shrink—and expand—at the same time. Constance leaned over the tub and turned on the water filling the tub with a low, soothing sound.
A moment later, Frost filled the doorway. He didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned one shoulder against the frame, arms crossed, eyes dark as they traced the line of her back, the curve of her waist. The quiet between them hummed.
“You look like you’re already planning to steal this place,” he said finally.
She glanced over her shoulder, smiling. “I was thinking about it. You were thinking…?”
His mouth twitched. “Everything else.”
He stepped inside, the door closing softly behind him. The air changed immediately heavier, warmer. His hand came to rest on the counter beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him without being touched.
“It really is big enough for two,” she said lightly, though her pulse betrayed her.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. “I noticed.”
She turned then, slowly, deliberately. They stood inches apart, steam drifting between them, the tub filling steadily behind her like a countdown. Frost lifted a hand, brushing his knuckles along her jaw—barely there, testing, asking.
She leaned into it. The contact was small, restrained—and somehow that made it worse.
“Constance,” he murmured, low and careful.
Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt. “Frost.”
Frost’s hand slid from her jaw to her shoulder, thumb brushing the strap of her top. He didn’t rush it. Nothing about him rushed. He waited until she nodded—just once—before easing it down her arm.
Her breath caught anyway.
“Your turn,” she murmured, fingers already at the hem of his shirt.
Fabric gave way slowly. Piece by piece. Intentional.
Frost let her take the lead, watching her like every movement mattered, like this wasn’t about skin but trust. His hands followed hers—unzipping, unbuttoning, palms warm against newly bared skin.
The air thickened with heat and steam and the quiet sound of their breathing.
When her shirt slipped free, his hands stilled for a moment at her waist, grounding her. Not taking. Not yet.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
She smiled, slow and sure. “Very.”
That was all he needed. Clothes gathered on the floor, his belt unclipped, her fingers tugging, his mouth brushing her temple, her shoulder. Not claiming. Learning. Frost’s restraint was a tangible thing, coiled tight beneath his skin.
She reached for the button of his jeans—
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
The sound cracked through the cabin like a gunshot. They froze. Another knock, harder. Urgent.
“Fuck,” Frost muttered, already stepping back. He grabbed his jeans from the floor, yanking them on, shoving his feet through without bothering to button them properly. His expression had shifted completely, focus sharp, concern immediate.
“Stay here,” he said, already moving.
She nodded, heart hammering now for an entirely different reason, grabbing a towel she wrapping it around herself as he strode out of the bathroom.
Frost didn’t slow as he crossed the cabin. He reached the front door and hauled it open—
“Maddog?” he barked. “Faith?” Worried something had happened to the couple.
The quiet that followed was anything but calm.
Maddog stood on the small porch, phone pressed to his ear, his voice sharp and carrying as he barked orders into it. Gone was the easy pride from earlier—this Maddog was all business, all edges.
“No…lock it down. I want eyes on every route in and out. Call me back when you’ve got confirmation.”
He ended the call and looked at Frost. “We’ve got an emergency with the chapter. You’re with me.”
Frost didn’t hesitate. “I’m coming.”
Maddog nodded once, already turning away to make another call. Frost spun on his heel and jogged back through the cabin. He pushed into the bathroom, breathless, adrenaline still buzzing through him.
“Constance.” He stopped long enough to catch her eyes. “I have to go. I’m sorry. Something’s going down with the chapter.”
He didn’t wait for questions. Didn’t trust himself too.
He crossed the room in two strides, grabbing his shirt, pulling it over his head, fingers fumbling as he shoved his feet into his boots.
Buttons were skipped. Belt half-fastened.
The careful restraint from moments ago was gone, replaced by urgency and duty.
“I’ll be back,” he said, already moving for the door again. “I promise.”
Then he was gone, boots pounding across the floor, the front door opening and closing with a final, hollow thud. The bathroom felt too quiet afterward. The tub still steamed. Candles still flickered. And Constance stood there alone, the warmth draining from the room.
“Is this what it’s like being a part of a motorcycle club?” She asked the empty room.
Sighing she shut off the water, dropped the towel and stepped into the deep tub. She could contemplate life with her biker while she soaked. And worry.