Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
AVA
Soren and I are spread out on the thick rug in front of the fire as a pair of satiated heathens in a cabin sex montage.
I’m sticky. Sore in places I didn’t know could be sore. My thighs tremble every time I shift. I am positively glowing—and not from the heat of the flames licking across the hearth.
Nope.
I’m glowing because I’ve spent the entire day getting my insides rearranged by Soren Pembry’s massive fucking flesh sword.
Yes, the rumors are true.
All of them.
Every outrageous comment, thirst post, and five-star review.
His alleged third leg deserves to be carved into Mount Rushmore.
That’s how accurate. And he knows how to use it.
Soren’s currently stretched out beside me, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting casually across my stomach. I should be overthinking things. Planning my escape. Cataloging all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
But instead, I’m melting into the floor like butter on hot toast, staring up at the wood-beamed ceiling with a blissed-out smile.
“How’s your current book coming along?” Soren traces lazy circles on my shoulder.
Eyes half-lidded, I hum. “Mmm. Yeah. It’s due in a few weeks. And I’m so not close to being done with it.”
“What’s it about?”
“The usual—banter, spice, emotional trauma, a man who knows what to do with his hands.”
Soren squeezes my shoulder. “Did I inspire it?”
I roll my head toward him, smiling. “Cocky, you are.”
“That I am,” he says, utterly unrepentant. “What’s a book you’ve always wanted to write but haven’t?”
I’m quiet for a few seconds, thinking.
“There’s one I’ve carried around for years,” I confess. “A story about grief. And how sometimes people show up in your life like a wildfire, burning through everything you thought was solid. But maybe that’s the only way to make space for something new to grow.”
Soren watches me, reading between the lines. “You should write that. It matters to you.”
I shrug, eyes fixed on the ceiling then roll my head toward him, smiling. “Okay, your turn. What’s a story you’ve always wanted to write but haven’t?”
He stretches, arm flexing behind his head. “An dystopian sci-fi where the morally gray hero goes to therapy, stops trauma-dumping on his enemies, and gets the girl before the galaxy explodes in the final act.”
I laugh. “Groundbreaking.”
Soren bumps my leg with his. “There’s one problem.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that?”
“I can’t figure out how to keep my hands off of you long enough to type.”
I snort, smacking his chest. “Try harder, warlord.”
Soren shifts closer, hooking his leg around mine, his hand skimming up my ribs with infuriating ease. “Not a chance, romance queen.”
Soren rolls over so he’s hovering above me. His lips brush mine, soft, unhurried. I kiss him back, still smiling when he pulls away.
“You know…” His eyes dance with amusement. “...all this snow reminds me of your deeply held belief that snowball fights are a time-honored metaphor for intimacy.”
“It’s true.”
He gives me a quick peck on the lips. “Prove it.”
“You want to go outside? Right now?”
Soren’s halfway to his feet, bare chest glowing in the firelight, resembling a cocky winter god, completely naked, big dick swinging, leading the charge into battle.
I’m torn between hysterical laughter and mild arousal. “You are not going out there like that.”
A single brow raises, he’s utterly unfazed. “What? Afraid the snow’s gonna get jealous?”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Get dressed, Steam Queen. You’re about to catch snow in the face from these metaphorical hands.”
“And you’re about to get absolutely transformed by snow affection.”
Half an hour later, we’re bundled up—sort of.
Soren doesn’t have clothes here, apart from the outfit he wore last night. Considering how thoroughly we spent the day making sure every layer of it was removed and discarded, it’s… less than ideal for a snowball fight.
He emerges from my bedroom, wearing a pair of my oversized joggers that are hilariously snug in the thighs, a too-tight hoodie with a pastel book quote across the chest that reads: My book boyfriends are better than real men—I regret nothing, and one of my puffer jackets that almost fits… if he doesn’t try to zip it.
Soren’s also wearing thick pink fuzzy socks stuffed into his boots, which he insists are “gender-neutral” despite the glitter trim and dangling pompoms.
He looks so silly. And doesn’t give two fucks while I’m doubled over as best I can in my snow suit, which mostly means I tilt forward like a bloated marshmallow with joint pain.
“You look like a homeless lady who somehow stumbled into a J. Crew catalog and mugged a toddler for accessories.”
Soren does a turn, modeling. “And yet, I own it.”
“Can’t argue there.”
“My balls might freeze but my confidence shall remain intact,” he announces, slapping on a knit beanie with a sequined unicorn horn. “Let’s do this.”
Outside, the cold punches us in the face like a scorned ex. The snow is piled thick and powdery, the sky still flaking down in lazy spirals. The woods are wrapped in white silence.
Soren pauses long enough to peek at the driveway where his rented Bentley, now nothing more than a bougie snow mound with luxury tires peeking out from the bottom as a sad, expensive tombstone.
“Well,” he mutters, hands planted on his hips, “Guess I’m staying forever.”
Not sure I’d object to that.
Soren runs into the snow-covered yard and yells, “YOUR METAPHORIC INTIMACY IS ABOUT TO GET FUCKING PELTED, BELL!”
And then—he sinks.
Immediately.
The snow’s deeper than either of us probably realized, and his overly confident charge turns into a slow-motion collapse. He disappears thigh-deep with a strangled grunt.
“Help,” Soren calls out, arms flailing slightly. “I’ve been metaphorically and literally swallowed by intimacy.”
“Oh my God, are you stuck?”
“Emotionally, yes.”
I scoop snow into a perfect sphere, my aim locked in.
Soren’s too busy trying to extract himself from the snowdrift to notice. Arms flailing, jacket riding up, talking shit like he’s still winning.
Launching the snowball straight at Soren, it nails him in the face with a satisfying smack, and explodes in a spray of white across his features.
Soren freezes, snow dripping from his lashes, lips parted in outrage.
“First blood!” I shriek and cackle.
His eyes gleam with unholy delight. “You want war, Bells? You got it.”
He dives out of the snowbank as a man possessed and one with absolutely zero plan, scooping snow with both hands.
It flies everywhere.
Shrieking, I take cover behind the porch column as a poorly packed snowball sails past my head and hits the door behind me with a sad plop.
“You throw like a man who writes poetry in his underwear,” I call out.
“I do, and I make women weep,” he shouts back, lobbing another one with improved aim.
We’re both snow-fueled idiots, laughing, ducking and dodging and slipping on ice patches, shouting insults and declarations of love.
The world has gone white. The cold is brutal. And somehow, I’ve never felt warmer.
After launching another snowball, I bolt for cover behind the shed, legs wobbling in my puffy suit like I’m running in a weighted blanket. My lungs are burning, my cheeks are numb, but I can’t stop laughing.
I hear him coming before I see him—thunderous footfalls in boots, the slap of frozen fuzzy pompoms, and the dramatic war cry of a man with nothing to lose.
“AVA BELL, PREPARE YOURSELF.”
Heart hammering with pure energetic joy, I sprint toward the woods, snow spraying at my shins.
I’m fast.
He’s faster.
A second later, big arms wrap around my waist and I’m tackled into a snowbank with a shriek, landing in a flurry of white and wild laughter.
Breathing hard, we collapse into the drift, limbs entwined, the unmistakable weight of him over me. Soren braces his hands on either side of my head, breathing hard, his nose red, his lashes dusted in snow.
Chest heaving, I look up at him, my scarf halfway down my face. His beanie is crooked. He’s absolutely ridiculous. And completely beautiful.
Soren’s eyes search mine, and all that playfulness subtly morphs into softness. “I win,” he declares.
“Debatable,” I breathe.
A smile. “You’re not running…physically, or metaphorically.”
“I know.”
“Why not?”
Because you’re warm, even out here.
Because I can’t remember the last time I felt this alive.
Because this might be the dumbest, most romantic day of my entire existence, and I don’t want it to end.
But I just say, “Because you tackled me into a snowbank and I’m pinned under two hundred plus pounds of smug.”
Leaning down, Soren’s nose grazes mine. “Nah, Bells. That’s physics in my favor.” His lips claim mine, fierce and certain, heat sparking against the cold until every thought of self-preservation is gone. “This? This is me winning. And you’re my prize.”
There it goes, my heart plummeting straight into his hands, no parachute, no way back.