Chapter 11
Alexandria
Istride across the kitchen, irritated with myself.
Gunnar has me completely off balance.
It’s ridiculous.
Twelve hours ago, he was a stranger who turned into a bear and took out a bunch of armed men.
Yet somehow I’m standing here in the middle of his lodge thinking about the way he smiles.
The way he looks at me.
That steady stare. Like he’s studying something he doesn’t quite understand.
The way he stops being all growly and suddenly gets soft.
If he were human, I’d say he was into me… and that’s such a weird, exciting thought.
But he’s not human.
He’s an apex predator, who’s been hired to keep me alive.
I exhale slowly.
However hard I try not to think about that part, it keeps coming back.
I’m not a person in this situation.
I’m evidence.
The cops don’t care about me personally. I’m just the thing that might help put a Russian mafioso behind bars.
And Gunnar…
He’s not feral and furious like Orson. He doesn’t act like everything’s a joke like Torin.
He’s kind. Warm. Thoughtful.
The kind of man who cooks you breakfast and makes sure you get the better plate without even mentioning it.
But that doesn’t mean anything.
He’s not doing it because he likes me.
He’s doing it because I’m the job.
And I need to remember that.
Besides, Alexandria, I remind myself as I open the kitchen door. You’re hardly an expert on male interest.
I’ve misread things before.
Men notice girls like me.
We’re interesting. Good to talk to. We sit at the end of the bar arguing about politics while everyone else flirts.
They laugh. They lean in. They tell you you’re different.
And when it’s time to leave, they take your friend home instead.
When I open the front door, cold air rushes in.
I walk down the crumbling steps and make it ten yards before I stop.
It’s freaking cold.
I want my autonomy back, yes. But not so badly I’m going to freeze my ass off.
I’m restless though, eager to burn off some nervous energy.
I head back inside and look around.
Maybe I’ll clean up a little.
I open the cupboard under the sink. No cloths—just a pile of torn-up shirts. I pick one up and give it a cautious sniff.
Good enough.
I find some detergent and start on the counters.
The place isn’t as bad as I expected. Someone’s been keeping on top of it.
I glance at the stove. Clean. Sink too. Floor swept recently.
Gunnar, I guess.
By the time I’m done, the rag has turned grey. I rinse it out and look around for the next problem.
Clothes.
That’s what.
I’ve been trying not to think about the fact that all I have is the gym kit I’m wearing and the filthy uniform stuffed into my backpack.
I glance toward the hallway.
How do they even wash their clothes out here without electricity?
I peer into the utility room.
Shelves line the walls, stacked with what looks like half the contents of a hardware store.
But nothing for laundry.
Maybe the mountain men of this establishment don’t believe in it.
Nobody smells bad though.
Not even Orson.
And definitely not Gunnar.
There has to be one somewhere.
I open the back door and step out into a large clearing.
Stacks of chopped logs sit to one side. An old pickup truck crouches under a sagging tarp. Beyond that, the forest rises in a wall of dark green.
No laundry line.
No obvious washing situation of any kind—
Then the woods erupt.
Branches snap as something crashes through the undergrowth, fast and heavy, heading straight for the clearing.
My whole body goes rigid. For one wild second I think—
Bear.
Then the trees break apart and a massive shape bursts through—brown fur, hooves, blood—and somehow entwined with it—
Orson.
Completely naked.
With a dead deer slung over his shoulders.
“What the fuck?” I exclaim.
He stands there for a second, then shifts the weight and gives it a short shake, like he’s settling a sack of groceries.
He grins at me. “Lunch.”
My gaze drops to the animal’s throat. It’s all kind of torn out.
I register, at the same time, the blood on his teeth.
My stomach turns.
“You hunted it.”
“Yup.”
He tips his jaw at me and starts toward the lodge like this is the most ordinary thing in the world.
I step aside, but the deer’s hind legs still catch me across the hip. I make a sound, more of surprise than pain.
“The door!” he barks, oblivious.
I stare at him for a second. Then I realize he literally can’t open it.
I get there just as he reaches it.
He ducks to clear the frame, the deer’s hooves knocking against the wood as he carries it inside.
The carcass hits the big kitchen table with a heavy thud.
I stop in the doorway.
For a moment I simply stare.
The deer looks enormous up close. Brown fur slicked with sweat and blood, long legs folded awkwardly beneath its body.
Orson plants one hand on the table beside it, breathing deep for a second.
Then he straightens.
“Need a knife.”
I blink. “What?”
“Knife.”
I glance around, spot the block by the stove, and grab the largest one.
When I hand it to him, he tests the edge against his thumb with a quick, practiced movement.
Is he really going to butcher the deer on the kitchen table?
Apparently so.
He turns back to the deer, focused on the task in front of him.
Which leaves me standing there.
And suddenly remembering why I came outside in the first place.
“Uh—Orson?”
He doesn’t look up. “Yeah.”
“Do you guys have laundry facilities somewhere?”
This time he pauses.
The knife stops halfway to the deer’s neck.
Then he glances at me like the question has just arrived from a great distance. “Laundry?”
“Yes. Laundry.”
He studies me for a second longer.
Then jerks his chin toward the back of the lodge.
“Shed.”
“There’s a shed?”
Out back.
Right.
“Thanks.”
Conversation apparently concluded.
I back out of the kitchen.
By the time I reach the rear porch again, I can hear the steady scrape of the knife.
I decide not to think about that too closely.
Instead, I follow the narrow path that curves around the edge of the clearing. At last, I come to a smaller outbuilding tucked against the trees.
And right there—
Gunnar.
He’s crouched beside a hulking metal casing, working on something that looks like a car engine.
Shirtless.
For a moment, I forget why I’m here.
Sweat glistens down the valley of his spine, and his massive shoulders flex as he works a wrench.
His muscles bunch with each turn, like something wild barely contained beneath the surface. The tendons in his forearms stand rigid, veins visible beneath tanned skin.
The wrench slips with a sharp clink.
He mutters under his breath and shifts his grip, planting one hand against the metal casing. The motion pulls his jeans lower on his hips, revealing the dimples at the base of his spine.
My mouth goes dry.
He gives the wrench another steady pull, muscles rippling, and my stomach flips before my brain catches up with what I’m doing.
Which is standing here.
Gawking at him.
Then Gunnar says, calmly,
“You need something, Alexandria?”
I jump. “Oh—!”
He twists the wrench once more before setting it down. Only then does he straighten.
When he turns, the full effect of all that muscle shifts from back to chest.
Holy crap.
Gigantic pecs carved from granite. A ladder of rippling abs. Two sharp V-cuts of muscle disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans—heat floods my core, and I drag my eyes back up again.
“I was looking for the washing machine,” I say.
Gunnar straightens from the generator, wiping his hands on a rag. A streak of grease runs down one arm.
“In the shed,” he says, nodding toward the small outbuilding behind him.
“It works?”
“It will when I’m done here.”
“Great, I’ll go grab my stuff.” I jerk a thumb over my shoulder, and I’m already darting away. I go around and use the front door to avoid whatever massacre is happening on the kitchen table.
By the time I get back to the shed with yesterday’s dirty clothes, I’m breathless. Gunnar’s leaning against the doorway waiting.
Still shirtless.
Which does not help.
At all.
“You hear that?” he asks.
I listen. “The generator—you got it working?”
“Yes.” He dusts his hands off, looking pleased. “You got your washing?”
“Yeah.”
He shows me into the shed where a huge toploader is waiting. He lifts the lid. It’s old, but seems clean.
I shove my dirty clothes in as fast as I can, keeping my eyes on the machine.
T-shirt. Socks. Work pants—
—and then a small scrap of burgundy lace slips loose and drops straight onto the concrete floor.
I freeze.
My panties.
Right between us.
Gunnar looks down.
For one terrible second neither of us moves.
Heat surges into my face.
“Oh god—”
I dive for them at the exact same moment Gunnar bends to pick them up.
Our hands collide.
He stills.
The lace is caught between his fingers.
Which is worse than him just seeing them.
He lifts them calmly and drops them into the machine with the rest of the laundry.
“Detergent’s up here,” he says, nodding toward a shelf.
Like he’s completely unaffected.
I stare at him.
He reaches past me to grab the bottle.
Which brings several square feet of extremely muscular chest within inches of my face.
My brain shuts down completely.
“Excuse me.”
“Huh?” Oh—I’m in the way. I jump aside and immediately knock into a broom leaning against the wall. It hits the floor with a loud clatter.
“Steady.” His lips quirk as he retrieves it and props it back against the wall.
He adds detergent and turns the dial.
Nothing.
He glances at it. “Give me a minute.”
He steps back to the generator.
A second later, the wrench again.
Then the machine kicks into life, the drum rolling into a slow, heavy churn.
“Forty minutes,” he calls.
“Right.” I check the time.
Gunnar goes back to the generator, and I take the opportunity to leave.
I’m not going to think about that again.
The only thing that would’ve been worse is if I’d made a joke about dropping my panties in front of him.