Chapter 2
two
. . .
Thorne
Five years of silence shattered by a knock on my door.
Five years of seeing no one but my own reflection in the creek water when I wash.
Five years of nightmares where I hear Amy screaming as the flames lick higher, where I feel Jamie's tiny hand slipping from mine as the smoke thickens.
Five years since I've heard another human voice.
But now there she is—small and soft and soaking wet—standing in my cabin like some forest spirit I conjured from my loneliness.
And fuck me if I don't want to drop to my knees and thank whatever god sent her my way.
She's tiny. That's my first thought. Tiny and curvy, with wide hazel eyes that remind me of the forest after rain. Her chestnut hair hangs in wet tendrils around a heart-shaped face. Snowflakes melt on her eyelashes, and her pink lips tremble from cold.
Mine.
The thought comes unbidden, primal and certain. Something deep in my chest, something I thought died in the fire along with my family, my sister and my little niece, roars back to life at the sight of her.
I stand frozen in the shadows, watching her take in my home.
The furniture I carved during endless silent nights.
The hearth I rebuilt stone by stone when I couldn't sleep for the memories haunting me.
My fingers twitch at my sides. I want to touch her, to see if she's real or if madness has finally come for me after all these years alone.
She speaks—apologies, explanations—but I barely register the words. I'm too busy drinking in the sight of her. The way she hugs herself against the cold. The perfect curve of her hips. The vulnerability in her eyes that calls to something protective and fierce in me.
I gesture toward the fire, not trusting myself with more.
She moves past me, and her scent hits me like a physical blow—woman and winter and something sweet underneath.
My cock stirs for the first time in five years, hardening painfully fast against my thigh.
Oh, Jesus. One look at this little thing and I'm ready to rut like a fucking teenager.
In the firelight, she looks like a painting. Like something I shouldn't touch with these scarred, rough hands. But I grab a blanket anyway, draping it around her shoulders. My fingers brush her skin—soft, so soft—and electricity shoots straight to my groin.
I retreat to the kitchen, gripping the counter until my knuckles turn white, willing my heart to slow its frantic pace.
Five years. Five years of choosing silence, of punishing myself for not saving them.
Five years of existing, not living. And now this girl stumbles in from a blizzard, and suddenly I'm a man again, with a man's needs and hungers.
The soup is simple—rabbit and vegetables—but it gives me something to do, something to focus on besides the curve of her neck or the way her wet clothes cling to her breasts. I bring it to her, careful not to spill, careful not to linger too close.
"I'm Lila," she says, and the name settles in my chest like it's always belonged there.
Lila. My Lila.
She drinks the soup, stealing glances at me when she thinks I won't notice.
I make a show of stoking the fire, but all my attention is on her.
On the graceful way she brings the mug to her lips.
On the soft sigh she makes when the warm liquid hits her throat.
On the way the firelight dances across her face, turning her into something magical.
What would she taste like? Would she moan if I spread her thighs and buried my face between them? Would she scream my name when I pushed inside her for the first time?
I shift, uncomfortable with how hard I am, with how vividly I can imagine taking her right here on the bearskin rug. Christ, I haven't even heard her voice outside of pleasantries, and already I'm thinking of breeding her, of watching her belly swell with my child.
The storm outside is nothing compared to the one raging inside me. Years of isolation have left me feral, uncivilized. I want to claim her, mark her, keep her here in my mountain fortress where no one else can touch her.
She's watching me, those wide eyes curious and a little wary. Something passes between us—a current of awareness, of possibility. Her cheeks flush pink, and it's not just from the fire's warmth.
I clear my throat, and it feels like gravel shifting in my chest. How long since I've used my voice? Since I've needed to?
"You're safe now, little girl."
The words come out rough, unused, like a rusted hinge finally moving after years of stillness.
They hang in the air between us, and I see the shock register on her face—not just at what I said, but that I spoke at all.
Something in her expression makes me think she understands what it cost me to break my silence.
Her lips part slightly, and my cock throbs in response. I want those lips around me. Want to see them stretched wide, taking what I give her.
"Thank you," she whispers, and her voice is like water in the desert to me. I nearly nut right then. Instead, I jump up and mumble something about going to get her some dry clothes. At least I think that’s what I say. Fuck, I don’t know. This little thing has me all tied up in knots.
Of course, seeing her swimming in my t-shirt that nearly comes down to her calves doesn’t help my rock-hard state. It gives me more pleasure than a man should probably feel to see her draped in my things, with my scent all over her.
Christ, being out here in the woods all alone really has turned me into an animal.
She finishes her soup in silence, stealing glances at me and blushing every time her gaze meets mine.
But she doesn’t speak again. It’s like she’s respecting my silence, and something about that makes me extremely grateful to her.
She just lets me look at her because God help me, but I can’t look away. I stare at her like a man starved.
And I am. Starved for her.
Later, when exhaustion finally claims her, I tuck her onto the couch with another blanket. I should give her my bed, but I can't bear to have her scent on my sheets if she leaves tomorrow. Better this way. Better to keep something between us until I know she's mine to keep.
I sit in my chair across from her, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest. In sleep, she looks even younger, more vulnerable. My hands clench and unclench with the need to touch her, to slip beneath the blanket and feel her warm skin against mine.
But no. Not yet. Not until she's ready. Not until she's begging for it.
I adjust myself, uncomfortably hard at the thought of her begging. Would she call me sir? Or would she instinctively know what I want to hear? What I need to hear?
Daddy.
My cock jumps at the thought of that word on her lips. Of those wide, innocent eyes looking up at me while I praise her, while I fill her with my seed. I don’t know where the fuck the desire to be called daddy has come from, but looking at her, it just feels right.
Because that is what I would be to her. Her protector. Her lover. The one to wipe away all her tears and make everything alright again.
The storm outside shows no sign of stopping, and satisfaction settles in my chest. She's not going anywhere soon. Not tomorrow. Maybe not ever, if I have my way. And I will. I'll make her want to stay. Make her need me as desperately as I already need her.
My Lila. My little girl.
Mine to protect. Mine to praise. Mine to breed.
The thoughts should shame me. But after five years of emptiness, I can't bring myself to care. The world took everything from me once. I won't let it happen again.
She's mine now. And I'll die before I let her go.