Chapter 7
7
LILY
T he wind nearly knocks me off my feet as Hunter guides me from his truck toward what has to be the most gorgeous cabin I’ve ever seen. Through the curtain of whirling snow, it rises like something out of a dream—three stories of rich wooden beams and windows, somehow both rustic and elegant. Stone chimneys pierce the white sky, smoke curling from their tops only to be whipped away by the storm.
I’m clutching my bag close when my foot slips out from under me on the snow-covered path, my stomach lurching up to my throat.
“Careful,” Hunter snatches my elbow, steadying my balance. His touch sends warmth shooting through me. “Steps are icy.”
Thor bounds ahead of us, his dark fur collecting snowflakes as he leads the way to the wraparound porch. The property around us is cleared for maybe fifty yards before the forest closes in, though right now, everything blends into a world of white. In better weather, this place would most likely be breathtaking. Right now, I’m just grateful it exists.
“This is yours?” I manage through chattering teeth. Though, the word cabin doesn’t do it justice. This is the kind of place that should be featured in luxury magazines, all-natural materials and perfect proportions. “Are you secretly a movie star in hiding?”
His laugh is rich and deep, barely audible over the howling wind. “Inherited it from my grandfather.” Something flares across his face—pain, maybe, or memory. “Come on, let’s get you inside before you freeze.”
The door opens to a great room that steals what little breath I have left. Soaring ceilings with exposed beams draw my eye up, up, up to a chandelier that looks like it’s made from naturally shed antlers. A massive stone fireplace dominates the center of the room, flames already crackling merrily behind its iron screen. Two deep leather sofas flank a coffee table that looks like it was carved from a single massive tree trunk, while oversized armchairs and what appear to be the world’s most inviting bean bags are scattered around the hearth.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, dropping my bag by my feet as Hunter shrugs off his jacket and tosses it on a hook. I fumble with my snow-covered boots to get them off. My fingers are so numb I can barely manage the laces.
“Here.” Hunter kneels in front of me, and my breath catches at the sheer... maleness of him, crouched at my feet like some dark fairytale prince. Those capable hands work the frozen knots of my boots quickly, and I have to remind myself that staring is rude. But honestly, how am I supposed to look away when he’s right here, brow furrowed in concentration, strong fingers moving with such care? My hands physically ache to run through that thick dark hair, then trace the sharp line of his jaw.
When he stands, towering over me, I nearly whimper. The shirt stretches across a chest that belongs on a model, and those shoulders... God, those shoulders. I’m pretty sure I could spend hours counting the ways his muscles move under the fabric. Then his scent hits me—pine and woodsmoke mingled with crisp mountain mint—and my Omega instincts surge so violently, I have to grip the wall in the living room to stay upright. It’s not just a scent; it’s a primal call that makes every nerve ending spark to life, my body recognizing something my mind can barely process. The urge to lean in, to submit, is so overwhelming, I have to bite my lip to hold back a whine.
“Let me take your coat,” he says in a low and rich tone that makes my toes curl like he has no idea what impact he has on me. I still can’t believe an Alpha can affect me like this.
Control. You have no idea who this stranger really is!
I force myself to look away first, but not before I catch the slight tremble in his hands—like he’s fighting just as hard to maintain control. An Alpha struggling to keep his composure... because of me. The thought sends another wave of heat through my body, and I silently curse my Omega biology for making everything so impossibly intense.
I manage to slip my boots off without falling over—a miracle, given how my knees have apparently turned to jelly—and he helps me out of my coat. His fingers brush my shoulders, and I swear the temperature in the cabin spikes ten degrees.
I’m not usually the type to swoon, but if there was ever a moment to start, watching this mountain of a man handle me like I’m made of glass while looking like he could bench press a truck... yeah, this would be it.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
His ice-blue eyes meet mine for a moment that stretches like honey. Heat floods my cheeks, and I quickly look away.
He hangs my coat on a hook on the wall near the door, and with my bag in hand, I gravitate toward the fire, where Thor has already sprawled out. The malamute’s tail thumps against the rug-covered floorboards as I approach, and he shifts to make room for me.
I twist around to find Hunter’s gaze lingers on me. Everything about him radiates Alpha, from his broad chest to the jagged mark along his jaw—like lightning caught in skin, disappearing beneath his collar and making me wonder just how far that scar traces down. But what catches me most is how he doesn’t try to hide it, doesn’t angle his face to shadow it. He wears it like he wears everything else—with a quiet, unshakeable confidence that makes my heart stumble.
“Thank you again,” I say, flexing my frozen fingers toward the flames. “For finding me, rescuing me. I don’t know what I would have done out there.”
“You’re safe now. That’s what matters.” His deep tone holds a note of finality that sends a shiver down my spine. “Let me check the landline. Cell service is spotty up here, even in good weather.”
He disappears down a hallway with Thor on his heels, leaving me. The great room feels simultaneously cozy and vast, with windows that reveal the storm that has turned the world white, and something about the isolation makes my skin prickle. I grab my phone from my bag — still no service. Just great… Hannah is going to freak out with worry when I don’t return home in this storm. I send her a message just in case reception returns, and it can be delivered, telling her what happened and whereabouts I am… should anything happen.
I exhale loudly, reminding myself to calm down. The guy rescues people for a living… Surely, he won’t hurt me, right?
I distract myself by studying the room more closely. Everything speaks of money, but not the showy kind. This is old wealth, lived-in luxury. Family photos line one wall — mostly of Hunter with an older man who must be his father or grandfather, often in climbing gear or rescue situations. In one, they’re rappelling down a sheer cliff face together. In another, they’re teaching what looks like a much younger Thor to walk in deep snow.
“Line’s dead,” Hunter announces, returning. “Storm must have taken down some poles. Cell service is out, too.”
“Great.” I try to smile, trying not to freak out about being alone with a stranger in his cabin. Then again, he has done nothing but help me so far. “Hope I’m not being a burden...”
“Not at all.” Something flares in his eyes. There and gone so fast, I almost miss it. “Gives us something to do, being stuck indoors.”
Heat floods my body at his tone, at the way his presence seems to fill every corner of the room. Before I can respond, a door I hadn’t noticed swings open, revealing a gleaming kitchen beyond—and a face that makes my heart stop.
He freezes in the doorway, amber eyes widening in recognition. It’s him—the gorgeous stranger from my bakery the other day, the one whose ridiculous flirting and devastating smile had me fumbling about. Even in casual clothes, he radiates the same magnetic aura that drew me in before.
What is he doing here?
His golden-brown hair is slightly tousled now, a few strands falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look impossibly more handsome than the polished version I first met. He’s in dark wash jeans that fit him perfectly and a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing strong forearms and that intriguing compass rose tattoo on his right wrist. The shirt is untucked, top buttons undone just enough to seem effortlessly sexy rather than deliberate.
For a moment, we just stare at each other. I’m acutely aware of how I must look—half-drowned, hair a mess, probably mascara everywhere. Yet the way he’s looking at me makes my knees weak. His tall frame, easily over six feet, towers over me with an athletic frame that tells me he works out regularly. There’s something almost predatory in his graceful movements as he shifts his weight, like a big cat deciding whether to pounce.
His gaze roams over me, and that smirk blooms into a full, heart-stopping smile that deepens at the corners of his eyes. “Well,” he drawls. “If I’d known a little blizzard was all it took to get you to show up at my door, I’d have done a rain dance weeks ago.”
“You two know each other?” Hunter’s ice-blue eyes lock onto me, then shift to the newcomer.
“Not formally.” The stranger’s voice is exactly how I remember it—smooth with an edge of amusement. “Though she bakes the best cinnamon rolls I’ve ever tasted.”
“You remembered.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
“Hard to forget.” His gaze dances over me, and heat soars through me. “Though I’m pleasantly surprised to see you so soon again, especially at my friend’s place.” He glances up at Hunter. “Met her at a bakery in Whispering Grove last week.” The way his amber gaze lingers on me speaks volumes. His casual stance masks something dangerous and compelling I remembered from our first meeting—an obsessive attraction to him that felt anything but healthy.
“Small world,” Hunter adds. “I found Lily about two miles back, her car half off the guardrail.” His tone turns grim, that deep timbre sending involuntary shivers down my spine. “Another hour out there in this freezing storm…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but the weight of what he’s not saying hits me like a physical blow.
I wrap my arms around myself, the reality of how close I’d come to freezing to death finally sinking in.
“I brought her here until the snow passes, since we were close to the cabin.”
“Archer Sterling.” The flirt from the cafe steps toward me, his expression shifting to a playful one that doesn’t quite mask the predatory intensity beneath.
“Archer,” I try to steady my voice, testing his name on my tongue.
My body betrays me, instinctively drawn to their Alpha presence. The tingle between my thighs deepens. This is a dangerous situation for an Omega like me. Alone with two Alphas in a cabin.
“Well, you know what they say—when the GPS says take a scenic route during a storm, always listen to it.” My throat dries as I try to hide my reaction to them, though my attempt at humor falls flat.
The heat in Archer’s gaze makes it clear he’s not thinking about GPS or pastries.
“Storm’s settling in for a few days from the look of it. Seems you’re stuck with us,” Hunter adds.
“Right,” Archer corrects with a wolfish grin. “Though the moment someone sends up a flare in this weather, you’ll be suited up faster than Lily can frost a dozen cupcakes. Remember that ice storm last winter? You were halfway up the mountain before dispatch even called.”
My gaze darts between them, not quite following. Archer must catch my confusion and nods toward the wall where I’d seen the photos hanging in simple, wooden frames of Hunter.
“Our resident hero here can’t help playing superman on the mountain. Search and rescue is less of a job and more of an obsession.”
The pictures click into place—Hunter in tactical gear and harnesses, rappelling down cliffs, his team around him.
“Someone has to save the tourists who think hiking in flip-flops is a good idea,” Hunter deadpans.
“Says the man who once jumped out of a helicopter because the radio was spotty,” Archer counters.
“That was one time!”
“Three times. I’ve got photos.”
I find myself standing in front of the fireplace, unable to get close enough to the heat. Thor is back, taking a spot next to me while the guys are behind the couches.
“So, what you’re saying is I managed to get myself rescued by the guy who makes other rescue teams look lazy?”
“You got it!” he winks, and my heart somersaults. Does he even realize what he’s doing to me? “Better than a man who turned an entire room in his home into a rare book sanctuary.”
“That’s an original Hemingway you’re mocking,” Archer defends. “Some of us appreciate things that don’t involve climbing gear and protein bars.”
“You installed a climate control system just for your books.”
“A signed first edition of The Old Man and the Sea requires certain standards, you mountain savage.” The warmth in Archer’s tone takes any sting from the words. “Not all of us want to live like we’re still sleeping in caves.”
“Says the man who spent more on a single book than my truck cost.”
“That Fitzgerald was an investment!”
I glance back and forth, unable to stop grinning at their banter.
Their laughter makes me forget for a moment that I’m stranded in a storm with two men who radiate enough Alpha energy to power a small city. Almost forget, anyway—my body hasn’t quite gotten the memo about playing it cool.
Even my breathing has gone shallow, and I find myself swaying subtly toward them like they’re generating their own gravitational pull. The warmth pooling in my belly has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the way Archer’s eyes keep finding mine or how Hunter’s deep voice seems to resonate through my entire body.
I catch myself wondering what that rare book collection looks like, then mentally shake myself. Focus, Lily. This is not the time to geek out over first editions, no matter how many episodes of Antiques Roadshow you’ve binged. Though I have to admit, a man who gets this passionate about books is dangerously appealing to my inner literature nerd.
I swallow hard. I’m alone with two strange men during a huge storm. True, one of them made me weak-kneed in my bakery last week, and the other apparently saves lives for a living, but still. The true crime buff in me is cataloging all the ways this could go wrong.
Isolated cabin in a storm? Check.
No cell service? Check.
Two impossibly gorgeous men who are probably serial killers because isn’t that always how it goes in true crime shows? The handsome ones are always hiding something sinister. For all I know, that rare book collection could be bound in human skin, and Hunter’s rescue photos could be his way of picking out victims. I’ve watched enough Dateline to know that ‘mountain rescue specialist’ could easily be code for ‘knows all the best places to hide bodies’.
I almost laugh at my own ridiculous thoughts. Most murderers don’t bicker about books and climbing gear like an old married couple.
But the way they’re both looking at me makes my skin flush despite the chill.
Grandma’s warnings about Alphas echo in my head. They’ll make your body betray you, little flower. The trick is not letting them see how much.
Too late for that, Grams. Way too late.
“I need to check the backup generators. Storm like this, we could lose power.” Hunter’s grin does little to mask the commanding presence that seems to roll off him in waves. “Thor, with me.”
The massive malamute that had been eyeing me from his spot by the fireplace rises, padding after his master. At least one of them seems to know what personal space means.
“Good, I’ll handle the tour then.” Archer’s smile spreads, and my stomach does that annoying flip thing again. “Unless you’d rather wait for our host, seeing as it’s his place?”
“Go ahead,” Hunter calls over his shoulder. “I won’t be long.”
The moment Hunter disappears down what I assume is the basement door, thunder crashes outside. The storm sounds closer now, angrier, like it’s trying to remind me why I’m stuck here. Archer steps closer, and immediately, I’m enveloped in his intoxicating scent—bergamot and old books and male, leaving my head spinning. Why does he smell so good?
“Shall we?” He gestures into the hallway. “I promise there are no secret passages, and you’re perfectly safe here.”
I arch an eyebrow at him, thinking of the small mace I carry in my bag, just in case. I tuck the bag under my arm. “That’s quite the specific reassurance there.”
“I can see the worry in your eyes.” His amber gaze softens with understanding. “And I don’t blame you. But this place... it’s home while you’re here.”
“Well, as long as there’s a decent kitchen,” I quip, trying to mask how his earnestness makes my heart flutter. “Though I have to warn you, my mom’s recipes have been known to cause addiction. Strictly the legal kind, of course.”
His laugh is warm and rich. “Ah yes, the famous family secrets. I look forward to trying more of your baked goods.”
“I once had the mayor’s wife camp outside my shop at five AM for the last slice of my apple pie.”
“Now that’s a story I need to hear.” He takes a step up the staircase, then turns back to me with a grin. “Perhaps over coffee? I make a mean espresso.”
“Careful there—a baker never reveals her secrets.” I climb the first step, deliberately ignoring how the shadows seem to shift and stretch along the walls. “But I might be persuaded if this espresso of yours lives up to the hype.”
“Before we head upstairs, let me show you around on this floor,” Archer mentions, his hand ghosting near the small of my back as he guides me down a hallway of rich mahogany panels. Even that almost-touch sends shivers racing along my spine.
The first door he opens makes me gasp. “This is a bathroom? It looks like a spa retreat.” My words echo slightly in the vast space. Cream marble stretches from floor to ceiling, centered around a sunken jacuzzi tub that could easily fit four people. The whole room glows with soft ambient lighting. “Is that... a waterfall shower?”
“And a sauna through there,” he adds, pointing to a door, clearly enjoying my reaction. He watches me take it all in, grinning. “Nothing better after a day in the snow. The heat seeps right into your bones.”
I’m about to respond when he leads me to the next room, and all words die in my throat. The kitchen is... magnificent. Copper pots hang from a rack overhead, gleaming in the natural light that pours through floor-to-ceiling windows. A massive island of blue-veined marble dominates the center, surrounded by professional-grade stainless steel appliances. The walk-in pantry could fit my entire apartment’s kitchen inside it.
“I think I’m in love,” I breathe, running my fingers along the cool marble. “Two ovens... an eight-burner gas range... is that a proper proofing drawer?” I spin to face him, not even trying to hide my excitement. “This is like every baker’s dream kitchen come to life. Why does Hunter have such a fancy kitchen?”
“According to Hunter, when their grandfather renovated the place a couple years back, some hotshot interior designer talked him into it,” Archer details. His lips quirk into a half-smile. “Though I doubt all this fancy equipment gets used half as much as it deserves. Especially not since Hunter’s idea of cooking is takeout.”
Archer leans against the doorframe, that devastating half-smile playing across his lips. “It’s yours to use whenever you want. Something tells me you’d put it to better use than we do.”
“Careful with those kinds of offers,” I warn, even as my mind races with possibilities. “I might never leave. You’ll come down one morning to find the whole place smelling like cinnamon and vanilla.”
“Sounds terrible,” he deadpans, but his attention on me never leaves. “However will I cope with fresh-baked goods appearing in my kitchen?”
I laugh, the sound surprisingly free and easy, despite my body’s constant awareness of him. “Oh, so that’s your evil plan. Lure the baker in with a dream kitchen.”
“Is it working?” His voice drops lower, and my pulse leaps through my veins.
I meet his gaze, allowing myself a small smirk. “Maybe. But I still need to see upstairs before I make any decisions about moving in,” I joke, though I also want to see what I’m dealing with in the house, seeing I’m stuck here until the storm passes.
His smile calls me to follow him up the stairs.
They creak under our feet as we ascend. The walls are lined with more black-and-white photographs—mostly mountain landscapes, though I catch glimpses of what must be Hunter’s rescue missions.
“Hunter has... expensive taste,” I manage, trying to focus on anything but how Archer consumes my attention.
“He inherited the place as is,” Archer says with a slight smile. “Most of us grew up visiting here for as long as I can remember. Since losing his grandfather, he spends more time here than back in town now—it just feels like home.”
We reach the landing, and Archer pauses. Lightning flashes through the windows, illuminating his features in sharp relief. “He lets us stay here whenever we want or when we need to get away.”
The hallway stretches before us, all dark wood and plush carpeting that muffles our steps. More art, more photographs.
Archer leads me past doors that probably hide rooms bigger than my bedroom. We pass a library that makes me stop dead in my tracks. Floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with leather-bound volumes, reading nooks tucked into window alcoves. But something else catches my eye—a silk bra draped carelessly over a leather armchair, its deep red a stark contrast to the room’s masculine energy.
Archer follows my gaze. “Hunter entertains sometimes.”
“I can see that.” I glance around the ornate foyer, trying to act nonchalant, but I feel my cheeks flushing. “Though I admit, in a house this grand, I half expect to hear the beating of a hideous heart beneath these floorboards.”
Archer stops so abruptly, I nearly bump into him. When he turns, his gaze is alight with something I haven’t seen before—a raw enthusiasm that transforms his whole face into something full of excitement.
“Did you just quote Edgar Allan Poe?”
I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “Maybe.”
“More than maybe,” he says, his lips stretching into a wide grin. “I haven’t met many people who can casually drop Tell-Tale Heart into conversation.”
“My grandmother’s fault, actually.” I pause on the step below him, oddly pleased at the way he’s looking at me—as if I’m a book he can’t wait to open. “She used to read gothic poetry to me when I was young. She loved them, and I guess it rubbed off on me.”
“And Poe was your favorite?” There’s something almost hungry in the way he leans against the banister, waiting for my answer.
“He understood darkness,” I say. “Not just fear, but that strange place where terror meets beauty. I must have read The Tell-Tale Heart a hundred times.”
“The guilty man who can’t escape his own conscience,” Archer murmurs, and something flares in those eyes. “Or perhaps the sane man trying to convince himself he isn’t mad.”
“Both, maybe.” I return his stare. “That’s what makes it brilliant, isn’t it? I heard you talking with Hunter about first editions,” I add, curiosity finally getting the better of me. “You collect them?”
Something soft and vulnerable flickers across his face. “I have a few back at my place in town.” He pauses. “My biggest obsession is my 1845 copy of The Raven from Graham’s Magazine . Found it in an antique shop when I was twelve. My mom used to read Poe to me during thunderstorms.”
The raw honesty in his words makes my heart squeeze. “That’s incredibly rare.”
“‘Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,’” he quotes softly, eyes distant with memory. “Those lines... they meant everything the year I lost my mom. Still do. Sometimes the darkness you’re staring into isn’t just darkness—it’s everything you’re afraid to face, everything you’ve lost.”
“I love that you know it by heart,” I say, surprising myself with how gentle my response sounds.
His gaze finds mine again, and something electric passes between us. We’re standing closer now, though I don’t remember moving.
“What about you?” he asks. “Any other lines that stayed with you?”
“‘We loved with a love that was more than love,’” I quote softly, my heart thundering in my chest. The words feel dangerous here, alone with him in this cabin, but I can’t seem to stop myself.
His breath catches. For a moment, he’s perfectly still, looking at me like I’ve just handed him a key to something precious.
“You really are full of surprises.”
I should step back. Should break this moment before it overwhelms us both. Instead, I find myself asking, “What other secrets are you hiding besides your love of gothic poetry?”
“Many,” he freely admits, his smile turning enigmatic. “But somehow, I think you might be the most dangerous one that’s walked through these doors.”
His eyes lock with mine, and the intensity in them makes my breath deepen. For a moment, we’re both perfectly still. Him towering over me. Pulse on fire in my veins. I’ve never met anyone else who enjoys such gothic literature as I do.
“Come on,” he says finally. “There’s more to see upstairs.”
I follow him, trying to ignore how every step feels like I’m moving closer to something I might not be ready for… but can’t seem to resist.
We pass a bathroom where an open door reveals marble and chrome and a bottle of what I’m sure is obscenely expensive perfume.
The next room Archer shows me is clearly a gym. He leads me to the end of the hall, opening a door to reveal a room that somehow manages to be both luxurious and cozy. A window seat overlooks the mountains—or would if the storm wasn’t turning everything into shifting shadows. The en suite bathroom is bigger than my kitchen.
“This is you. Your haven until the storm passes,” he says.
I try not to think about the implications of being in the same home as him and Hunter. Or how the storm seems to be pressing us closer together in this space that suddenly feels very small.
“I should let you get settled,” he says, but doesn’t move.
Thunder rolls outside, and I swear I can feel it in my bones. Or maybe that’s just the effect of having him so close, his scent surrounding me, his height making me feel deliciously small.
“Right,” I manage. “Settled.”
His chuckle grows loud, and he gives me a wink as he backs away, leaving me to wonder what exactly I’ve gotten myself into. And why the prospect of seeing him again thrills me more than it should.
He leaves me alone, and I stick my head out into the hallway to notice he’s gone. Hearing the muffle of voices downstairs, I assume it’s Archer and Hunter chatting.
That’s when I find myself staring at a photo that stops me in my tracks.
The black-and-white image shows two people outside what looks like an old-fashioned bakery. One is clearly Hunter’s grandfather, based on the other photos, decades younger but with the same strong features. And the woman beside him, laughing at something out of frame...
“Wait.” My voice sounds strange to my own ears. “That’s... that’s my grandmother. In her first bakery.”