Chapter 11
11
LILY
T he morning sun filters through the cabin windows. I’ve barely slept, the confession from James playing on repeat in my mind like a suspense movie I can’t stop watching. Every time I think about it, I want to be both sick and giddy at once. Butterflies perform an entire circus routine in my stomach while my brain screams danger.
How can I be terrified, furious, and excited simultaneously? Something is seriously wrong with me. Of course, he would be drop-dead gorgeous. Of course, I would fawn all over him like a lovesick teenager. Why couldn’t it just be a simple attraction? But no… he had to be him.
The clock on the microwave reads 6:42 a.m. My mind won’t shut off. Questions circle like vultures. What did he do? How long was he in prison? Is he dangerous? And most disturbing of all—why am I still attracted to him knowing what I know?
Hot liquid suddenly burns my fingers, snapping me back to reality.
“Shit!” I hiss, yanking my hand away as coffee continues pouring from the pot, overflowing the mug’s rim. I lunge for the dish towel hanging from the oven door, nearly knocking over the sugar canister in my haste. Dark brown liquid spreads across the counter like a miniature flood. The rich aroma of French roast fills the air, a pleasant scent at odds with my frantic scrambling.
While I mop up the mess, my mind races ahead to Hannah finding out. My sister’s words echoes in my head. The truth is, you’ve been texting a prisoner who lied to you for weeks. Who knows what else he’s lying about? If he’d been a guard working there, he wouldn’t be hiding it, right? The man I’ve been sharing my thoughts with, flirting with, dreaming about, is a criminal.
Just perfect. Another stellar pick from my impeccable taste in men. Dad would be so proud.
The coffee soaks through the thin towel, staining my fingertips brown. I throw it in the sink and grab another, crouching to wipe up the puddle on the floor. My hair falls in my face, and I blow it away in frustration.
“Three strikes and you’re out, Lily,” I mutter to myself. “First, the wannabe rock star who stole your credit card. Then, the charming accountant with the secret wife. And now...” I trail off, scrubbing harder at a stubborn drop. “Now a convict. You really know how to pick ‘em.”
Heart racing, I finally get the kitchen cleaned up and grab my coffee-filled mug. That’s when I hear it—a soft exhale behind me that wasn’t there a second ago.
“Morning.”
The single, deep male’s word sends an electric current racing up my spine. I turn, and there he is, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen. My throat goes dry.
James is not just handsome—he’s sinful. That copper hair tousled from sleep, falling across his forehead in a way that calls to me. His jaw, shadowed with stubble, clenches slightly as our eyes meet. He’s wearing a simple black t-shirt that stretches across shoulders broad enough to make the doorframe seem small, the fabric clinging to muscles that ripple with the smallest movement. A vein runs down his forearm, prominent and masculine. Storm-gray eyes watch me closely and leave me covered in goosebumps, as if he’s cataloging every detail, searching for weaknesses.
There’s something feral about him in the morning—less polished, more dangerous. A small scar cuts traces along his jawline. Marks of violence that only enhance his appeal, which says something deeply concerning about my psyche.
I try to catch my breath without being obvious. In that split second, I make a decision—act like I know nothing. Because how exactly do you casually bring up, “So, prison, huh? What were you in for? Nothing murdery, I hope?” And God, all those serial killer jokes I made in our messages...
“Sleep well?” I ask, aiming for nonchalance but landing somewhere closer to breathless. My fingers tighten around my mug, seeking something solid to ground me.
One corner of his mouth quirks up. It’s not quite a smile—more like he’s laughing at a private joke. “Not particularly.” His eyes never leave mine, unblinking, unwavering. The intensity in them has me feeling like prey being assessed by a predator who isn’t particularly hungry but might hunt for sport.
I take a sip of coffee to hide whatever expression might be betraying me. It burns my tongue, but I welcome the pain as a distraction from the heat building elsewhere in my body.
“So, looks like the storm is even worse this morning.” Outside, the snow continues to fall in thick, heavy flakes, obscuring everything beyond a few feet of the glass.
His grin widens, predatory and knowing. “It sure is.” Simple words that somehow carry the weight of a threat—or a promise.
I’m dying on the inside, melting like sugar in hot water. My legs feel unsteady, my skin too tight, too sensitive. Every nerve ending stands at attention, hyperaware of his presence, the distance between us, and the air molecules that separate our bodies.
He pushes off from the doorframe with the lazy grace of a panther and crosses to the coffeemaker. The kitchen suddenly feels the size of a postage stamp. He doesn’t touch me as he moves past, but the heat radiating from his body might as well be a physical caress. I can feel it dancing along my bare arms, making the fine hairs rise.
My breath locks in my throat. I step sideways, trying to maintain some distance, but my hip bumps against the counter. There’s nowhere to go. He reaches for a cabinet above my head, his arm creating a momentary cage. I catch a whiff of his scent—cedar and something darker, richer, with an undercurrent of raw masculinity that makes my toes curl inside my socks. My knees actually wobble.
He pulls down a mug, deliberately slow, his bicep flexing inches from my face. When he lowers his arm, his knuckles brush against my shoulder. The touch is so brief, I might have imagined it, but the trail of fire it leaves on my skin is unmistakable.
“Excuse me,” he murmurs in a low rumble that I feel more than hear. He’s close enough that his breath stirs the curls by my ear.
I nod jerkily and slide farther along the counter, putting precious inches between us. My heart pounds like I’ve just sprinted uphill.
He pours his coffee. The quiet domesticity of the action feels somehow obscene, given the electricity crackling in the air between us. He doesn’t add cream or sugar, just lifts the mug to his lips and takes a sip, eyes closing briefly in apparent satisfaction.
“How do you like it?” I blurt out, then immediately want to sink through the floor when his eyes snap open, darkening with something that looks suspiciously like desire.
“Like what?” he asks neutrally, but there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth that suggests he knows exactly what effect he’s having on me.
“The coffee,” I clarify, feeling heat rush to my cheeks. “Sweet? Bitter?”
“Black,” he says. “I prefer things... unaltered.” His gaze rakes over me slowly, from my tangled curls to my borrowed sweatpants, lingering on the places in-between. “Pure.”
I nearly choke on my own sip of coffee. Is he flirting with me? Or am I reading into things because my hormones have apparently overridden my common sense?
“I, um…” My words tangle. I never stammer. Ever. My quick wit is my superpower—the thing Hannah always says will either make me famous or get me killed someday. Right now, my brain has apparently decided to take a vacation, leaving me with nothing but basic motor functions and an embarrassing awareness of how my nipples are tightening beneath my thin sleep shirt. “It’s hot.”
His eyebrow rises fractionally. “The coffee?”
“Yes. The coffee. What else would I—” I stop myself, feeling like I’m digging my own grave with every word. “Just... hot coffee. Good. Morning. Necessary.”
“Articulate,” he says dryly, but there’s that twitch at his mouth again.
“I’m not awake yet,” I manage, trying to gather the scattered pieces of my dignity. “Half a cup minimum before I form complete sentences.”
“Noted.” He leans back against the counter opposite me, creating a blessed space between us, though his gaze maintains its hold. “You always this jumpy in the mornings?”
“Only when I’m trapped in unfamiliar cabins during blizzards.” I glance down momentarily at my mug. “Not exactly a normal Tuesday for me.”
“Is it Tuesday?” A shadow crosses his face. “I’ve lost track.”
I wonder if that’s a side effect of prison—losing track of days. The thought sobers me.
The toaster dings behind me, making me jump. My coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim of my mug. I spin around, grateful for the distraction, and grab my toast with trembling fingers. My hands are shaking so badly, I nearly drop the plate.
I feel his eyes on my back, a physical weight between my shoulder blades. The kitchen feels too warm, too small, too charged with unspoken things. I move to the refrigerator, desperate for something to do with my hands, with my body that seems determined to betray me at every turn.
Opening the refrigerator door, I welcome the cold air on my flushed face . Get it together. You are in control. Don’t let his presence affect you. He’s just a man. An incredibly attractive, possibly dangerous man who makes your insides liquefy, but still just a man.
I’m so focused on my internal pep talk that, suddenly, he’s behind me, his massive frame blocking the light from the window, heat emanating from him like a furnace. I freeze, one hand on the refrigerator door, the other clutching my plate so hard, my knuckles turn white.
He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t need to. I can feel the solid wall of his chest inches from my back, sense the controlled power in his body. His arm reaches past me into the refrigerator, his sleeve brushing against mine so lightly it might be accidental—but nothing about his movements feels accidental.
“Excuse me,” he says again, voice pitched low, intimate.
My breathing turns shallow, my pulse a staccato rhythm in my throat. I can’t move. I’m pinned in place by nothing but his presence and my own traitorous body.
He takes his time selecting what he wants—butter, I realize, watching his long fingers close around the dish. The moment stretches, elastic with tension. Then he withdraws, taking a step back, and I can breathe again.
I snatch the jam. My hands shake as I arrange my meager breakfast on the counter.
“Maybe if the storm lets up, it’ll be a good time to head out,” I say too brightly, spreading jam on my toast with unsteady hands. “I mean, there’s not much food in the fridge anyway, right?”
I laugh nervously, the sound high and unnatural to my ears.
“Oh, there’s plenty of food,” he says, tone casual but eyes intent. He gestures with his butter knife when I glance at him, the movement somehow graceful despite its mundanity. “Have you not seen the fridge downstairs? It’s filled with game—all kinds of meat. We could live out here for six months without leaving.”
His hands are large but strangely elegant, with prominent veins and a dusting of copper hair across the knuckles. They’re strong hands, capable of violence—or tenderness.
The thought makes my stomach flip.
“Six months?” I gasp before I can stop myself. “Perfect place to kidnap and keep someone trapped.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I want to crawl under the floorboards. My cheeks burn as I stare fixedly at my half-buttered toast. Way to go, Lily. Bring up kidnapping to the ex-con. Brilliant conversation starter.
James pauses mid-bite, regarding me with an unreadable expression. Then he laughs, the sound rich and dark like melted chocolate but with an edge that raises the hair on the back of my neck.
“You’ve got quite an imagination,” he says, amusement laced with something sharper.
I shrug, trying to seem casual despite the warmth still flooding my cheeks. “Occupational hazard of watching too many true-crime shows.”
He takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Got a new favorite? Let me guess... something with a charismatic detective who always gets her man?”
The question feels loaded somehow, as if there’s a subtext I’m missing. “Actually, I prefer the cold cases,” I find myself admitting. “The ones that go unsolved for years until some tiny detail breaks everything open.”
His eyes glint.
I take a too-large bite of my toast.
Silence stretches between us, vibrating with tension. Sweat gathers at the small of my back, dampening my shirt. The simple act of eating breakfast has never felt so fraught with meaning, so dangerous.
“Wanna see the fridge with the excess game?” he asks suddenly.
I stare at him, curiosity warring with self-preservation. His expression is neutral.
Say no. Do NOT go to a basement with a criminal, Lily. Have you learned nothing from every true-crime show ever? This is literally how women end up as cautionary tales.
“Sure,” I hear myself say, nodding like a puppet.
Stellar idea. They’ll find your body in spring when the snow melts. Especially as I’ve seen no sign of Archer or Hunter yet.
Even as my rational mind screams warnings, something deeper, more primal, pushes me forward. A need to know, to understand the man behind those storm-gray eyes. To see if the James from our messages still exists somewhere inside this dangerous stranger.
He grins and says, “This way.” He doesn’t wait to see if I follow, just turns and walks toward a door I hadn’t noticed yesterday. His confidence borders on arrogance—he knows I’ll follow.
Grabbing one of my jam-slathered toast slices while he carries his coffee, I trail after him like he’s the Pied Piper and I’m a particularly susceptible rat.
The staircase creaks under our weight, the sound ominous in the silence. James descends, not bothering to turn on the lights until we’re halfway down. When the bulb flickers to life, I blink in the sudden brightness.
The basement is surprisingly well-finished—pine paneling on the walls, decent lighting, and a large open area with what looks like gym equipment in one corner. A punching bag hangs from a ceiling beam, slightly worn in the middle. The image of Hunter or Archer hitting it, muscles tensed, sweat glistening, flashes unbidden through my mind.
I take another bite of my toast.
My attention swings to the two massive chest freezers against the far wall. Pristine white, industrial-sized.
The kind Dexter might have used to store body parts.
“Those are... big,” I manage. My imagination runs wild with gruesome possibilities. What if the meat inside isn’t deer or boar? What if?—
“Thinking about bodies again?” James interrupts my morbid thoughts. He stands closer than I expected, observing me with that same unreadable expression. “I can practically see the wheels turning.”
I force a laugh that sounds hollow even to my ears. “Hazard of the true-crime obsession. You start seeing serial killers everywhere.”
“Even in me?” His tone drops, becoming something darker.
I meet his gaze and see something there that makes my breath lodge in my lungs—a knowledge, an understanding that goes beyond our brief acquaintance. It’s the look of someone who knows exactly what you’re capable of.
“Perfect for hiding the bodies, right?” he continues when I don’t answer, moving toward the nearer freezer. The casual way he says it, combined with the gleam in his eye, sends a shiver down my spine.
I giggle, the sound slightly hysterical. “Only a killer would know.”
He freezes, hand on the freezer lid, and turns to look at me. Mirth flashes in his eyes. The muscle in his jaw works as he stares at me, and for one terrifying, exhilarating moment, I wonder if I’ve pushed too far.
Nice going, Lily. Antagonize the criminal. Smart move.
But then his expression softens into something almost like amusement. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”
Before I can respond, he heaves open the lid of the nearest freezer. Cold mist billows out, momentarily obscuring its contents. “See? All deer and boar, according to Hunter. He’s been busy the last few weeks.”
I step closer, against my better judgment, and peer inside. And sure enough, there are neatly wrapped packages labeled in black marker: VENISON STEAK, BOAR ROAST, BACKSTRAP. The organization is meticulous, almost obsessive—packages arranged by cut, by date, by animal.
“Hunter’s an organized guy,” I comment, trying to sound casual despite the way my heart hammers against my ribs from being in his presence.
“Everything has its place with him.”
I nod and bite into my toast nervously, finishing it in three quick bites. A dab of jam catches at the corner of my mouth, and I flick it away with my tongue.
When I look up, James’s staring at my mouth with such fire, I feel it like a physical touch. His pupils have dilated, darkening his eyes to nearly black. The air between us thickens, becomes charged.
“You’ve got—” he starts.
“What?” My own response is barely a whisper.
He reaches out slowly, deliberately, and brushes his thumb across the edge of my lips. “Jam.”
The touch is brief, clinical almost, but it sears through me like a brand. He pulls back his thumb, a smear of red on the pad, and—my heart stutters—brings it to his own mouth. His eyes never leave mine as he sucks the jam from his skin.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. My entire existence narrows to this moment, this man—the way his lips close around his thumb and the knowing look in his eyes as he watches my reaction.
“Sweet,” he murmurs, and the word hangs in the air, loaded with meaning.
“Well, better head back up,” I say. I turn toward the stairs, desperate to escape before I do something incredibly stupid—like throw myself at an ex-con.
But he’s there, right in front of me, moving with that unnatural speed and grace that seems at odds with his size. My back hits the wall beside the staircase before I realize what’s happening. He places his coffee cup on a step behind me, caging me in with his body without actually touching me.
I should be terrified. A rational, self-preserving woman would be reaching for her phone, for a weapon, for anything. Instead, I’m fighting the urge to close the inches between us, to press my body against his and discover if he’s as hard, as hot as he looks.
What’s wrong with me?
“Are we going to keep playing this game, or can we talk about the elephant in the room?” There’s an edge to his tone. His breath smells of coffee.
“I-I don’t know what to say,” I stammer, my heart threatening to pound right out of my chest. With my palms flat against the wall behind me to keep them from quivering, I fail miserably.
“That I know it’s you, Lily.” He leans in more, close enough I can see the different shades of gray in his irises and the individual bristles of stubble along his jaw. “My Lily. The one I used to chat with for hours, who drove me crazy, who had me smiling to myself when I should have been sleeping. The one I even dreamed about.”
The confession hangs between us, raw and honest. Part of me thrills to hear it—to know I affected him as deeply as he affected me—but the other part, the part that knows about his secret, recoils.
“You didn’t,” I scoff, trying to regain some equilibrium. “Dreaming? That’s a bit much.” My defenses rise automatically.
He shrugs, one shoulder rising and falling in a graceful motion that draws my attention to the strong column of his neck and the way his t-shirt stretches across his chest. “That’s the impact you had on me.”
“What was it?” The question slips out before I can stop it, a dangerous curiosity I can’t seem to suppress. “The dream.”
He’s so close now, I feel the swish of his breath on my face. I’m struggling to breathe, my body burning up from the inside out. I clench my thighs together as he leans in farther.
“You want to know?” His tone drops to a rough whisper that seems to bypass my ears and go straight to my core. “You were tied to my bed.”
My breath catches. “What?”
“Wrists bound to the headboard with my belt. Nothing else—just the belt and my marks all over your bare skin.” His eyes darken further, becoming almost predatory. “You’d been fighting me, spitting fire like you always do in your messages, challenging me, pushing me. So, I showed you what happens when you push an Alpha too far.”
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. This isn’t the safe, sanitized dream I’d expected. This is hungry, burning hot, dangerous. It should frighten me. It doesn’t.
“You were begging,” he continues. “Not for me to stop—for me to go harder, faster, to mark you up so you’d feel me for days afterward. Your nails dug into your own palms every time I bit down on your throat, your breasts, and the inside of your thighs. And when you came…” He stops, a muscle working in his jaw as if the memory is too intense. “When you came, you screamed my name so loud, I thought the windows would shatter.”
Heat floods my body, pooling low in my belly. I’m acutely aware of every inch of space between us, of how easy it would be to close that gap. My lips part involuntarily.
“That’s... a very specific kind of dream, and hot,” I gasp. Then I mentally shake myself, reality crashing back in. “I mean, no. Not hot. Not at all.”
Liar , a voice whispers in my head. I’m soaked through just from his words.
His mouth curves into a knowing smile. “You’re a terrible liar, Lily,” he murmurs. “Your pulse is racing.” His gaze drops to my throat, where my heartbeat must be visible, then back up to my eyes with naked hunger. “Your cheeks are flushed.” His free hand hovers near my face, not quite touching. “And your pupils are blown wide.”
I turn my face away, unable to maintain eye contact without revealing too much. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” His fingertips finally, finally make contact with my skin, turning my chin gently but firmly back toward him. The touch is an inferno, sending sparks down my spine, my body shuddering beneath him. “Tell me you don’t feel this, and I’ll back off.”
I open my mouth to deny it, to lie, to protect myself from whatever this is, but the words won’t come. I can’t lie—not about this, not with his gaze seeing straight through me.
“I have to go,” I blurt suddenly, ducking under his arm and pulling away. His hand shoots out, catching my wrist in a grip that’s firm but not painful.
“Lily.”
“No, I don’t think we should continue... anything.” My words shake despite my best efforts. “I need to be able to trust you, and I don’t.” The words come out in a rush, more honest than I planned.
His expression shifts from desire to confusion, his brows drawing together. “What are you talking about?”
I pull free from his grip and take a steadying breath. My hand trembles as I push a curl behind my ear, buying time. Just say it. Rip off the Band-Aid.
“Look, I know you were in prison, and you never once were truthful with me about that.”
He flinches, just slightly, but it’s enough to confirm what I already suspected. My sister had been right all along.
Damn!
His face goes through a rapid succession of emotions—shock, anger, and something that might be shame—before settling into a carefully blank mask. “How did you…”
“Does it matter?” I back toward the stairs, suddenly very aware that I’m alone in a basement with a man I know nothing about—except that he’s been incarcerated. “You lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie,” he says. “I just didn’t tell you everything.”
“A lie of omission is still a lie,” I counter, finding my footing on the first step. “And it’s a pretty significant thing to omit, don’t you think? ‘Hey, by the way, I’m messaging you from prison’ . ”
His jaw clenches. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was it like?” I demand, anger rising to combat the fear and disappointment churning in my gut. “Please, explain to me how you accidentally forgot to mention you were behind bars while we were sharing our deepest secrets.”
“Lily—” he starts, taking a step toward me.
I hold up a hand. “No. I need... I need to process this.” I turn and climb the stairs, heart pounding in my ears, tears threatening despite my determination to hold them back.
Now, I’m not only stuck in a house with three Alphas, but one of them is a criminal who lied to me. A criminal I’m still, despite everything, painfully attracted to.
For all I know, they all are. Criminals, that is.
And the worst part? That doesn’t terrify me nearly as much as it should.