Chapter 12
12
ARCHER
T he ancient mahogany desk beneath my fingertips carries the scars of generations, much like the half-map spread beneath the heavy sheet of glass atop it. Hunter’s grandfather had a flair for the dramatic—splitting a treasure map in half between cousins who can barely stand to breathe the same mountain air.
Flames crackle in the stone fireplace across the study. The room wraps around Hunter and me like a leather-bound embrace—our sanctuary in the cabin fortress. Floor-to-ceiling shelves groan under the weight of books and weathered journals. The scent of aged paper and wood smoke feels more like home than any place I’ve ever owned.
Outside, the snowstorm batters the windows with increasing fury. White noise to accompany our treasure hunt.
“This symbol here,” I tap the glass, my reflection ghosting over the faded parchment. “Could be Devil’s Peak or Widow’s Crag. Both have that distinctive split.”
Hunter sprawls in the leather chair opposite me, boots propped on the edge of the desk. His massive frame dwarfs the furniture.
“Pop always said the treasure was hidden where the mountain holds its breath,” Hunter mumbles around the toothpick in his mouth.
I snort. “Poetic bullshit. The old man never gave a straight answer in his life.”
“Why start now, right?” Hunter grins. “Though I still think he left these riddles because he knew we’d lose our fucking minds trying to solve them.”
“You know what this reminds me of?” Hunter asks, leaning forward to tap the corner of the map.
“If you say that time in Aspen with the twins, I will end you.”
He barks out a laugh. “Jesus, Arch. I was going to say Grandpa’s scavenger hunts when we were kids.”
“The ones where the prize was always some obscure philosophy book?” I grin at the memory. “You bitched for weeks about the Nietzsche.”
“Because I was eighteen and wanted cash for beer, not existential dread.” Hunter rolls his eyes. “Still read it, though.”
“Because Grandpa would quiz you.” He grins softly.
The fire pops loudly, sending a cascade of sparks up the chimney. Thor barely twitches from his position on the hearthrug, his silver-gray coat glowing copper in the firelight.
“Twelve fucking months,” Hunter states. He traces a finger over what might be a river, might be a boundary line. “Over a year ago today, the stubborn bastard left us.”
I nod, knowing words aren’t needed. Hunter’s grandfather took me and James in—lost boys with nowhere to call home. Me, after my mother passed when I was twelve, and James a few years later. The old man gave us more than shelter; he gave us purpose, stories, brotherhood. Now, at thirty, I should feel like a man, but back at this cabin, with James at thirty-two and Hunter at thirty-four, we may as well still be those reckless kids, sneaking out past curfew, daring each other to jump from the highest branches, and laughing like we had nothing to lose.
“Remember when he used to tell us about his father burying Spanish gold?” I ask, grinning at the memory. “Said he traded moonshine for a chest of doubloons from a pirate who’d sailed up the Mississippi.”
“Then it was Confederate treasury the next time,” Hunter chuckles.
“And Blackbeard’s personal stash after that.” I shake my head, pouring two fingers of whiskey from the crystal decanter on the side table. The amber liquid blinks in the firelight as I slide a glass toward Hunter. “Crafty old son of a bitch couldn’t keep his own lies straight.”
Hunter raises his glass. “To Pop. May his treasure be worth all this bullshit.”
“To Grandpa.”
We drink in unison.
“This could be a creek bed,” I point to a thin, wavy line after setting my glass down. “Or a trail. Either way, it seems to lead to this structure here.” The crude drawing could be anything—a cabin, an outcropping, a tree.
“If this snow would let up, we could do another search on the grounds to try to find these landmarks,” Hunter mutters, glancing toward the window where white fury continues its assault. We only received the map from Grandpa’s will last month in December, and with it snowing every other day up in the mountains, we’ve had no luck trying to mark the map.
“What if we’re looking at it wrong?” I walk around the map to look at it upside down. “There’s no compass rose on the map. No indication of which way is north. So it could be this way.”
Hunter’s gaze narrows. “Sneaky motherfucker.”
“He always said we needed to change our perspective.” I drain my glass.
We spend the next hour making notations on a transparent overlay, marking possibilities and probabilities. Two grown men built like bears hunched over a treasure map like boys on an adventure. The irony isn’t lost on me.
Hunter stretches, his spine popping like gunshots in the quiet room. “I’m getting a caffeine IV before I go cross-eyed.” He rubs his face. “Fuck, we’ve been at this most of the early morning.”
“Time flies when you’re losing your shit over chicken scratch,” I mutter, not looking up from a particularly puzzling cluster of markings.
“I’m gonna check on James,” Hunter adds, collecting our empty glasses. “See if he’s managed to climb out of bed yet.”
“How’s that going? Him and the baker girl?” I ask, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension.
My thoughts drift to Lily; how easily we get along, as though we’ve known each other for years. Yet, I still barely know her. Though, I want to know everything.
Hunter’s mouth quirks. “Wouldn’t tell me shit when I asked yesterday, but they were eye fucking each other last night by the fire. There’s something there.”
“She could be your relative,” I suggest with deliberate nonchalance.
Hunter’s face sours instantly. “That fucking photo doesn’t mean a goddamn thing. Her grandmother standing next to Pop in some ancient snap proves exactly jack shit.”
I chuckle at his vehemence. “I get it. I’d be pissed too if I lost my shot with a girl who looks like that.”
“You’re a real asshole, you know that?” Hunter flips me off, but there’s no heat in it. “Besides, she’s way too sweet for any of us.”
“Not your type?”
“She’s a dream, and I’d even share her with you two ugly bastards to be with someone like that.” As he heads for the door, his words circle in my mind… We’d once shared a girlfriend when we were younger until she moved out of town. “Want anything from the kitchen? Besides your dignity?”
“Black coffee. And fuck you very much.”
“Love you too, princess,” he calls over his shoulder, the door clicking shut behind him.
Alone again, I lean closer to the glass, squinting at a peculiar marking. A boulder? A building? A goddamn Rorschach test? This map is deliberately obtuse.
The door creaks open to the room.
“Either Grandpa was secretly a modern pirate, or this is where he buried all those terrible Christmas sweaters,” I mutter, assuming Hunter has returned.
“I’d vote for the sweaters. No one disappears that many reindeer cardigans without a plan.”
I jerk my head up at the unexpected female voice. Lily stands in the doorway, one hip cocked against the frame, arms crossed over her chest. The firelight behind me casts her in silhouette, but I can make out the challenging tilt of her chin, the wild curls framing her face like a dark halo.
Thor is on his feet before I can respond, his massive form bounding across the room with a speed that belies his size. The same animal who once held an intruder at bay for three hours without so much as blinking now whines like a puppy, his tail sweeping the floor as he reaches Lily.
“Well, hello to you too, handsome,” she croons, dropping to her knees. Her tone shifts to that ridiculous baby-talk females reserve for animals and infants. “Who’s the goodest, fluffiest mountain wolf? Is it you? I think it is!”
Thor, the traitorous bastard, flops onto his back, exposing his belly—a vulnerability he shows to precisely no one. His tongue lolls from the side of his mouth, and I swear to god he’s grinning.
“Christ,” I mutter. “Eighty pounds of muscle and tooth reduced to jelly by a head scratch.”
Lily glances up at me, still running her fingers through Thor’s thick fur. “Jealous?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with possibilities. I lean back against the desk, crossing my arms to mirror her earlier stance.
“Should I be?”
She rises to her feet in a fluid motion that draws my eye from her white sneakers, up the denim clinging to shapely legs, past the narrow waist to the casual long-sleeve shirt with a neckline that teases rather than reveals. Her hair falls in chaotic spirals past her shoulders, several shades of brown mingling together like the inside of an expensive chocolate.
She strides into the room, Thor padding beside her like an oversized shadow.
“What’s with the glass table?” she asks, sidestepping my question as she approaches. “Secret plans to take over the world?”
“Half a treasure map for this property,” I reply, watching her reaction.
Her step falters. “You’re shitting me. A real one?”
“I shit you not.”
She approaches with newfound caution, as if the map might rear up and bite. “Like, a real X-marks-the-spot treasure map? Pieces of eight? Buried chests? The whole Pirates of the Caribbean deal?”
“Well, no X yet,” I admit, shifting to make room for her beside me. “That’s probably on the other half.”
She peers down at the yellowed parchment, her shoulder not quite touching mine. The scent of vanilla and something citrusy washes over me, mingling with an undercurrent of warmth that reminds me of freshly baked bread. It stirs something primal and hungry that has nothing to do with food.
“One of your antique purchases?” she asks, glancing up at me through thick lashes.
“Not quite. It’s an inheritance… Hunter’s technically. His grandfather left it to him and his cousin... separately so they’d finally make up.”
“That’s diabolical,” she says, but there’s admiration behind her words.
“That was the old man’s style,” I agree, shifting slightly so our arms brush. The contact is brief but electric, yet it lingers on my skin, the hunger to pull her back against me savage. “Always playing the long game.”
“So, there’s actual treasure here? On this property?” Her eyes dart around the room with fresh interest, lingering on the rows of books. “What is it? Gold? Jewels? First edition Hemingways?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” Her enthusiastic smile leaves me grinning. It’s refreshing, this unguarded curiosity. “The map’s not exactly National Geographic quality.”
Our shoulders touch now, and neither of us moves away.
“Well, at least you know that’s a water well,” she mutters, pointing to the very symbol I’d been puzzling over seconds before.
I blink, looking closer. “A water well? You sure?”
“Pretty sure. See the little handle drawn on the side? Classic well shape. My dad restored an old one in our backyard—don’t ask me why, but he has a thing for functional artifacts , as he calls them.” She traces the shape with her fingertip, leaving a smudge on the glass. “Definitely a well.”
I stare at it, then at her. “Fuck, you’re right. There are three wells on the property, so that narrows it down.”
Her smile is quick and satisfied. “You’re welcome.”
The storm outside howls like a wounded wolf, rattling the windows in their frames. Lily flinches, her earlier confidence cracking just enough to reveal the fear beneath.
“Not a fan of storms?” I ask quietly.
She shrugs one shoulder. “Not a fan of being stranded in them. My sister’s probably filed a missing person’s report by now.”
“I might be able to help with that,” I say, remembering what I’d set up earlier. “Come here.”
It’s not a request, but not quite a command either. Something in-between that has her raising an eyebrow but following, nonetheless.
I lead her to the other end of the study, where a round oak table sits surrounded by leather chairs. On the table was an antique radio set, a 1940s two-way radio I restored last summer.
“Is that what I think it is?” she asks, touching the polished wooden case with careful fingers.
“If you think it’s a shortwave radio that can reach Whispering Grove from here, then yes,” I explain, pulling out a chair for her. “The antique store in your town—Yesteryear’s Treasures—has a matching set. Martin and I use them when the lines go down.”
“You’re fucking kidding me.” The curse sounds charming in her mouth. For a moment, I think she might cry. Then she does something that genuinely surprises me—she leans in against me, brushing up close, and I get a lungful of that delicious Omega scent that promises to destroy me.
The feeling of her pressing against me sends heat pooling low in my belly.
“Thank you,” she murmurs against my chest. “My sister must be worried sick.”
We sit side by side at the table, our knees bumping beneath it. I adjust the dials with practiced precision, hyperaware of her watching my every move.
“So, you collect stuff like this, not just books?” she asks, scooting her chair closer to see better. Our legs press together from knee to thigh.
I nod, focusing on the radio to distract from the heat of her touch. “I also have a weakness for communication devices.”
“Are all collectors this hands-on with their hobbies, or is it just you?”
I glance at her. “Meaning?”
“Most collectors I know keep their precious finds behind glass. You’re actually using yours.” She gestures to the radio.
“I find beauty in function,” I say simply. “What’s the point of a perfectly restored engine if you never hear it run?”
Something soft shifts in her expression as her mouth lifts into a beautiful smile. I have the distinct feeling of being reevaluated, recategorized from whatever initial box she’d placed me in.
The radio crackles and spits static as I adjust the frequency. “Martin should be in the shop today, assuming he hasn’t been snowed in himself.”
“And if he has?”
“Then we try again tomorrow. Storm’s not going anywhere.”
Her knuckles whiten where they grip the edge of the table. “Let’s do this.”
I dial out the store’s call sign, feeling Lily’s eyes on my profile. We wait several minutes with no response. She sighs, shoulders slumping.
“Maybe try once more?” she suggests, leaning closer until I can feel her warmth radiating against my side.
I oblige, repeating the call. Just as I’m about to give up, the speaker comes to life with a burst of static, followed by a gruff voice.
“Yesteryear receiving. That you, Archer? Over.”
Lily jolts forward, her hand landing on my thigh in her excitement. The sudden weight of it sends a jolt of fire straight to my cock, my balls drawing in. If she notices my sudden tension, she doesn’t show it.
“Martin, it’s Archer. I have someone here who needs to send a message to her sister in town. Over.”
More static, then, “Go ahead. Over.”
I hand Lily the microphone, our fingers grazing in the exchange. The contact lingers, neither of us pulling away until the radio crackles again impatiently.
“Hello?” Lily finally says. “This is Lily from Flour & Fable Bakery in Whispering Grove.”
“Well, I’ll be damned! Lily Parker!” Martin’s words boom through the speaker. “Your sister’s been raising hell all over town looking for you. Over.”
She laughs, the sound rich and warm against the backdrop of the howling storm. Her entire face transforms, worry lines smoothing away, eyes crinkling at the corners. It’s like watching the sun break through storm clouds.
“That’s why I’m calling,” she says. “Could you please tell Hannah that I’m safe? My car broke down in the storm, and I’m staying at a cabin until it passes.”
She glances at me, and I recite Hunter’s address, which she relays to Martin.
“I’m with,”—she hesitates, glancing at me again—“Archer and his friends. They helped me when my car died. Please tell her not to worry. I’m fine.”
“Will do, Miss Lily. Your sister will be relieved. That storm’s a nasty piece of work. You’re lucky our boy found you. Over.”
“Very lucky,” she agrees, her eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes my blood simmer. “Thank you so much.”
She hands the microphone back, our fingers tangling together longer than necessary. I turn off the radio but make no move. We sit there, facing each other, my legs parted, so she’s almost nestled between them.
“Thank you,” she says again, softer. “At least now Hannah will just think I’ve been abducted by mysterious mountain men.”
I laugh, the sound rusty even to my own ears. “Is that what we are?”
“You tell me, rare book dealer with a private radio network and half a treasure map.” She twists a curl around her finger, the gesture unconsciously seductive. “You’re not exactly what I was expecting when a giant in a plaid shirt pulled me from my car.”
“And what were you expecting?”
“I don’t know. More... backwoods? Less,”—her free hand waves vaguely in my direction—“elaborate cabin mansion.”
“Disappointed?”
“Intrigued,” she corrects. “It’s not every day a girl gets rescued by three Alphas who look like they could bench-press a moose but discuss literature over dinner.”
I move in my seat toward her, closing some of the distance between us. “And what kind of guy does a baker from Whispering Grove usually encounter?”
She mimics my sitting posture, bringing our faces closer together. “The kind who think The Great Gatsby is a cocktail and poetry is what happens when song lyrics rhyme.”
That startles another laugh from me. “The dating pool’s that shallow, huh?”
“Calling it a pool is generous. It’s more of a puddle.” Her gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second. “A very small, very disappointing puddle.”
“And yet here you are, stranded in a cabin with three strange men in the middle of nowhere. Most would consider that a horror movie setup.”
“Maybe I’ve read too many gothic novels. The isolated manor, the mysterious host, the forbidden secrets...” Her lips curve in a half-smile. “Though I’m still waiting on the ghost.”
“No ghosts,” I assure her. “Just legends of buried treasure and a dog who’s apparently fallen in love with you.”
On cue, Thor whines from where he settles at her feet, his massive head resting on her sneakers.
“My father would love this place,” she says, looking around the book-lined walls. “He’s always fiddling with things in our backyard. Solar-powered gadgets, irrigation systems for his garden. Last year, he built this rainwater collection system that’s actually pretty clever.”
The abrupt change of subject feels deliberate, as if she’s steering us toward safer waters. I allow it, curious where she’s taking this.
“Sounds like a handy guy to have around,” I say. “Self-sufficient.”
“He had to be after Mom died.” Her tone lowers, turning to face me completely in her seat. “Single dad with two girls. He learned to braid hair from YouTube tutorials.”
The vulnerability in her admission tugs at something inside me.
“I built a solar-powered reading lamp when I was young,” I offer, surprising myself.
Her eyes widen. “Really?”
“My mom was sick for a week. Too weak to get up from bed. I wanted her to be able to read at night without straining herself.”
Lily’s hand finds my forearm, her touch warm through the fabric of my shirt. “Where is she now?”
“Six feet under in a cemetery outside Seattle.” The bluntness of my response surprises even me, but Lily doesn’t flinch.
“I’m sorry,” she says simply. “Mine’s in Whispering Grove Memorial Gardens. Plot 33B. I leave daisies every Sunday.”
No platitudes, no awkward sympathy. Just understanding, clean and sharp as a knife’s edge.
“Hunter’s grandfather stepped in after my mother passed,” I continue, the words coming easier than they should. “Became the father figure I needed. The old man had a way of collecting strays.”
“I get it,” she says quietly. “No matter how much time passes, they’re always there, aren’t they?”
The understanding in her eyes embraces me. I lean forward, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from her face. My fingertips graze her cheek, and she doesn’t pull away.
“Exactly,” I murmur.
Her hand slides from my arm to my chest, palm flat against my heart. Her fingers splay over the muscle there, and I wonder if she can feel how it thunders beneath her touch. We’re close now, too close for strangers, but we don’t feel like strangers. Her eyes drop to my mouth, and I lean closer, drawn by something I can’t—and don’t want to—resist.
I lower my attention to those pretty lips, and everything in me tightens with savage hunger. With a desperation to lean in and claim her. My hand slides to cup her jaw, thumb brushing her lower lip. The skin there is soft, pliant. I’m salivating to taste her.
The door bangs open with the subtlety of a gunshot.
She jerks apart from me as Hunter strides in, carrying a tray with steaming mugs. His eyes flick between us, taking in our flushed faces and close proximity. A knowing smirk spreads across his face.
“Brought hot chocolate,” he announces, setting the tray down on the desk. “Saw you enter the study and figured you’d want some warming up.”
“Thanks,” Lily says. She stands and pulls back, but her eyes keep darting back to me with a heat that promises this isn’t over.
What surprises me is how they also flick to Hunter, lingering on the breadth of his shoulders, the strong line of his jaw. There’s interest there—subtle but unmistakable. My body tenses, not with jealousy but with a sudden, predatory awareness.
Hunter catches it, too. Our eyes meet over Lily’s head. His eyebrow raises a fraction—a question. I give a barely perceptible nod—permission.
“I called my sister,” Lily tells him, accepting a mug of chocolate. “Well, sent a message through the antique store. She knows I’m safe now.”
“That’s good,” Hunter adds. “Family shouldn’t have to worry.”
Lily smiles up at him, and I watch the effect it has on my oldest friend—like a man seeing the sun after months of darkness. It’s the same effect she had on me moments earlier.
“Don’t let him fool you with the intellectual routine,” Hunter warns, eyes twinkling, glancing over at me, Lily’s stare following. “Man’s got a storage unit full of switchblades and another with vintage motorcycle parts. Regular Jekyll and Hyde.”
“Really?” She turns to me with renewed interest. “Switchblades?”
I shrug. “I appreciate craftsmanship in all its forms.”
“He’s being modest,” Hunter continues. “Show her the one you’re carrying.”
Lily’s eyes widen. “You’re armed?”
I reach into my pocket and withdraw a folding knife, pressing the release to expose the blade. It’s Italian, hand-forged in the 1950s, with a mother-of-pearl handle inlaid with silver filigree. Beautiful and lethal in equal measure.
She doesn’t recoil as many would. Instead, she leans closer, studying the blade with open admiration. “It’s gorgeous,” she murmurs. “Functional art.”
“Exactly,” I say, oddly pleased by her assessment.
Hunter watches our exchange with knowing eyes. “Arch here has expensive taste in everything .”
Lily’s cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away from either of us. If anything, her posture becomes more confident, chin lifting in silent challenge.
“And what about you?” she asks Hunter directly. “What do you collect?”
“Trouble, mostly,” he answers with a wolfish grin.
I close the knife and pocket it, never taking my eyes off Lily as she banters with Hunter. The storm howls outside, but inside this room, something else entirely is brewing—something wild and hungry that sparks between all of us like electricity before a lightning strike.
And for the first time since Hunter found her stranded on that snowy road, I find myself hoping the storm lasts a very long time.