5. Ruined by the Truth
Ruined by the Truth
Lucas opens the door, letting in a blast of frigid air, and walks out without another word.
I follow him out into the snow, boots crunching behind his. The covered path to the main lodge is half-buried, the world around us gleaming and silent.
But it's not just the cold that has me shivering.
Because I keep thinking about the way he touched me. The way he looked at me. Like he saw more than a body to ruin—like he wanted to know the shape of my surrender and maybe even the why behind it.
And I can't stop hearing his voice from last night.
You wanted to be claimed. Made to obey. Made to please.
It shouldn't mean anything.
It doesn't.
Except…
Maybe it does.
And that's what terrifies me.
The resort's main building looms ahead—dark, cold, and quiet under a fresh coat of snow. We crunch through drifts along the covered walkway, the silence between us louder than the wind.
Lucas says nothing.
He moves like a man already thinking five steps ahead—no teasing, no lingering looks, no trace of the man who whispered filth in my ear while I was tied to his bedpost last night.
Just… practical, focused daytime Lucas.
He pulls a heavy ring of keys from his pocket and slides one into the service entrance lock without hesitation.
"We'll need to check for pipe damage first." His breath fogs in the frigid air, white clouds spilling past lips that kissed every inch of my body twelve hours ago. "If any have burst, we could have serious water damage."
His voice is level. Crisp. Not cold, exactly—but distant.
Like he's flipped a switch.
Like last night is already filed away in a box labeled irrelevant.
And somehow, that hurts more than anything he said this morning.
I fall into step beside him as he pushes open the door. The air inside is even colder, the echo of our footsteps bouncing off empty walls.
Lucas reaches for a breaker panel. Flips switches. Checks valves. His attention never strays. His expression never cracks.
He's a man at work.
Professional. Capable. Completely in control.
Like I didn't fall apart under him last night.
Like I didn't sob his name into his pillow.
Like I'm not standing here now, still aching from how thoroughly he broke me open.
He glances back once. Just to check the light overhead.
Not me.
Not anymore.
We head to the lobby next, which feels cavernous without electricity. Shadows pool in corners the gray daylight can't quite touch. Our footsteps echo across the marble floor, and the space is eerily quiet except for the occasional groan of settling beams.
Lucas leads the way, expression neutral, steps purposeful.
"This way." He gestures toward a side hallway. "Maintenance panel's back here."
His voice is easy. Light. But it's not the same voice that growled against my throat. It's not the one that coaxed confessions from my lips while his fingers pushed me past the edge.
It's his business voice.
Professional. Detached. Warm enough to be polite and cool enough to remind me we're no longer tangled up in bedsheets.
"My grandfather built this place in the sixties." He kneels before a panel and flips a few switches. "It was just a small lodge then. Ten rooms, a shared dining space. No plumbing in half the units."
He glances over his shoulder, a faint smile appearing. "Pretty sure he'd have a stroke if he saw the spa additions."
I nod, because what else can I do?
He turns back to the panel, testing pressure valves and jotting notes onto a pad he pulls from his back pocket. All competent efficiency. No tension. No awareness of the fact that I'm still wearing thermal leggings over bare skin that's bruised and tender from the way he held me last night.
I fold my arms, trying not to fidget. Trying not to feel.
Because this is who he really is, right? The resort owner. The man with old keys and a legacy to protect. Not the one who bent me over and whispered how good I looked when I begged.
And me? I'm just the event planner. One night in a blizzard doesn't change that.
"You've expanded it considerably." I run my fingers over the rich wooden paneling lining the hall, letting the texture distract me from the ache in my chest.
"He left it to me five years ago." Lucas's voice softens, threaded with something almost nostalgic. "I'd just quit my corporate job—burnout, classic case. Eighty-hour weeks, constant travel, and relationships that couldn't survive my schedule. I was a mess."
The quiet honesty in his tone catches me off guard. It's not teasing. Not flirtatious. Just… real.
"What did you do before?" I ask, more softly than intended.
"Acquisitions and restructuring for ZentCorp." He moves toward another panel, checking gauges. "I specialized in hospitality properties. Buying struggling hotels, streamlining operations, flipping them for profit."
The information jolts me. "You were a corporate raider?"
"I preferred 'efficiency expert.'" His smile holds no humor. "I was very good at cutting costs and maximizing shareholder value."
"That doesn't align with..." I gesture vaguely around us.
"The laid-back mountain man?" His laugh is self-deprecating. "That's the point. This place—caring for something instead of dismantling it—saved me."
He glances over at me, then, expression unreadable. "Hard to know what you want when you're pretending nothing matters."
The words hit low. Direct. And not entirely about him.
I swallow, pulse flickering in my throat.
He's not looking at me anymore. He's already walking ahead, stepping around a drift of snow that's crept inside the building.
And that's when it hits me.
He's doing exactly what I said I wanted. Professional. Polite. Emotionally detached. No mixed signals. No flirtation.
No follow-up to the things he did to me with his mouth, his hands, and his voice.
And somehow… it's worse than if he teased me. Worse than if he made a joke or thrown a smug look my way.
Because now, I'm the one who wants more.
And he's the one pretending last night didn't mean anything.
Exactly like I told him to.
We move deeper into the resort, checking rooms for damage. The contrast between the man before me and the corporate shark he describes is difficult to reconcile—yet it explains the surprising control he exhibited in bed, the precision with which he'd taken me apart and put me back together.
It also explains his need to overwhelm and dominate completely.
And damn, if he doesn't do a bang-up job of that.
"Let's check the upper floors." Lucas gestures toward the elevator. "It's on a separate backup system—should still have power."
I follow him into the ornate elevator, its brass fixtures gleaming faintly even in the ambient gray light. The doors close behind us with a soft hush, sealing us inside.
Lucas presses the button for the top floor.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then the elevator shudders softly and begins to rise—smooth and slow, the hum of machinery vibrating faintly beneath our feet.
Neither of us speaks.
The space feels tight. Too quiet. Every second stretched thin between us.
We're halfway up when the elevator lurches—hard.
The lights flicker once, twice?—
And then everything goes black.
Only the dim emergency light above the control panel remains, casting a weak amber glow across the confined space. Shadows stretch across Lucas's face, sharpening the angles of his jaw and making his expression unreadable.
He exhales slowly and then checks the panel. Presses the button again. Nothing.
"Well, that's not ideal." He mutters, reaching into his back pocket for his phone. He flips it over, the screen lighting up his face briefly—cool blue against warm shadow. "No signal, of course."
"So we're stuck?" I ask, trying to keep my voice level. The silence between us is louder than ever now. Thicker.
"For now." His voice is calm. Controlled.
But he's not looking at the panel anymore. He's looking at me.
And the space suddenly feels a whole lot smaller.
"Now what?" My voice lands too loud in the tight space, brittle and sharp like glass cracking under pressure.
Lucas steps closer, heat radiating from him in the cold air.
"Now, we wait."
"For how long?" The air feels heavy. The silence is thick with everything we're not saying. Every memory of his hands on my body. His mouth on my skin.
He shrugs, voice low. "Until someone finds us. Or the power kicks back in."
He leans in—just enough for the shadows to swallow his features—and murmurs near my ear, "Could be a while. And I can think of several ways to keep warm."
I let out a short, dry laugh. "Is that all you can think about?" I lean back against the wall, arms folded. "I spread my legs for you once, and now you think it's an all-you-can-eat buffet?"
He stills.
The silence that follows isn't empty. It's loaded. Dense with heat. Tension. Threat.
His head tilts slightly. "Is that what you think I'm doing? Helping myself to another serving?"
His voice isn't angry. It's quiet. Intentional. Dangerous.
Then he steps closer—invading my space, swallowing the air between us in a single breath. His body radiates heat, dominance, control.
And something inside me… flips.
Just like that.
My knees nearly give. My breath catches. Every nerve ending snaps to attention like a good little soldier waiting for orders.
It's the power in his eyes. The deliberate way he waits for my answer like he already knows I don't have one. The way he looms without ever lifting a hand—commanding with nothing but presence.
And it wrecks me.
Because this is what I crave. This feeling. The primal, feral need to drop to my knees and give him everything. No hesitation. No safe words. No pretending.
Just him. Taking. Owning. Mastering.
"What are you afraid of?" He braces one arm against the wall beside my head, dragging his gaze over me like a promise I'm not ready for. "Is it me?"
He leans in, his mouth a breath from mine, voice molten.
"Or is it the fact that the only time you really feel anything… is when you're being fucked like it doesn't mean a thing?"