Chapter 3
EMME
I’m warm. So warm. Glorious, bone-deep, impossibly warm.
A purr vibrates up my throat and slips out as I burrow into the thick blanket.
Every instinct in me wants to shift, to curl into a tight little cinnamon roll of fur, put my tail over my nose, and sleep the rest of the day away.
But even in my sleep haze, I know that would be a mistake.
I’m not telegraphing to the Elders that I want a mate, and I’m sure as hell not letting fate intervene no matter how badly it wants to.
I inhale deeply, filling my nose with smoke, pine, a hint of whiskey. There’s something else, too. Clove and pepper. Distinctly male. Distinctly wolf.
Sugar dusted shit!
My eyelids fly open. There’s a fire glowing in the hearth, and the light filtering in through the snow-covered windows is soft and honeyed by morning.
This blanket isn’t mine. Neither is the battered leather couch. And the man sitting in the chair a few feet away—broad shoulders, silver threaded through dark hair, silhouette carved from stone—definitely does not belong to me.
Memories fall into place like snow sliding off a roof. The storm. The crash. The axe. The screaming. The punching.
The undressing.
I yank the blanket tighter around me in attempt to hide all my bits and the blush that’s creeping across my chest.
“Morning,” he says without looking away from the fire.
“You’re a wolf,” I squeak, betraying every ounce of self-respect my species is supposed to have.
He grunts and reaches for his mug. Firelight flickers across his face. It picks out the silver in his beard and the distinct cut of his jaw. Something traitorous flutters low in my belly. I smother the feeling immediately.
“Why aren’t you at the festival?” I blurt, because apparently my mouth woke up before my brain.
His storm gray eyes flick to mine. “Why aren’t you?”
“I was on my way there,” I say, then scramble, “Not to, like, participate participate. I’m not looking to mate.”
He lifts a brow, and heat rushes up my neck to my cheeks.
I clear my throat and adjust the blanket around me, trying to sit up straighter as I glance around the cabin, taking in rough-hewn beams and shelves stacked with split logs.
A cast-iron pan sits on the small stovetop next to a kettle.
My clothes, including my bra, panties, and boots hang neatly over a drying rack in front of the fire.
“I, uh…would like to get dressed.”
He takes another slow sip from his mug and shrugs. “Be my guest.”
“And where would you suggest I do so?”
His gesture takes in the one room cabin. “I’ll close my eyes.”
I stare at him, and he stares back. A silent, wolfish kind of challenge. I don’t know why I expected anything else.
Fine. If he wants to play, let’s fucking play.
I stand, clutching the blanket to my chest. “Remember when I said you were a gentleman?”
“Yeah…” The fire crackles as his gaze tracks my movements to the fireplace.
“I take it all back.”
I drop the blanket.
The air in the cabin wraps around me, warm and marshmallow soft. Despite the heat, I shiver. Goosebumps rise along my bare skin, every inch of me aware of his heavy gaze.
The leather armrest creaks as he grips it with one large hand, the tendons in his forearm standing out, his jaw flexing like he’s holding something wild, something primal at bay. He grunts, and the sound of it, the strain of it, slides down my spine and settles low.
His unhurried gaze travels down, skimming the line of my collarbone, lingering over the curve of my breasts, the dip of my waist, the soft, sensitive center of me that aches under the weight of his attention.
When his eyes lift again, they’re no longer storm gray. They’re flooded with a bright, molten silver that makes my stomach flip, and my thighs press together.
His wolf.
The sight of it steals the air from my lungs.
The realization that I love the way that feral shimmer catches in the firelight, the way his breath deepens, the way every inch of him looks like he’s barely holding himself back startles me as much as the hunger within myself.
I’ve never wanted danger before. Never wanted to be the woman a man struggles not to devour.
A wild, forbidden thrill drips between my legs. My pulse stutters. My skin buzzes. My nipples tighten into peaks. I want this wolf to look. I want him to touch. I want to know what happens when a man like him stops holding back.
But I lift my chin instead, pretending his attention doesn’t make my insides melt, doesn’t make me want to be reckless and wild.
“Thanks so much for drying my clothes.” I wince when my voice comes out a shade too bright. “Maybe you are a gentleman after all.”
Something flickers across his face—guilt, restraint, I can’t tell which. His gaze drops, silver dimming back to storm gray as he shakes his head. The hand on the armrest relaxes, and he exhales, low and rough.
“Not a problem.” He takes a long, slow pull from his mug and stares up at the ceiling as if he didn’t just eye fuck me.
I turn my back and start getting dressed in front of the fire. I force my hands to stay steady as I pull on my underwear and clasp my bra.
“West,” he says behind me.
I lift my jeans from the rack and pause. “What?”
“My name,” he says after a beat. “West Mercer.”
“Oh.” I glance over my shoulder, lips quirking.
“Nice to meet you, West. I’m Emme. Lark.
Emme Lark.” It hits me then. He’s the first man to ever see me naked before I knew his name.
“Usually, I’m better at things like this.
You know, introductions first, pants off second.
” I turn back to the fireplace and work on wiggling into my stiff jeans.
“So, things like this happen to you often?”
My cheeks warm as I bark out a laugh. Nothing close to this exciting has happened to me in almost a year. No dates, no sex, no reason to wear real pants most days. Just working from home, baking to suppress the crushing loneliness, and a lot of takeout containers.
I pull my sweater over my head and shake out my hair. Desperate to redirect, I toss over my shoulder, “Your coffee smells good.”
“I’ll, uh”—the leather chair creaks as he pushes to his feet—“I’ll get you some.”
When I turn around, he’s already at the kitchen counter, using every ounce of his attention to refill the pot like the fate of the world depends on it. Without the silver in his eyes and that barely leashed hunger aimed at me, he almost looks…harmless.
My fox stirs under my skin, curious and restless. She wants to test the limits of his control. She wants to tease and play and see what else she can do besides strip to bring him to the edge of losing it again.
I wander over and grab my phone from where he’s plugged it in beside the sink. Still no bars. I let out a groan.
“The storm’ll let up later today,” he says, not looking up from the coffeepot. “Then I’ll give you a ride wherever you want to go.”
I lean a hip against the counter, the corner of my mouth lifting with a teasing grin. “You’ll give me a ride, old man?”
His hand slips. Coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim of the mug. Color creeps up his neck into that silver-threaded beard. “In my truck,” he adds. “To wherever you want.”
He offers me the mug. Steam curls between us, fragrant with coffee and cinnamon and a bite of something sharper underneath. I breathe it in and tilt my head. “Do you put whiskey in all the drinks around here, or just the ones for the small woodland creatures you find on your doorstep?”
“It’s Scotch, and I didn’t put any in this one,” he says, glancing down at my mug. “I’m saving that for me. Something tells me I’ll need it.”
“Wouldn’t a gentleman share?”
He hesitates for half a beat, then reaches for the bottle on the counter. He pours a splash of Glenlivet into my mug and hands it to me, careful not to let our fingers brush.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “For the whole not-letting-me-die thing. And also, I’m sorry I punched you.”
He rubs his jaw, lips twitching. “You swing fast for someone nearly frozen.”
“In my defense, you popped up behind me in the dark with an axe.”
“You were on my porch.”
“Details.” I lift the mug between us. “Truce?”
His gaze lingers, then he nods. “Truce.”
I take a sip and immediately choke, coughing as the liquor scorches my throat. My eyes water. “Oh my god,” I croak. “That is…aggressively bad.”
“Yeah, it’s strong.” He hides a laugh behind his mug. “Guess I’m used to it.”
“How could you get used to this? It tastes like an old sock buried in the backyard.”
“You’ll understand when your palate has a chance to mature.”
I gasp, pressing my hand to my chest in mock offense. “Did you just call me young?”
“Just sayin,’ Scotch is an acquired taste.”
“Like silver haired wolves?”
That earns me a lopsided smile that makes my stomach clench.
I almost take another drink when I remember it tastes like a moldy sponge. I set the mug down with exaggerated care. “Look, I’d like to repay you. For the whole saving-my-life bit and for letting me crash here while Mother Nature throws a tantrum outside.”
His swallow is audible. “I know you were naked earlier, but you don’t need to do anything—”
“Ew, no. No, no, no.”
West stiffens. “Ew?”
“I’m not paying for your common decency with sex.”
“Oh.” He blinks, flustered. “I mean, not oh that’s too bad. Just oh…kay.”
He rubs the back of his neck and looks around the cabin like he’d rather be anywhere else. It’s so endearingly awkward it actually makes my heart skip. He’s such a squish—all gruff exterior and absolute mush inside. Honestly, it wouldn’t take much for me to want to repay him with sexual favors.
He opens his mouth, words tripping over themselves. “I didn’t mean—I just thought—”
“Stop.” I lift a hand, cutting him off. “Let’s not think of it as repayment. Think of it as me fixing my wounded pride. I might not have died on your porch, but it did, in fact, take a pretty serious hit. I’m resurrecting it with sugar.”
I stride to the set of small cabinets next to the stove like I own the place and fling the top one open.
I root around until I find a mixing bowl that’s probably seen more winters than I have.
Flour puffs into the air as I drag out a paper sack and drop it onto the counter.
Then sugar, vanilla, baking powder, and salt.
One by one, I pile them up until the small stretch of countertop is buried under ingredients.
I rummage through his fridge, clanking jars and muttering to myself until I emerge victorious with butter in one hand and a carton of eggs in the other. My elbow clips the sugar bag, and it spills across the counter in a white, glittering wave as I set the eggs down.
“You’re making—”
“Cookies!” I cheer, brandishing the whisk like a torch.
“A mess. This is my home, not a bakery.”
“Wrong.” I shove the sugar toward him and start scooping flour into the battered bowl. “It is now a bakery. It’s called…” I hesitate. “Fox & Axe.” I waggle the whisk. “Okay, maybe the name needs work. But my cookies do not.”
He lets out a quiet sound that might be a laugh. “I’m not much of a sweets person.”
My jaw actually drops. I stare at him like he’s suggested I change my own tires. Then I plant my hands on my hips and grin.
“Prepare yourself, old man. I’m about to change your life.”