Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Lyra
My body wakes up before my mind. Every part of me remembers Stryker. And when I breathe in, it’s his spicy scent that fills my senses.
Opening my eyes, sensing that something isn’t right, I turn toward his side of the bed.
The other side of the mattress is cold and empty.
Stryker isn’t there.
But every part of me is vibrantly aware of him.
A slow throb pulses between my thighs, a tender ache that spreads upward to the small of my back and downward to the backs of my knees.
My ass stings when I shift, the skin hot and tight, as if his palm is still there, branding me.
I draw a breath, and the memory floods in: the way he bent me over his lap, the sharp crack of his hand on my buttocks, the way the pain flipped into something molten and urgent.
My nipples tighten against the soft flannel of my shirt—his shirt—that I pulled on sometime in the night. The fabric smells of woodsmoke and him, clean skin and dark desire, making my stomach clench with want and shame in equal measures.
I press my thighs together and feel the slickness that’s there, even though that shouldn’t be possible when I’m all alone.
My rear entrance stings slightly with a shy, secret pulse.
His fingers were inside me there too, gentle and relentless, coaxing me open until I was lost and overwhelmed, begging for more even as I trembled. I have never felt so exposed, so cherished, so utterly owned.
A deep part of me recognizes a truth I don’t dare acknowledge.
I belong to Stryker. Now. Forever.
The cabin is quiet except for the distant, low pop of the fire in the hearth.
He’s stoked it already. Of course he has. Always the protector.
I roll to my side, and the sheet slides across my sore skin like a reprimand. The indent where his head lay is still visible, a shallow valley in the pillow. I touch it with two fingers. The fabric is cold. He has been gone long enough for the heat to leach away.
Intently I listen.
He’s not in the cabin.
Then I hear the rhythmic scrape of metal on snow outside, steady and patient, and I exhale.
He let me sleep. He stoked the fire and went to work while I rested. The thought ripples through me with warmth.
And that sensation is immediately chased away by a chill.
I don’t get to keep this. I don’t get to keep him.
By the end of the day, Stryker and what we shared will be nothing more than a memory.
Sudden tears sting my eyes, and I furiously blink them away.
I’m Lyra Moreau, daughter of an infamous thief, on the run myself, and I have always been pragmatic about facts. Ever since my mother died, I haven’t allowed myself to be burdened with emotions.
So this—whatever is going on with Stryker—is as unfamiliar as it is unwelcome.
Knowing that I can’t lay around any longer now that the snow has stopped, I sit up.
The locket my father stole rests against my sternum.
His voice drifts up from the past, rough with warning. ”Always stay one step ahead of the police, Lyra. Two steps ahead of the bad guys.”
But he always smiled after he said it, as if he somehow thought everything was a game. Like he was a good guy in his own story.
I’m not convinced that I’m two steps ahead of the bad guys, and I’m all but falling for a man who is as dangerous to me as the police.
I freeze.
There’s no way I’m falling for Stryker.
The idea is absurd.
My rational mind screams that I barely know him. But my heart waves the warning aside. He’s taken excellent care of me, and everything we’ve shared at the cabin proves what kind of person he is.
But… My rational mind isn’t done with me.
He’s been sleeping with Allie. Not Lyra.
I know enough about him to understand that he has an unshakable sense of what’s right and what’s wrong.
If he knew the truth about me, he’d turn me in. And I can’t tell if he’d be pissed…or hurt that I’ve been lying to him all along.
The thought that he might be hurt almost destroys me.
Then I shake it off.
For him to feel anything, he’d have to care.
And we haven’t had nearly enough time together for that to happen.
Right?
Realizing I’m torturing myself when I have a getaway to plan, I purposefully swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
The floor is cold on my bare feet, and I keep moving down the hallway and into the living room.
Once there, memories of the previous night flood back…the way he’d wrapped me in a blanket, stroking my hair until I stopped shaking.
The blanket is folded neatly on the ottoman now, the indent of our bodies already smoothed away.
At the window, the world is blinding white. The storm clouds have vanished, leaving the sky a hard, perfect blue.
Snow clings to every tree branch, every needle, turning the forest into a confection. And there he is—Stryker—shoveling a narrow path from the porch to the woodpile.
He wears jeans and boots and a fresh flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow. His forearms flex with each scoop of snow, the muscles in his back shifting beneath the fabric.
I rest my forehead against the chilled glass. What would it be like to step outside, to walk that path he’s clearing, to meet him with coffee and a kiss and the promise of more mornings just like this? To let him teach me the difference between surrender and safety, to let him keep me?
The thought is so vivid I can almost taste the coffee, feel the scrape of his stubble against my cheek. My chest aches with it, a sweet, bruising want.
Across the room, my phone buzzes, the incessant vibration snapping my fantasy in two.
I cross the room and snatch up the device.
There’s a text from Remy.
Coming for you, kid. Be ready for extraction in an hour.
My pulse spikes. An hour. How will I pull this off?
But I will. Somehow.
And before the sun sets on the day, I’ll have another new name, another cover story.
Another message appears.
Edge of the woods. West side of the cabin.
From the time I spent outside with Stryker, I know exactly where he means.
I delete it. Then I see an older one that must have arrived during the night. Sender unknown. My gut wrenches.
Tick-tock, bitch.
My heart is pounding, and adrenaline floods my system.
How could I have let myself believe, even for a day, that I was safe?
I shove the phone into my go bag and double check the contents.
Nothing looks disturbed.
And if I were Stryker, I’m not sure I would have been able to resist the impulse.
I stash the bag just as the cabin door opens with a soft creak. Cold air rushes in, seeming to swirl around me.
Stryker steps over the threshold, snow clinging to his lashes, his cheeks flushed from the wind. He smells of fresh air and exertion mixed with temptation, making my mouth water.
Instantly he finds me and sweeps his gaze over me, soft and searching.
He closes the world out.
For the last time.
“Morning.” He removes his snow-covered boots and crosses the room in three strides.
He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me in until my breasts flatten against his chest.
I’m helpless, momentarily surrendering to his promise of safety.
Then his mouth finds mine. His kiss is deep and demanding. And possessive?
I melt into it for one heartbeat, two, letting myself drown in the steady pressure of his lips, the way his hand settles at the small of my back like it belongs there.
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine. “Road crews are out. Main roads should be passable before noon. The one to the cabin will take a little longer. But we’re still safe here.”
I nod, pretending that’s fine with me.
He studies my face with the quiet intensity that always makes me feel stripped bare. His thumb traces the line of my jaw, slow and deliberate. “You okay from last night? None the worse for wear?”
The question lands soft, but it slices straight through me. I swallow hard, force my voice steady. “I’m fine.”
His eyes narrow, just a fraction, the way they do when he’s reading a room, reading me. He doesn’t buy it.
Doubt radiates off him, a low hum beneath his skin. My pulse kicks up, panic licking at the edges of my calm. If I act off, if I hesitate too long, he’ll dig. He’ll ask questions I can’t answer.
I have to give him something real, something that satisfies the protector in him, or he’ll never let this go.
He steps closer, crowding me against the counter, the heat of his body chasing away the chill that’s been creeping up my spine since I saw Remy’s text.
Stryker slides his hand to the back of my neck, thumb pressing gently into the hollow there. “Let me see.”
My stomach flips. I know what he means. I know exactly what he wants. And part of me—the part that’s still throbbing from his touch, still aching for him—wants to give it to him.
Yet I’m hyperaware that the clock is ticking, that Remy is on his way, and every intimate second that I spend with Stryker is a second closer to disaster.
“Show me, Allie.” There’s a harder edge to his voice this time.
“Yes, Stryker.” Did that sound submissive enough?
I reach for the waistband and push the sweatpants down over my hips, along with the thin cotton of my underwear, letting them pool at my thighs.
The cabin air is cool against my bare skin, raising tiny bumps along my arms, my legs.
I turn slowly.
“Grab hold of your ankles. I want to see what’s mine, Allie.”
Swallowing a lump in my throat, I do as he says.
The position leaves me utterly exposed and vulnerable like I had been last night.
Behind me, he inhales sharply, the sound raw and reverent. His fingers brush over the curve of my ass, feather-light, tracing the places he spanked last night. “Jesus, Allie. You’re perfect.” His voice is rough, thick with something that sounds like awe. “No bruises. No red marks. Just…flawless.”