Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
ASHER
It’s snowing again.
Thicker this time. Heavy flakes drift past the windows like ash, layering the cabin in silence.
The sky’s a sheet of white, and the trail that leads down the ridge has vanished beneath a blanket of snow so deep it’s like the woods are swallowing us whole.
We’re not going anywhere. Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe not for weeks.
And honestly? That suits me just fine.
She’s still here.
Wrapped in a blanket, curled up on the couch with her legs folded beneath her, her bare shoulder peeking out from under the collar of the shirt I gave her.
It’s mine—loose and oversized, one I used to wear when I worked on the truck.
It hangs off her like it was made for her body instead of mine, like it knew all along it belonged to her.
She hasn’t tried to run. Hasn’t screamed. Hasn’t begged.
Not today.
She’s calm. Watching the fire. Quiet, but present.
Her breath’s slower now, her body relaxed.
It’s not submission exactly—she’s still got that fire in her eyes, still sharp-tongued when she wants to be—but there’s something in the way she sits there, silent and still, that tells me the war inside her is shifting.
She’s accepting it. Accepting me.
The thought sends a slow burn down my spine. Something heady. Dangerous.
Because I’m not rational when it comes to her. Never was. Never will be.
Delusion? Maybe. But I’ve lived my whole life chasing instincts sharper than truth. And right now, mine are screaming that she’s choosing me. Finally, even if she doesn’t know it yet.
Her body did. That night. When I was buried inside her, when she broke around me like her body had been waiting for that exact moment all its life—I felt it. Her soul recognized mine. Her body fucking worshipped me.
And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
How tight she was. How she gasped when I gripped her jaw. The way her thighs shook, her back arched, her voice broke when she begged me not to stop. She shattered in my hands like something holy.
I’d kill to feel that again.
But I won’t push her. Not yet. Not until she comes to me this time. Not until she asks for it. I want her to crawl back into my lap on her own. I want to hear her say it. I want the begging to come from a place that’s deeper than fear. A place that sounds like mine.
Until then—I cook.
Because I want her to see what this could be. What we could be.
It’s a stupid fucking gesture, probably, but it’s one I’ve been planning all day.
Venison steaks, seared in a cast iron over the stove.
Garlic mashed potatoes. Buttered carrots.
No peas—she hates those. I remember. I remember everything.
The way she’d wrinkle her nose at them in takeout containers.
The way she’d scoop her food around them.
The way her eyes lit up over a perfectly cooked steak. I’m not guessing here.
I studied her. Watched her. Learned her.
I don’t just know her taste in food—I know her.
She moves eventually. Leaves the couch and drifts over to the pine bar stools on the far side of the kitchen.
The blanket’s still around her shoulders, and her legs are bare.
She climbs onto the stool without a word, watching me cook with her chin propped in her palm, eyes low-lidded and unreadable.
The image nearly guts me.
This is how it’s supposed to be. Her there. Me here. The cabin humming with heat. The snow falling outside like the world forgot we exist. Just the two of us.
Mine.
“You’re quiet today,” I murmur, not looking at her yet.
She shrugs. “Not much to say.”
But her voice is soft. Not biting. Not cold. I take that as a win.
“Steak’s almost done.” I plate it up—hers first. Medium rare. Exactly right. I scoop a generous pile of potatoes beside it and arrange the carrots just how she likes them. I slide it in front of her, then grab a second plate for myself.
When I finally sit down next to her, she’s staring at the food like it’s some kind of trick.
“You make this for all your victims?” she asks dryly, raising a brow.
I grin, slicing into my steak. “Only the ones I plan to keep.”
Her lips twitch. I catch it.
She picks up the fork. Eats a bite. Her lashes flutter slightly at the taste.
“You like it,” I say, smug.
“It’s good,” she mutters. “Surprisingly.”
I gesture to the whiskey tumbler in front of her. She takes a sip. I don’t stop watching her.
She eats slowly. Methodical. But I notice her toes brushing mine under the bar. Deliberate or not, the contact has me strung tight. My cock’s already half-hard just from the way she looks tonight. That shirt on her. Those legs. That mouth.
I shouldn’t want her this bad—but I do. I always fucking do.
“Didn’t know you liked to cook,” she says eventually, dabbing at her lips with the back of her hand.
I glance sideways. “I like to make things for you.”
She rolls her eyes. “Jesus.”
“What? Can’t a guy cook for the love of his life without getting shit for it?”
She almost chokes on her potatoes. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Wrong,” I murmur, leaning in. “I’m inevitable.”
That earns a quiet huff. She looks away. Blush stains her cheeks. She hates how easily I get to her—but I see the way her thighs shift again under the stool. The way she bites the inside of her lip when she thinks I’m not watching.
I take another bite of steak, then say, “You always liked it this way. Garlic potatoes. Extra butter. Carrots, but never peas.”
She goes still.
“I used to see you order the exact same thing when you went out with him,” I add. “Alex would never remember it. But I did.”
She swallows. “Fucking hell, is there anything you don’t know?”
I smirk, tongue wetting my bottom lip. “Not really, if I’m honest.”
“Since when are psychopaths honest?”
“I’m not a psychopath. Maybe a little excentric, but far from a fucking psycho.
” I say simply, voice low. “Though, I will say for once it would be nice to have a conversation with you that doesn’t involve you lashing out or giving me a piece of that beautiful mind of yours.
One where we, I don’t know, actually just talk.
Without you yelling at me or screaming threats.
Just… talk. About food. Books. Whatever.
I like the sound of your voice when it’s not afraid. ”
She stares at me. Fork frozen halfway to her mouth. Like she doesn’t know what to do with that.
“I’m trying here,” I add, sitting back a little. “Trying to give you something real. Something better. You don’t have to say anything. Just… stay. Give it, me, a chance.”
She looks away, but her shoulders relax slightly. The silence feels different now. Not angry. Just thick. Heavy with something unsaid.
“I really never did like peas,” she mutters eventually.
I grin. “I know.”
We eat in silence again for a few minutes. Outside, the snow keeps falling. The windows are fogged from the heat of the fire. The logs pop and hiss behind us. It’s warm in here. Safer than anything outside. A sanctuary carved from frost and obsession.
“I don’t think my mom ever even knew that. She used to make them all the time when I was a kid, no matter how many times I refused to eat them. You really do remember everything, huh?” she says suddenly.
“Of course I do.”
“Why?”
I set down my fork and turn toward her. Let her feel the full weight of my stare.
“Because you’re mine,” I say quietly. “And I take care of what’s mine.”
She doesn’t look away this time. Just stares back at me, eyes glassy, lips parted like she’s about to say something—and forgets how.
I want to kiss her. I want to bend her over this counter and remind her exactly how good it felt to belong to me. I want her breathy and shaking again, writhing beneath my hands. But I hold back.
For now.
Instead, I reach for her plate, spear another piece of steak, and offer it to her.
“Open,” I say.
She hesitates.
Then opens her mouth.
I feed her the bite slowly, deliberately, watching her lips close around the fork. Watching her tongue move as she swallows. I bite back a groan.
“Good girl,” I murmur.
She flinches—but doesn’t look away.
The tension coils tighter between us. Her breath’s faster now. Her pupils are blown wide. I lean in, my mouth brushing close to her ear.
“You remember what it felt like, don’t you?” I whisper. “The way I touched you. The way I filled you. You remember how good it felt to finally give in.”
She’s trembling.
I smile.
“Eat up, little doe,” I say, pulling back just a little. “You’ll need your strength.”
She doesn’t speak.
But she keeps eating.
And that’s all the fucking permission I need.