Chapter 6 Darby
DARBY
Ihad no idea it’s possible to be so terrified—and yet completely turned on at the same time. He’s not hurting me. He hasn’t threatened me with violence. Not exactly.
Yet the undeniable threat vibrates through his every impressive muscle.
I’ve never met a man in real life who’s so large in every way.
It makes me think of all the impossible tales of Paul Bunyan.
He even looks like some kind of lumberjack giant in a long-sleeved black and red buffalo check shirt and full, bushy beard.
Combined with his long hair all mussed up and wild about his head, he reminds me of a grizzly. A hairy beast.
Not the kind of man I ever thought in a million years I’d be attracted to.
But I can’t deny the heat rolling through me, even while my nerves jump and zing with alarm. My neck aches, my hair caught in his hand, my scalp prickling with small pains that only intensify the adrenaline surge.
Yes, I’m scared. He’s hurting me—a little. My heartbeat thunders in my ears.
Yet I find myself not inclined to move away. In fact, the longer I stare up at him despite the strain in my neck, the more my body softens. My muscles go lax. I couldn’t run even if I wanted to.
He curls his other palm around the front of my throat. “You’re too pretty for your own good.”
Huh? My brain is completely disconnected.
Destroyed by the feel of his thick, rough fingers on my skin, somehow menacing and tender at the same time.
His thumb presses against my pulse beneath my jaw, his index finger moving up to stroke over my bottom lip.
Even the tip of his finger is rough and slightly abrasive.
Images flash through my mind of the butcher knife in his big hand, effortlessly and efficiently cleaning the rabbit.
I can’t help but wonder if he’d be as effective at turning me inside out.
“So soft,” he whispers in that low rumble that still manages to be terrifying. “Are you going to open that luscious mouth for me?”
Evidently I am. I do. My lips crack open with surprise. Shock. As his index finger glides into my mouth, swirling on my tongue. I make a sound, a fragile bleat of a moan that makes my cheeks flush scarlet with humiliation.
I don’t know this man. Yet he has his finger in my mouth. Moments ago, he had his hands inside a rabbit carcass. He washed his hands. I saw him. But there’s still something primal and terrifying about the fact that he had blood on his finger—that’s now inside me.
He leans down closer, his shoulders blocking the light, a mountain of a man with giant hands and rough fingers and mean voice to whisper, “Good girl,” as he presses a kiss to my forehead.
Something thuds. Bangs. It takes an embarrassingly long moment for my brain to recognize the sound of a door shutting. Skadi lets out one of her softer alerts—but this isn’t her house, so she doesn’t feel the need to loudly proclaim a visitor.
“There you are. I’ve been looking for you.” It’s Ren. Finally.
Hovering over me just inches away, Henrik’s face is mostly shadowed.
Yet I see the way his eyes narrow and shutter.
His mouth hardens. He lets go of me like I’m a hot pan he just took out of the oven without a mitt and straightens.
Without turning to his friend, he returns to the kitchen, busying himself at the sink with his back to me. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”
I hear more thuds—likely his boots or my suitcase—and then Ren swings a leg over the barstool beside me. “How’s that?”
My hands clench together tightly in my lap, and I keep my attention focused on the bar in front of me. Tracing the curved raw edge with my eyes. The knots and lines in the polished plank. My face feels hot, but my fingers are trembling. My thoughts a chaotic mess.
How much further might Henrik have gone without interruption?
How far would I have allowed it to go?
Shivering, I squeeze my hands harder, trying to pull myself together.
What the hell am I doing here?
REN
My Spidey senses are tingling and not in a good way. Neither of them will look at me. Darby’s beet red and shaking.
Henrik can be an asshole but he’s harmless for the most part. If he hurt or scared her, he’ll answer to me.
Whoa. Wait one fucking second.
I’m not sure where this Sir Lancelot attitude has come from. I don’t like it. Not one bit. I’ve been called a lot of things over the years but never a knight in shining armor.
I’m the charming bad boy you love to hate—and never take home to meet your parents. The all-around fuck-up, as messed up as my body after playing professional hockey recklessly and with abandon—and no common sense—for fifteen plus years.
I’d still be playing—both hockey and charming bad boy—if I hadn’t fucked up both my shoulder and my head. Doyle warned me another concussion might cause irreparable damage that would affect me the rest of my significantly shortened life. Not that I have that much to live for.
At least that’s what I thought when I finally walked away from the sport that had been my whole life. I lost it all. The fame, money, the absolute rush of an incredible game-winning goal. The camaraderie of a team. The support of coaches and training staff and doctors.
Henrik saved me when no one else could get through to me.
Then I discovered a new dream slowly revealing itself to me, born from all the pain and experiences of my life.
Funny how shit worked itself out even better than I’d even dreamed possible.
The four of us were closer now than when we were kids.
We’d seen some shit and lived to tell about it, not that Henrik did much telling about the shadows in his eyes.
We played for the same professional team for most of our careers. While I was forced to quit for my health, he walked away of his own choosing at the peak of his game, one of the best goalies to ever play, and I still had no idea why.
If he scared Darby, I’ll have to get the other guys to help me put him in his place. The Mighty Zon could still rip my head off without even trying.
“How do you know her?” Henrik asks, his back to me.
“I don’t,” I say slowly. “Her car’s in the ditch at the Mooseville sign. We decided to wait for daylight to pull her car out of the snow.”
The steel bowl plops down unnecessarily hard on the counter, sloshing some of the water over the side. He practically stomps over to snag a roll of paper towels, giving me a death glare that makes zero sense. “You don’t know her.”
I shake my head, glancing back at Darby. She’s not as red but she’s shivering. “Hey, are you okay? What the hell happened?”
“My leggings are a little wet from the snow. Is there a place I could change?”
It makes sense but she still avoids making eye contact with either of us. “Do you want to head up to my place first?”
“No,” Henrik growls. “She stays here.”
“Not if she doesn’t want to stay.”
His eyes narrow, his jaws grinding until he utters one word that shocks the hell out of me. “Please.”
Damn, I haven’t seen him so close to losing his shit since… I can’t even remember when. When Henrik gets mad, he walks away. He’s too damned big and strong to start something he might finish with violence. But why is he mad? At me? What the hell did I do?
Except drop a woman off at his door when he wasn’t here.
Silence weighs heavily between us until the dog yips out a long string of Husky.
Darby laughs, a little breathless but more at ease than before. “She’s hungry, and she’s tired of all the blather.”
Henrik steps closer to the bar and leans in, his eyes locked on her face. His shoulders cord, his arms braced on the bar top like he’s holding himself back—or preparing to climb over the top and go to battle. “Do you want to leave?”
She forces out another shaky laugh. “I’d rather not go back out in the storm if I can help it.”
“Then you stay.” He tips his head to the side. “There’s a bathroom to your left.”
“Thanks.” She slips off the barstool and gives me a shy smile, finally meeting my gaze. “Thanks for bringing my bag in. I’ll feed Skadi first or she’ll howl while I’m changing.”
“Sure thing.” It’s all I can do to not reach across the bar and grab a handful of Henrik’s shirt to demand some answers while she tends to her dog. He’d only flatten me in a bloody smear on the floor.
Finally, she takes a change of clothes into the bathroom and shuts the door.
I lean across the bar and open my mouth to ask again what happened, but he growls out, “What the fuck were you thinking?”
Taken aback, I have to rearrange the questions clamoring in my head. “She was stranded. She doesn’t have survival gear. In fact, she told me she hates snow. I couldn’t just leave her out there.”
“You brought her here.”
To me.
He doesn’t say the last words out loud, but I can feel the angry waves reverberating between us. Horror slowly dawns. I shove up to my feet and lean across the bar to whisper fiercely, “She’s not a groupie. I fucking swear.”
“So I discovered.”
Oh fuck.
Once, I did bring several female hockey fans up here to Mooseville.
Four laughing, giggling young women with the hots for professional players.
I left them here as a joke. A foolish mistake that very nearly cost our friendship.
I never really understood why it pissed him off so much, but I never did it again.
He made it clear he wasn’t interested in me trying to set him up.
But that was years ago. Surely he didn’t… He thought…
He finally looks me in the eyes, dragging a hand through his shaggy hair. He really looks like a wild man of the woods now. “Yeah.”
Those girls had been waiting for me on the porch as soon as I came back.
Mascara smeared, laughter turned to tears, their excitement spoiled.
They’d been rattled enough by his reaction that I drove them back to Denver and put them up in a hotel.
Separate rooms and all. Party ruined, and rightfully so.
“I swore I wouldn’t try to set you up again. ”
“I didn’t know. I tried to scare her off. But she stayed.”
Pure glee bubbles up inside me, and I let out a low whistle. “Then she—”
He fists his hand in my shirt and drags me up on my tiptoes, leaning across the bar to glare into my eyes. “She stays with me.”
I nod slowly. “Sure, sure, but—”
“Until she says otherwise, she’s with me. Got it? I take the first shot.”
I’m not even jealous. How can I be? I’ve been trying to set up the big guy most of my life—and just fucking it up. “Got it.”
He loosens his fingers and lets me back down to settle on my heels.
“Can I tell the other guys?”
“No. Not yet. They might scare her off.”
I want to say if she didn’t run after whatever happened while I was trying to find him, then I doubt Doyle and Leland would manage to scare her. For one thing, I don’t want to rub salt in old wounds, and on the other hand, I get what he means.
All of us have had relationships here and there over the years. Leland and Doyle were married—and Doyle has a kid.
But something’s always been lacking. We’ve never been able to be together, all of us, and happy at the same time. Not until we moved here on Henrik’s land.
I don’t want a woman to come between us. Ever.
Unless…
“What’s her fucking name?” Henrik asks.
A ridiculous, far-fetched image flickers in my mind.
“Darby.”
Between us.
Impossible.