CHAPTER TEN – MOUNTING SUSPICIONS
Kat
I’m learning that every storm sounds different, and this one is a beautiful symphony.
There’s the rat-a-tat of rain on the roof, steady as a metronome.
There’s the glug-glug of gutters trying valiantly to keep up with the pounding rain.
And then there’s the trees, shuddering and lashing the windows with their brittle claws, not caring if they break themselves or everything else in the process.
If I had to guess, I’d say this is what the end of the world sounds like—minus the warm wool blanket I’m wrapped in, and the bare, dark-haired man spooning me from behind.
The fire is almost too much. We started it this morning, a few minutes after I realized the temperature in the great room was colder than an ice box.
Talon had to go out in his boxers and a hoodie to pull more logs from the covered pile, which led to about ten minutes of cursing and shouting as a branch snapped and dumped a quarter-ton of snow right onto his head.
I watched from the window, eating a clementine and pretending I wasn’t dying over how he looked—shivering, shirtless, cock hard as a tree branch, flakes clinging to the black scruff on his jaw.
Now the logs hiss and crackle, the heat pulsing across my bare calves.
I’m nude under the blanket, except for the way Talon’s got his arms slung around me and one big hand splayed on my stomach, thumb absently tracing the groove of my hipbone.
We did it right here, on the rug in front of the fireplace, because if you’re going to do post-virginity sex you might as well go full romance novel.
There are still pillows scattered everywhere, and if I look over my shoulder, I can see the faint print of my own ass on the braided rug. I’m a work of art.
“You think we should check the generator?” I say, mostly to fill the silence, but also because I’m actually a little worried about freezing to death when the propane runs out.
Talon nuzzles my shoulder, then gives a sleepy, bone-deep sigh. “It’s fine. This place was built by conspiracy theorists. I could live off-grid for a decade, easy.”
“Your tinned beans say otherwise,” I tease. “Pretty sure if you lose power, you’ll lose your will to live.”
He grins into my neck, then bites down lightly. “You say that like you’re not the same. How many pop-tarts have you eaten since you got here?”
“Only about twenty. That you know of.” I smile into the fire, then wiggle back against him until our bodies are slotted together like puzzle pieces. “God, I love this blanket,” I say. “It’s like being inside a sheep, but in a nice way.”
He laughs, and I feel the vibrations all through my ribs. “You’re a real poet, Kitty Kat.”
I’m trying to memorize every detail, because I know how fragile this is.
Last night, after we—after I—let him all the way in, I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe.
Not because it hurt (it did, but not enough to explain the tears), but because it was real.
It was a line I’d been guarding with my life, and I didn’t realize how much it meant until Talon claimed me.
He just held me, didn’t even try to make it about him.
He stroked my hair and told me about the first time he ever caught a fish, how it made him feel strong and old and somehow still innocent.
That’s what it felt like with him: not the loss of something, but the start of something I didn’t have a word for.
Now the morning is drifting into afternoon, and we haven’t moved from the rug. We’ve just been dozing, sharing the same blanket, taking turns staring at the fire and at each other, like a pair of stray animals waiting for animal control.
Thunder rumbles somewhere behind the rain, a baritone growl that makes the windows shiver.
I prop myself up on an elbow and look down at Talon.
He’s got a hickey blooming under his left collarbone—a souvenir from when I bit him, by accident, in the heat of the moment.
He likes it, and says it’s a sweet memory.
His hair’s sticking out in every direction, and there’s a smudge of soot on his temple where he bumped his head on the firewood. He’s a mess, and he’s beautiful.
“Hey,” I say, fingers drumming his chest. “Can I ask you something?”
He cracks an eyelid, expression already half-amused. “You can ask me anything, Kitten. But I reserve the right to lie if it’s boring.”
I giggle, but then school my face into a serious expression because I actually want the answer.
“What do you think happens when this ends? Like, when our time together is up and I go back to normal life?”
He closes his eyes again, but his thumb never stops tracing lazy circles on my side.
“I think you go back to school, get your degree, and end up running a bookshop in the city. Or maybe you get your MFA and teach at some liberal arts college in upstate New York. Or maybe you become a weird, reclusive novelist and haunt dive bars until you die.”
I laugh. “Those are all interesting options.”
He smiles. “That’s life, kiddo. Lots and lots of lots of options.”
I’m quiet for a bit, thinking about what he didn’t say: What if I want something else? What if I want to keep this?
“I want to go back to Century College,” I say, and my voice is too soft, but I let it out anyway. “I want to study creative writing, and I want to finish something for once in my life. I don’t even care if I’m good. I just—I want to know that I can.”
Talon nods, not laughing or judging, just waiting for more.
“But what if…” I hesitate, because I’ve never said this out loud. “What if, by the time I graduate, the publishing industry has imploded? What if there are no jobs? What if AI writes all the books and I’m just a punchline in a meme about Gen Alpha chumps who got the short end of the stick?”
He actually looks thoughtful at that. “Then you become a legend. Like a blacksmith after the invention of the gun. Nobody needs you, but everybody remembers you.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. “That’s not too comforting.”
He catches my chin and turns my face until our eyes lock. “But it’s the truth, sweetheart. The world moves on, and we’re just small minnows pulled by the tide.”
We stare at each other, and I feel the question hovering, like a bug trapped inside a glass. I want to ask: What if I want you? What if I want to stay?
He must sense it, because he shifts, propping himself up so that we’re face to face, noses almost touching. He wraps the blanket tighter around us, his hand splayed across my hip.
“If you want to come back here, after the two months, you can,” he says, voice dead serious. “You can stay as long as you want. I’ll even clear out a drawer for your stuff, sweetheart. More than a drawer. You can have the closet because I’ve only got a few things.”
I’m so blindsided I don’t even have a joke for it. My throat goes tight.
“Thanks,” I say, and it comes out ragged. “But what if I mess everything up?”
He shrugs, like it’s obvious. “You get another chance. You can fail as many times as you need. I’m here to catch you, Kitty Kat. I’m your back-up.”
Something inside me unwinds, a rope gone slack. I press my face into his bronzed chest, breathing in the smell of woodsmoke and salt and sweat. “God, you’re such a sap,” I say, but I hold onto him, hard.
He laughs, arms tightening around me. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation as a bad boy author.”
I let the silence take over, the fire popping, the rain so relentless it feels like we’re underwater. For the first time in months, I’m not thinking about what I should be doing, or who I should be. I’m just here, warm, full, content.
Then, I lift my head, brush the hair out of his eyes.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, studying the curve of Talon’s jaw as he scratches at his stubble.
“Shoot.”
“Why are you writing romance novels?” I ask hesitantly. “It’s not what you’re known for. You’ve written like, what, ten thrillers that are international best sellers, but now you’re writing sex scenes and love stories? Did you get tired of killing people off?”
The alpha male snorts, tilts his head so he can look down at me. “You think I’m any good at romance?”
“Honestly?” I grin. “I thought you’d be terrible.”
He gives a low, genuine laugh. “I am terrible. That’s why I’m paying you to help.”
“Yeah, but why even bother?” I ask. “You could just keep doing what you’re good at.”
The alpha male sighs, and for a second I see the mask slip.
“Money. Simple as that. Romance is the biggest market with billions of readers. Did you know that? Bridgerton, that gay hockey romance stuff, and don’t get me started on Fifty Shades.
Even James Patterson—the most successful author on Earth, and even he’s releasing romance now.
Of course, his manuscripts are written by a stable of ghost writers, but it doesn’t seem to matter. People will buy his stuff.”
I whistle. “Wow. You just crushed like, every fairy-tale I’ve ever had.”
Talon shrugs, but there’s a softness at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t get me wrong. I like the work. But if you want to make a living, you go where the demand is. That’s just business.”
I prop myself up on an elbow, holding the blanket across my chest with my free hand. “Did you ever, like, get invested in any of it though? The love stories, I mean. Or is it all just…”
He looks at me, blue eyes catching the firelight. “This is my first romance novel, and I wasn’t going to be invested. But that’s before I met you,” he says. “You’ve changed things for me, Kitty Kat.”
I go absolutely still. The blanket slips, baring one breast to the cold air, but I barely notice. For a moment, I’m stuck, gears grinding as the meaning of his words click into place. My face must looked shocked.
Talon notices, smirks, then leans in and kisses my shoulder. “You’re easy to fluster, you know that?”