Chapter 7
BENJAMIN
The rest of the drive is quiet after Hazel gives me her address. The wipers thump back and forth against the glass, fighting the heavy snow. By the time I pull into her driveway, the place looks almost abandoned—dark windows, crooked shutters, roofline buried under a blanket of white.
“This is your house?” I lift a brow, glancing at her.
“Yes, why?” She stiffens instantly, chin tilting like she’s waiting for me to laugh.
“Nothing.” I cut the engine, smirking faintly. “Just making sure it’s not owned by a reclusive ax murderer. You never know.”
Her lips twitch like she wants to smile but refuses. “You’re hilarious. Shouldn’t I be the one worried when you picked me up off the side of the road?”
I step out, boots crunching over ice, and round the front of her car. She’s already trying to climb out, one boot half-laced, determination written across her face.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I plant my hand on the frame, blocking her in.
“Out to get my tree.”
“Your tree. With that ankle?” My mouth twitches.
“It’s just a sprain.” She slides down from the seat, only to wince the moment her foot hits the ground.
“Uh-huh.” I don’t move. “Looks really healed to me.”
“Please move. I don’t need a babysitter.” She tries to duck under my arm, but her leg buckles. I catch her before she can fall, pulling her tight against my chest. The bear inside me surges.
Keep her. Don’t let her go.
My arms tighten instinctively, her warmth sinking into me, her scent curling low in my lungs. Too much. Too dangerous.
“Stubborn little thing,” I chide, scooping her up before she can argue. She gasps, protesting faintly but doesn’t fight as I carry her to the door. She fumbles for her keys, hands shaking, muttering something about being capable, before pressing the key into my palm.
The lock clicks open. Darkness greets us. I flip the switch. Nothing.
“You lost power,” I say flatly. “Generator?”
“I… don’t know. But there should be a flashlight and some candles in the kitchen drawer.”
I set her down gently. “Stay put.”
Her eyes roll, but she doesn’t move. I stalk into the kitchen, find the candles, and return a moment later. “I’ll check out back.”
The yard is swallowed in snow, trees looming against the storm. No generator—just a crooked stack of logs too big for the fireplace leaning against the siding.
Inside, Hazel’s already seated on the floor, boots abandoned, a bandage wound tight around her ankle and my flannel shirt discarded next to her.
“What are you doing?” I stop in my tracks.
“What does it look like?” she snaps, tugging the wrap tighter.
“It looks like you’re ignoring common sense.”
“I have plenty of sense. And self-care.” She lifts her wrapped ankle for proof before pushing to stand. The gesture loses impact when she wobbles.
“Why can’t you just listen?” I bite out.
“Why do you have to be so bossy?”
“Why do you have to be so reckless?”
Her eyes flash. She turns on her heel, heading for the door.
“Where are you going now?” I catch her wrist, spinning her back. She’s suddenly close—too close—her breath warm against my chest. My gaze drops to her mouth before I can stop it.
Claim her, my bear growls. She’s ours.
Her palm presses against me, right over my heart, heat searing my bare chest. I swear the storm outside isn’t half as wild as what roars inside me.
“I’m going to get my Christmas tree,” she says, defiant even as she leans on me.
I want to crush my mouth to hers, feel her melt into me, wrap her in my arms until the storm passes—or forever.
Do it. She’s right here. Ours.
My jaw locks. My pulse hammers. And somehow, I let her go.
“Not with that ankle,” I rasp before clearing my throat. “Sit.”
I guide her toward the living room. It’s nearly bare, just cardboard boxes and a nest of blankets on the floor. My chest tightens. Alone. No furniture. No power. No one to take care of her.
“You don’t have furniture?” I ask quietly.
She flushes, muttering, “I just moved in.”
I swallow back the urge to tell her she won’t have to do this alone anymore. Instead, I adjust the nest of blankets, arranging them by the cold fireplace. “Sit. If I can’t get your electricity back, I’ll get your fireplace going.”
“I don’t know if it even works.” She nibbles her bottom lip, catching my gaze.
“Well, you’re lucky I can check that too.”
“I need to get my tree before the storm gets worse so you can get home.”
Home. My chest aches at her words. Did I really want to leave? I wouldn’t stay if she asked me to go, but the thought of leaving feels wrong.
“You need to sit down before you injure yourself further. Plus, you’re freezing.” I grab her hands and turn them over, the white tips of her fingers obvious in the flashlight’s glow.
“I’m getting my tree. I didn’t spend all evening driving up the mountain and getting stuck in the snow to not have it.” She curls her fingers into fists and stares at me resolutely.
“You’re staying inside.”
“Don’t tell me what to do. This is my house.”
I smirk at her fierce determination. My little witch.
“You won’t last the night in this freezing house with a storm raging outside.” I step toward the door, pointing out the window to the barely visible truck and trailer.
She glances at the window, lips pursed.
“Fine.” Candlelight flickers across her face as she sinks down into the nest of blankets, blonde and blue hair tumbling around her shoulders. My bear claws at me, demanding I go back, haul her into my lap, kiss her until she forgets her own name.
I linger a moment too long, the storm rattling the windows, the air charged between us.
“What about my tree?” Her quiet question breaks the moment, and I tear myself away.
“I’ll bring your tree in,” I growl, snatching my shirt from the floor and pulling it on. My hand finds the doorknob, grip tight enough that my knuckles blanch before I step into the growing storm, needing to cool down before temptation drags me back inside.