Chapter 17
Marie POV
The county emergency storm siren wailed across Lake Mistassini, a dull, mechanical shriek swallowed by forty-knot wind gusts that drove sheets of blinding white powder off the frozen water.
Inside the cab of Chosen’s four-wheel-drive pickup truck, the defroster blasted hot air against the windshield, the wipers fighting a losing battle against the rapidly accumulating ice.
On the radio, an automated National Weather Service broadcast droned through static, declaring a total state of emergency for Essex County: All municipal roads closed.
Travel prohibited until fourteen-hundred hours tomorrow.
When we reached the south access bridge leading back toward campus and my flat on Pine Street, two state police cruisers sat nose-to-nose across the asphalt, their blue-and-red light bars bleeding through the blizzard like fractured glass.
Chosen didn't slow down to negotiate. He checked his side mirror, hauled the steering wheel hard to the left, and swung the truck down an unplowed private lane that cut through a dense stand of frosted hemlocks along the northern shoreline.
Ten minutes later, the front tires crunched over the deep drifts of a private drive, stopping before a converted stone-and-timber carriage house set fifty yards from the frozen water.
"Out," he said, cutting the ignition.
We made a run for the porch through snow that reached the middle of my calves. The sub-zero wind tore at the hem of my emerald-green silk dress, driving freezing needles of ice through the thin fabric and soaking my stockings. My teeth were chattering so violently the enamel ached.
Chosen unlocked the heavy timber front door, pushed me inside out of the gale, and slammed the thick oak frame shut against the storm.
He threw the heavy brass deadbolt.
The sharp metallic click resonated through the silence of the foyer, sealing the two of us inside four walls of dry stone and cured timber while the blizzard howled against the exterior glass.
The sudden quiet was staggering.
The house was warm, the air carrying the deep scent of seasoned cedarwood, black tea, leather, and clean laundry. In the corner of the open living room, cast-iron radiators hummed and clanged against the subterranean foundations, radiating steady, dry heat.
My phone buzzed in my evening clutch.
I pulled it out, my fingers stiff and white from the cold.
Tessa Rhodes [23:42]:
Police shut down Route 9. Bridges are iced over. National Guard called in for snowdrifts. Do not try to walk home. Sleep wherever you are.
I stared at the screen, my heart hammering against my ribs in a slow, heavy cadence.
Chosen tossed his truck keys into a wooden bowl on the entryway console, the brass ringing out in the quiet. He stripped off his soaked black wool coat, hung it on an iron peg, and turned to look at me.
His bow tie was undone, hanging loose around his unbuttoned collar.
His dark hair was frosted with melting snow that dripped down the hard curve of his temple, his chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate drags.
He looked at my damp dress, my trembling hands, and the soaked leather of my evening heels.
"Go into the bathroom," he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that filled the warm entryway. "Take off the dress before you catch pneumonia."
* * *
He didn't wait for an answer. He walked down the short timber-lined hallway, disappeared into a bedroom, and returned five seconds later with a thick, folded stack of gray fleece.
He thrust the clothes into my arms.
"Shower's through that door. Hot water runs five minutes before it peaks. Put these on."
I took the bundle against my chest, my numb fingers sinking into the dense cotton. "Chosen—"
"Move, Marie," he murmured, his thumb grazing the side of my cold jaw, leaving a trail of pure fire across my skin. "You're shivering so hard you can barely hold your phone."
I turned into the bathroom and clicked the lock on the door.
The room was pristine, tiled in slate gray, smelling of mint soap and cedar. I set the bundle on the counter and reached behind my neck, my shaking fingers struggling with the small pearl buttons of my gown.
When the silk fell away, pooling in a wet, shimmering ring around my bare feet, I let out a long, shuddering breath that rattled in my throat.
I peeled off the soaked stockings, turned the chrome shower tap until steam billowed behind the frosted glass, and scrubbed the freezing residue of the gala from my limbs until my skin flushed a deep, burning rose.
When I stepped out and reached for his clothes, my throat constricted.
The gray fleece was an oversized Carver Men’s Hockey team traveling hoodie. Stitched into the heavy ribbed sleeve in dark forest-green thread was the number fourteen.
I pulled the sweater over my head.
The heavy cotton fell past my mid-thigh, the hem swallowing my hips, the ribbed cuffs dropping three inches past my fingertips.
The fabric was saturated with his presence—warm cedar, winter wind, and the dark, clean scent of his skin.
The black drawstring sweatpants were so long I had to roll the thick waistband twice to keep the cuffs from dragging under my heels.
Wearing his clothes was a psychological branding. The heavy weight of the fleece against my bare skin felt like a physical claiming, an unyielding shield that stripped away the last remaining shred of my professional distance.
I ran my fingers through my damp hair, untangling the remaining pins, and pushed open the bathroom door.
Chosen was standing in the open kitchen, leaning back against the granite island.
He had discarded his waistcoat, tie, and dress shirt.
He wore only a fitted black sleeveless compression shirt and dark gray athletic shorts, his massive, heavily muscled frame dominating the dim amber space.
The three-inch surgical scar on his collarbone stood out sharp against his pale skin; the compass rose tattooed over his left ribs expanded and contracted with each steady breath he took.
In his hands, he held two heavy ceramic mugs of black tea.
He stopped moving the second my bare feet touched the wide plank floor of the living room.
His gaze locked onto mine, then tracked slowly downward.
He took in the sight of his number fourteen sweater hanging off my slender shoulders, the dark waves of my damp hair spilling across the green embroidery, his sweatpants rolled at my waist. His pupils dilated until the dark brown of his irises vanished under black.
His chest rose on a slow, rough inhale, the muscles in his forearms tightening as his fingers gripped the ceramic mugs.
The air in the room grew thick, compressed into pure kinetic friction.
"Tea's hot," he rasped, his voice ruined and thick, dragging over the quiet like rough wool over raw skin.
* * *
He carried the mugs to the low oak table set before a wood-burning stone fireplace in the corner of the living room. Inside the iron hearth, thick birch logs crackled and popped, casting dancing amber light across the leather couch.
I walked over, my bare toes curling against the warm grain of the hardwood, and sat down on the far cushion, tucking my legs beneath the oversized fleece of his pants.
Chosen didn't take the opposite end.
He set the mugs down and sat directly beside me, his massive thigh pressing against mine through the heavy gray cotton.
The sheer physical heat radiating off his bare shoulders pushed back the chill leaking through the panoramic glass behind us, where the blizzard threw sheets of white against the darkness.
He didn't speak. He reached out with both hands, his large, calloused palms wrapping around my small, pale fingers.
His skin was fever-hot, rough from years of hockey tape and bare-knuckle checks, but his touch was agonizingly gentle.
He began slowly rubbing warmth back into my hands, his thumbs sliding over my knuckles, over the back of my hand, tracing the cool oval of the antique silver signet ring on my pinky.
My breath caught in my throat. My pulse, already elevated, settled into a deep, heavy rhythm that matched the ticking of the wall clock.
"You took a hit for me tonight, Marie," he said softly, his eyes staying on our joined hands. The gravel in his voice was quiet, stripped of every ounce of the enforcer mask. "In front of Sterling. In front of the boosters."
"I told you on the terrace," I whispered, watching his thumb smooth over my skin. "I meant what I said. They don't get to treat you like a broken machine."
Chosen went still.
His hands tightened around mine for one fraction of a second, his knuckles white, before his right hand left my fingers and rose to the side of my face.
His blunt fingers cupped the curve of my jaw, his thumb dragging across the swollen crest of my lower lip.
The contact was an electric current straight to my central nervous system.
He leaned in, his broad chest blotting out the amber glow of the fire, his shadow swallowing me against the leather cushions.
He didn't rush. He pulled me across the small space between us until my shoulder pressed flush against his chest, his left arm wrapping around my waist, anchoring me to his side.
His face dipped down until his lips hovered a fraction of a millimeter from mine. I could feel the heat of his breath, smelling of cedar and black tea, washing over my cheek in ragged, uneven bursts.
"Look at me, Marie," he murmured, the command velvet-soft and unyielding.
I lifted my eyes, looking directly into the dark, bottomless heat of his gaze. The defiance was gone from my chest; the clinical arguments were dead. There was only this room, this storm, and the terrifying, beautiful certainty that I had crossed a threshold from which I never wanted to return.
"The blizzard's locked in until tomorrow afternoon," he whispered, his lips grazing the corner of my mouth as he spoke, sending a violent, breathless shiver through my ribs. "The roads are dead. The phones are dead. There is nobody in this county except you and me."
My eyelids fluttered, my hands rising to grip the thick muscle of his bicep, holding on. "Chosen..."
"I'm done fighting it, Marie," he rasped, his thumb tilting my face up, his breath searing my parted lips. "I am completely, undeniably done pretending I can let you walk out of my hands."