Chapter Seven
Laney
The power’s been out for two hours now, and the temperature’s already dropped inside the cabin despite the fire snapping and popping in the fireplace. Outside, the storm sounds like something alive and furious, rattling windows and driving snow horizontally against the glass.
“Generator’s working, but it’s only wired for essentials,” Ryder announces, coming back inside after checking the utility shed. His coat is covered in snow from the brief trip across the yard. “Water pump and a couple of outlets. Most of the house is still going to be cold.”
I light another oil lamp with practiced efficiency—growing up in this cabin taught me to be prepared for mountain weather. “We’ll have to make do with the fireplace and what battery power we have left.”
“What about Jasper?” Ryder asks, moving to check on the snake’s terrarium in the living room. “His heating system’s off.”
I watch him study the temperature gauge. There’s something different about his posture when he’s around Jasper—more careful, tense. “You were right to worry about him.”
I survey the cabin’s main room, noting how Hamlet has claimed the prime real estate near the fireplace, and Duchess is settled in her cozy corner setup.
“We’ll need to move him to the bedroom. It was a later addition and has great insulation.
Plus, one of the working generator outlets is in there, so we can keep his heating system running.
In addition, both Peanut and Duchess seem more agitated whenever Jasper’s around.
The bedroom will be quieter for him and keep the other animals calmer. ”
There’s a pause, and I realize what I’ve just suggested. If Jasper takes my bedroom, that leaves both of us sleeping out here. Together.
A pulse of awareness hits low and hard. It has nothing to do with the snake and everything to do with the orc.
For a second, I consider just sleeping in there anyway—I’ve handled Jasper plenty, so what’s one night sharing a room?
But then I remember the musk. Snakes aren’t exactly fragrant roommates, especially in a small, enclosed space with the heater running all night.
I can handle touching him just fine, but sleeping with that smell? Hard pass.
“The living room it is,” I say with a determined nod.
“You sure about that?” Ryder asks. There’s something careful in his tone.
My breath catches, but I keep my voice steady. “Animals first. That’s what we agreed on.”
We work together to relocate Jasper’s terrarium, moving carefully through the cabin by lamplight. The air between us is chilly everywhere except where his arm brushes mine—his body heat radiates like a furnace, the warmth so steady it feels elemental, like he carries a piece of the fire inside him.
The big snake seems calmer once he’s in the warmer environment, coiling peacefully in his habitat. My bedroom looks strange with the large terrarium taking up most of the floor space, but it’s the practical solution.
“He should be fine in here,” Ryder says, adjusting the placement one final time. “Better insulation, and his rock should heat up quickly now that we’ve got it plugged into one of the few outlets that gets power from the genny.”
When we return to the main room, the reality of our new sleeping arrangements hits me.
“You should take the couch,” Ryder says, shaking out blankets. “It’s better than the floor.”
“Which is exactly why you should have it,” I shoot back. “You’re twice my size. The floor’s going to be brutal.”
He shakes his head, calm as always. “I’ve handled worse. It’ll suit you better than me.”
I narrow my eyes, ready to argue, but he just holds my gaze. Finally, I blow out a frustrated breath. “Fine. But only because you’re being stubborn.”
I stretch out on the cushions—then immediately regret it.
A spring jabs my hip like it’s auditioning for medieval torture equipment.
The backrest slopes so badly I feel like I’m sliding into a hole, and the whole thing sags like a hammock that’s lost the will to live.
I shift left, then right, then tuck my knees up, but every position uncovers a new spring determined to bruise a different part of me.
After three minutes I bolt upright with a groan.
“Okay, this thing is a war crime disguised as furniture.”
Ryder smirks. “Didn’t even last five minutes. I survived two nights.”
“Which makes you either superhuman or in need of a chiropractor,” I shoot back.
Flopping upright, I rub my lower back with a wince.
“Seriously, though… I’m sorry, Ryder. I had no idea it was this bad.
I haven’t sat on it, let alone slept on it in years.
Usually, I sit in the big chair by the window to read, and in the evening I move to the rocker near the fireplace.
You should have said something.” The words come out more earnest than I expect, because watching him grin at me like this—easy, unbothered, good-natured—just makes the guilt sharper.
Ryder shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Firehouse bunks aren’t much better. At least this doesn’t smell like wet gear.”
“That’s not the ringing endorsement you think it is.” I rub my lower back, wincing. “Sorry you had to battle this thing at night while I was cozy in my bed.”
He quirks one brow, amusement glinting in his eyes. “Don’t apologize. You didn’t know.”
“I should have guessed,” I mutter. “Any couch that ugly has to be hiding a bad personality.”
That earns me a low laugh, warm enough to make my stomach flutter. I glance toward the bedroom doorway, an idea forming. “You know what? This is ridiculous. We’re both going to end up with permanent spinal damage if we keep this up.”
“What are you thinking?” Ryder asks, his tone curious.
“My mattress. Let’s just bring it out here.” I gesture toward the fireplace. “It’ll be warmer, more comfortable, and we can both actually sleep without becoming medical marvels of human—and orc—endurance.”
He considers this for a beat, then nods. “Makes sense. Want help?”
“Are you kidding? That thing weighs a ton.” I’m already moving toward the bedroom, adrenaline spiking at the prospect of actually being comfortable—and maybe at the idea of being a little closer to him without having to admit that’s what I want.
The bedroom is darker now with only lamplight filtering in from the main room, and colder without the fire’s warmth. Jasper’s terrarium takes up a good portion of the floor space, the heat lamp casting an eerie glow over his coiled form.
“Okay,” I say, surveying the situation. “We need to flip it on its side first, then maneuver it through the door.”
Ryder moves to one end of the mattress with the easy confidence of someone used to heavy lifting.
When he grips the edge and lifts, his shoulders flex beneath his shirt, muscles shifting with barely contained power.
He makes it look effortless—the mattress coming up in one smooth motion that would’ve had me grunting and straining.
I try not to stare. I fail spectacularly.
“Coming through,” he says, angling it through the doorway with surprising grace for someone his size, especially while handling something that bulky in such a tight space. His biceps bulge as he adjusts his grip, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut across his chest and back.
Holy hell.
I’m supposed to be helping, but instead I’m having increasingly inappropriate thoughts about those muscles and what they’d feel like under my hands. Or against my body. Or…
“Laney? You okay?”
I snap out of my reverie to find him watching me with an amused glint in his eyes that suggests he knows exactly where my thoughts wandered.
“Fine!” I squeak, grabbing the other end of the mattress with perhaps more enthusiasm than necessary. “Totally fine. Just, uh, making sure you don’t hit Peanut’s cage.”
“Right,” he says, and there’s definitely laughter in his voice now. “Wouldn’t want to disturb Peanut.”
We angle the mattress through the living room, working in tandem now.
When we reach the fireplace, he lowers his end with controlled strength, then helps me position mine.
The mattress settles onto the floor with a soft thump, immediately transforming our sleeping arrangements from “medieval torture” to “actually civilized.”
“There,” I say, slightly breathless—and not just from the physical exertion. “Much better.”
“Much better,” he agrees, but he’s not looking at the mattress. He’s looking at me, firelight dancing across his features, making his green skin seem to glow from within.
For a moment, we just stand here, the reality of what we’ve done settling over us. One mattress. On the floor. In front of the fire. Together.
The air between us thickens, charged with possibility and unspoken questions.
Before I can apologize yet again, Hamlet waddles over with imperial dignity, grunts once, and heaves himself onto the couch. The cushions groan under his bulk as he sprawls out with the smugness of a king who’s just claimed his throne.
“At least someone’s comfortable,” I say dryly.
“Guess Hamlet called dibs,” Ryder says, chuckling. His eyes crinkle when he laughs, and for a second, I forget the storm howling outside.
I settle onto my side of the mattress, leaving a careful strip of space between us—enough to be proper, not so much that I lose the warmth he’s churning out like a furnace.
The firelight glints off the faint ivory curve of his tusks and the black braid that slips over one massive shoulder, reminders that he’s not human—yet somehow, he feels safe.
The arrangement is cozy in a way that feels both intimate and surprisingly natural.
I catch myself watching Ryder in the firelight, the way his big hands move with quiet efficiency as he unfolds his blanket.
It’s strange how easily he fits into the rhythms of my cabin, like he’s been here longer than a few days.