Chapter 5 Aspen
Aspen
Ididn’t sleep a wink last night. Not really.
I pace the lodge until the fire burns low and the shadows creep like they’ve been waiting for me to slow down.
Every time I close my eyes, I swear I still feel his hand on my waist—rough, warm, proprietary.
Like he was claiming a piece of me he has no right to.
Which is why I do the only thing that makes sense.
I grab the bat lights.
If the mountain man wants war over décor, war he shall receive.
I sling the second strand of lights over my shoulder and head toward the loft railing. The lodge is quiet in the pre-dawn hours. Almost peaceful. The kind of quiet people write poetry about. Or murder ballads. Hard to tell which. Outside, snow falls slow and thick, swallowing the trees.
With a bite of my lip, I lean over the loft and hang the glowing bat strand across the edge. Then another above the windows. Then another from the chandelier. By the time I’m finished, the living room looks like a gothic ballroom hosted by chaos gremlins.
I survey my work.
Perfect.
The generator hums to life outside, rattling faintly. Then the back door slams. Heavy boots stomp across the floor.
Showtime.
Thorne rounds the corner, covered in a fine mist of snow, shirt stretched over his shoulders now, jaw tight. His eyes hit the bats immediately.
He stops walking.
Then he looks up.
Slowly.
At me.
And he doesn’t smile.
He doesn’t even blink.
“You,” he says.
“Me,” I confirm sweetly.
“What,” he asks, gesturing at the ceiling, “is that?”
“Atmosphere.”
“What kind of atmosphere needs seven bat strands?”
“A sexy one.”
His jaw tics. “You call this sexy?”
“I call this victory.”
He stalks toward the breaker panel.
“No!” I launch myself down the stairs to block him. “Uh-uh. No way. You don’t get to kill the mood twice in twenty-four hours.”
“Mood?” He gestures toward the massacre of plastic bats. “You mean the electrical hazard?”
“They’re UL certified.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means safe for indoor chaos.”
We stare each other down. Heat crackles. I lift my chin, feeling that reckless dare roll off me again.
“Say it,” he growls.
“Say what?”
“That you’re doing this to get a rise out of me.”
“I would never,” I gasp dramatically. “I respect you and your control issues.”
He closes the distance between us, crowding me back against the wall by the panel. “Control issues?” he asks softly.
Intensity radiates off him—hot, consuming, too much. But I don’t move. Don’t breathe.
Don’t blink.
“Thorne,” I say carefully, “if you shut those lights off, I swear—I will hex your beard.”
His eyes drop to my mouth. “Hex my—what the hell does that even mean?”
“It means I’ll braid tinsel in it while you’re sleeping.”
His lips twitch. Dangerous. “You touch my beard, you’ll need last rites, witch.”
“Promises, promises.”
We stand too close again—always too close. My pulse kicks hard, traitorous and obvious. And he hears it. Feels it. His expression shifts, slow and molten, like something inside him has decided.
“So that’s how it is,” he murmurs.
“How what is?” I ask, breath catching.
“You like pushing men who push back.”
My throat tightens. “I like men who don’t bore me to death.”
“Good,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough that I feel his breath against my cheek, sparking nerve endings like wildfire. “Because I don’t plan on being boring with you.”
I swallow. “Is that another threat?”
“No,” he growls. “It’s a guarantee.”
The power flickers overhead—almost like the lodge is reacting to him. To us. The bats pulse crimson.
He steps back first, eyes still burning into mine. “Leave the bats,” he says finally.
I blink. “What?”
“I said leave them.”
My mouth falls open. “You’re not turning them off?”
His jaw flexes. “You wanted atmosphere. Fine. You win this one.”
He flips a switch—not the breaker—and one lantern by the fireplace flickers to life. The shadows move across his face, carving sharp lines of hunger and restraint.
“But we set rules,” he says. “Before you burn this place down with your sugar-coated insanity.”
“I don’t do rules,” I say.
“You will.”
My heart kicks. “Try me.”
He counts on his fingers.
“One: no candy left out.”
“Rude.”
“Two: limited lights. You don’t plug in anything else without telling me first.”
“We’ll discuss that.”
“Three.” He waits until I meet his eyes. “You don’t climb shit without me there.”
I freeze. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” His voice dips, controlled and raw. “If you’re climbing, I’m holding you.”
Oh.
Oh.
The meaning behind that simple sentence hits between my ribs. Hard. Possessive and protective and unnecessary—but so stupidly hot I can barely think.
My voice is husky when I speak. “And if I don’t agree?”
He leans in again, voice a dark promise. “Then I’ll tie you to the damn railing to keep you safe.”
The heat between us spikes into something feral.
I still don’t back down.
“That's kinky,” I whisper.
His lips curve—slow, wicked. “You have no idea.”
My entire body lights up. There it is—the hunger he keeps trying to hide. The beast under the beard and flannel. I want more.
“Fine,” I say, voice steadier than I feel. “I’ll follow your rules—if you follow mine.”
His brow lifts. “You have rules?”
“Oh, so many.” I step closer. “Rule one: don’t cut my power without warning.”
His gaze drops to my lips again, hungry. “Don’t tempt me.”
“Rule two: let me finish the decorations.”
“We’ll see.”
“And rule three.” I pause for effect. “No touching.”
He goes still.
Completely still.
“That so?” he asks quietly.
“Yes.” I lift my chin. “You don’t get to touch me whenever you want. Especially not when I’m five feet up a ladder or minding my own business.”
He steps into me again, shadow swallowing me whole. “You think I want to touch you?”
“I know you do.”
His breath punches out slow. Controlled. Dangerous.
“Careful,” he rasps. “You keep talking like that, I’ll give you something real to be afraid of.”
My pulse skitters. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t play nice either.”
We stand there in gridlocked tension, neither willing to step back first. Then he surprises me.
He holds out his hand.
“A truce,” he says.
My brows knit. “With rules?”
“Three each.”
“What happens if one of us breaks one?”
His fingers curl around mine when I slip my hand into his—big, warm, calloused. “Then we settle it.”
“How?”
His gaze scorches me. “Any way we want.”
We shake on it.
A stupid, dangerous handshake.
And the moment his palm slides from mine, I feel it like a mark burned into skin.
I spin away before I melt into a puddle of poor life choices and haunted lust. “Great,” I chirp with forced cheer. “Then I’ll get back to working.”
“Don’t blow a fuse,” he warns.
I toss hair back over my shoulder and start toward the décor box. “Don’t blow a gasket.”
“Aspen,” he calls.
I look back.
“Leave the lips,” he says again, voice gravel-dark. “I like the red.”
I shouldn’t shiver.
But I do.
The storm howls outside, and the bats glow hotter.
Game on.
It takes another hour to restore the room to my standards—cobweb draped perfectly, skull mantle balanced, candles arranged safely far from fabric. I’m adding finishing touches to a centerpiece (fog machine + ravens = romantic ambiance, fight me) when Thorne reappears, wiping grease off his hands.
He jerks his chin toward the dining room. “Dinner.”
I pad over, curious and cautious. He lifts the lid off a cast iron skillet, and a waft of something warm and savory fills the air.
“Is that… stew?” I blink.
“Elk,” he says.
My jaw drops. “Like… an actual elk?”
He stares. “No, the imaginary kind.”
“Touché.” I take a seat across from him while he ladles it into two bowls. “So you hunt.”
He grunts. “I live.”
“And cook.”
He slides a bowl toward me. “I survive.”
I take a spoonful. Pause. Then moan.
His hand flexes around his own spoon.
“Okay,” I breathe. “That’s illegal. What did you put in this?”
“Food.”
“Lies. That is sex in a bowl.”
His mouth twitches. “Eat quietly.”
“You cook quietly.”
We eat in relative silence—meaning I make appreciative noises while he watches me with a look that should be outlawed. Something keeps twisting in my gut, something more than attraction.
When the bowls are empty, he rises to clean up. I watch the muscles ripple across his back and try not to embarrass myself with thirsty sounds.
“So why do this?” I ask suddenly. “Run a romantic mountain getaway?”
“It pays.”
“And?”
He pauses at the sink. Shrugs. “I take care of the lodge, guests take care of themselves. I don’t cater.”
“Ah. You’re one of those.”
“Those?”
“Men who think isolation is a personality trait.”
Instead of snapping back, he just watches me. A long, unreadable stare. “You don’t like quiet?”
“Quiet’s fine,” I say. “Lonely isn’t.”
He dries his hands. “Some of us do better alone.”
“And some of us say that because we’re scared,” I shoot back before I can stop myself.
His jaw tightens. “You don’t know shit about me.”
“Then tell me I’m wrong.”
He steps forward—and I brace, expecting explosion.
But he doesn’t yell.
He doesn’t flinch.
He leans in.
“That rule you made,” he says, voice low. “No touching?”
My heart stutters. “Yeah?”
He cups my jaw.
And just like that—breaks it.
His hand is rough, warm, certain—a brand against my skin. My breath stutters, chest tightening as his thumb drags across my jaw in a slow, claiming stroke I feel everywhere.
“You—” I start, but nothing coherent forms. I hate that he does this to me—rewires me with a single touch. Pulls me apart without force. Makes me want.
“Rule broken,” he says, voice molten and unapologetic.
My pulse pounds against his palm. “That was your rule.”
“It was yours.” His eyes are molten green fire in the flickering light. “You made it. I’m breaking it.”
“You don’t get to do that.”
“I already did.”
I step back but he follows, crowding me until my spine meets the wall. “You don’t get to just—”
He cages me with his arms, palms pressing to the wall on either side of my head. “To what? Touch you?” His gaze drops to my mouth. “You want me to stop?”
No. Yes. Maybe. Shit.
“We had a deal,” I manage, but my voice wavers, soft and breathless. Dangerous.
He leans closer, lips a breath from mine, his hold on control razor-thin. “We had rules,” he says. “Rules have consequences.”
Before I can ask what kind, before I can breathe, he drags his mouth along the curve of my jaw, slow and hot and devastating. Not a kiss. Not yet. But a promise.
I freeze. Melt. Ignite.
“Thorne…” It comes out like a plea.
He inhales against my skin like I’m something he’s been starving for. “You wanted distance,” he rasps. “But you don’t fucking want distance from me.”
Liar, liar, lace on fire.
His mouth finds the corner of mine, brushing once—soft, testing—before pulling back just enough to force me to chase him.
I don’t.
But I want to. God, do I want to.
“You don’t get to do this,” I whisper.
“What am I doing?” His breath skims my lips.
“You’re trying to win.”
He laughs low. Dark. “No, witch. Winning implies there was a contest. I’m just taking what’s already mine.”
Heat slams low and wicked between my thighs. I hate him. I want him. I hate that I want him.
“You think I’m yours?” I whisper.
He tilts my chin with two fingers, forcing me to look at him—every primal inch of him. “Not yet.”
My stomach flips.
Then flips again when he steps back, leaving me pressed against the wall, intoxicated and furious and achingly, painfully wanting.
“That’s enough for tonight,” he says, voice suddenly gruff again. Controlled. “You’re tired. You’re worked up. You make bad decisions when you’re both.”
“Excuse me?” I push off the wall, stalking toward him. “I make great decisions.”
He lifts a brow. “Prove it. Go to bed. Alone.”
My mouth opens. Closes. Rage flares. Flames of humiliation lick up my spine.
He walks to the stairs like he didn’t just carve me open with restraint. “Lock up. No more candy theft. No climbing shit. Goodnight.”
“Thorne,” I snap.
He pauses at the base of the stairs, looks back.
“That little move?” I gesture wildly between us. “That was weak.”
He smiles then. Slow and lethal.
He stalks back down two steps with deliberate slowness. “Weak?”
“Pathetic power play.”
He stops in front of me again, so close I feel his heat. His hand comes up, slow and deliberate, and he brushes the pad of his thumb over my lower lip—smearing it, marking me. “Weak is letting you think you’re in control.”
Oh. Oh, hell.
He steps back once more, eyes glittering. “Don’t wipe it off,” he says, voice like a promise and a threat rolled into one. “I want to see it at breakfast.”
He leaves me there, heart wrecked, lipstick smeared, breath gone.
I don’t follow.
But I watch him go.
And I know—deep in the bones of me—that whatever this is, it’s not over.
It’s only beginning.
Tomorrow, I’ll hang more decor.
Tomorrow, I’ll break another rule.
And tomorrow, when Thorne Maddox comes for me again?
I won’t stop him.
Not anymore.