Chapter 8 Thorne
Thorne
Aspen Taylor is going to be the death of me.
She stands in front of the massive stone fireplace, one hand on her hip, hair wild from earlier chaos, lipstick smudged like sin, laughter already simmering beneath the surface as she pops open another miniature bottle of fireball whiskey.
And I’m losing. Not the argument. Not the power struggle. I’m losing my goddamn mind over her.
The livestream is over. The storm hasn’t let up. The generator is still dead. And the lodge looks like a haunted circus exploded inside it—tinsel, fog, ravens, fake gravestones, and glittering jack-o-lanterns everywhere.
Chaos.
Her chaos.
And it’s seeping into me like poison I can’t refuse.
She tosses me a daredevil smile. “We should pass the time tonight like civilized adults,” she says.
I snort. “You’re incapable of civilization.”
“True.” She grins. “Which is why we’re playing Truth or Dare: Halloween Edition.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
She flops dramatically onto the couch, legs crossed, skirt riding up in a way that should be illegal. “Scared?”
“I don’t play drunk party games.”
“This isn’t drunk. This is scary drunk. Big difference.”
“Still not happening.”
She watches me from her sprawled throne of throw pillows she smuggled in. “Fine. You pick the game.”
“We’re not playing any game.”
“We could always play strip—”
“Truth or Dare it is,” I cut her off, sitting across from her before she can finish that suicidal sentence.
She beams. I already regret breathing.
“Okay!” She claps once. “I go first.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
I glare. “That’s my line.”
She leans forward, eyes wicked. “Not anymore.”
I don’t blink. “Go.”
“Thorne Maddox.” She points at me like she’s Moses laying down a commandment. “Truth or dare?”
“Dare.”
“Thank God.” She bolts off the couch, rummages inside her ridiculous Halloween crate, and comes back with a paintbrush and a tiny jar of neon-orange body paint.
“No,” I tell her.
“Yes,” she sings.
“That’s not happening.”
She pops the jar open and wiggles the brush at me. “Take your shirt off.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then you fail. Which means…” She taps her chin dramatically. “You have to surrender one of your rules.”
My jaw flexes. Little menace knows exactly what she’s doing.
“One rule,” she repeats. “Gone. Permanently.”
I could walk away. End it now.
Instead, I peel off my shirt.
Her thighs press together.
I notice.
Her cheeks get pink.
I notice that, too.
She steps closer, suddenly quieter. Lips parted. Paintbrush poised. “Lay down,” she says.
I don’t move. “Why.”
She cocks her head. “Because I’m painting a jack-o’-lantern on your abs. Obviously.”
I stare at her. “You’re deranged.”
“And you’re ruining the vibe. Down.”
I exhale once—through my nose—and lie back across the rug in front of the fire.
She kneels beside me, straddling one thigh for balance, body heat brushing against me through layers of cotton and denim. Fake casual. Real dangerous. Her scent hits me—sweet, warm, vanilla with something darker beneath.
She dips the brush in paint. Pauses. Looks at my stomach like she’s about to worship or destroy it. Maybe both.
“Hold still,” she murmurs.
“Not a problem.”
“That sounds like a problem.”
Then she touches me.
Paintbrush trails across my abs in slow strokes that feel nothing like paint.
No. They feel like fingertips. Like curiosity. Like temptation in bright Halloween orange.
I watch her face instead of her hand. Her concentration is infuriating. Lips parted, brow pinched. There’s a smear of paint on her wrist and a little freckle near her collarbone that I never noticed before.
“You’re staring,” she mutters.
“You’re climbing me.”
“This is art.”
“This is harassment.”
“Then sue me.”
“You’d like that.”
Her brush dips lower. My muscles tighten—and her eyes flick up.
“Sensitive?” she dares.
“Focused.”
She drags the bristles slowly over my lower abdomen, dangerously close to a boundary we haven’t talked about yet. Electricity crackles under my skin.
“You’re enjoying this,” I say.
She grins—sharp and bright. “Immensely.”
She finishes the first pumpkin, complete with sharp teeth and devil horns—cute—and then paints two more, making a whole unholy trio grinning up from my torso.
She sits back, proud and breathless. “Beautiful. Festive. Terrifying.”
I grab her wrist before she moves away. “My turn.”
She freezes. “Excuse me?”
I sit up slowly, taking her with me because I still haven’t let go. “Truth or dare.”
She tries to pull free. I don’t let her.
“What are my options,” she asks, voice a little too light.
“You know them.”
She bites her bottom lip. I watch her do it and my restraint wobbles. “Truth.”
Of course she picks safe first.
Fine.
I brush my thumb over her pulse just once. “Why did you come here.”
She blinks. “I won a retreat.”
“No.” I lean closer. “Why here. Why Devil’s Peak. Why my lodge. Why alone.”
She swallows. Her guard flickers. “Because I needed a reset.”
“Try again.”
She pulls her hand from mine. “Your turn is over.”
“It’s a yes-or-no question,” I lie.
“It’s neither.”
“It’s a simple truth.”
“It’s not.”
“You’re dodging.”
“You’re invasive.”
Silence cuts sharp between us. Her chest rises and falls. Mine mirrors hers. Then—from nowhere—she says softly:
“My parents loved Halloween. It was our thing. Haunted houses, pumpkin carving, dumb costumes.” Her voice goes quiet. “This holiday—it’s how I keep them close.”
My breath stills.
I didn’t expect her to answer at all—let alone like that. Something inside my chest twists. She looks down at her hands, like she regrets speaking.
So I do something I shouldn’t.
I tell the truth back.
“My mom used to send me candy corn in care packages,” I say gruffly. “When I was deployed. I fucking hate candy corn.”
She looks up, surprised.
“But I ate every piece,” I finish. “Because she sent it.”
Aspen stares at me.
And for one beat, one long suspended moment—we’re not enemies. Not rivals. Not in a war.
Just two people telling the truth in a room full of ghosts.
She breathes. I breathe.
Then she whispers, “Your turn. Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
Her eyes dare me. “Why haven’t you touched me yet?”
She might as well have detonated a grenade.
My pulse detonates. My patience detonates. The last thread of my control snaps.
I move slow—too slow—closing the space between us until I feel her breath against my mouth. My voice drags low.
“Because,” I say, “once I touch you—I won’t stop.”
Her pupils blow wide. She sways closer.
“Once I get my hands on you,” I murmur, “I’m not giving you back.”
Air rushes between us. Heat. Gravity. Hunger.
She whispers, “Then maybe you should—”
A shriek splits the air. Aspen screams and launches backward as a black blur explodes out of the fireplace.
“What the—”
“BAT!” she screeches, diving behind me.
Chaos erupts. A furious, winged demon banshee circles violently overhead, screaming vengeance from the depths of its hellish soul. Aspen clings to me like she has a death wish. I don’t know whether to laugh or duck.
The bat dive-bombs us again. Aspen lets out a high-pitched noise that might be a curse or prayer.
“It’s going to kill us!” she cries.
“It’s an ounce of fluff with wings,” I tell her.
“It has fangs!”
“So do squirrels.”
“That is NOT comforting!”
The bat swoops again. I grab the bear pelt blanket off the couch and swing it like a net.
Aspen shrieks, “Get it! Get it! Get it!”
“If you keep screaming it will go for your mouth.”
She clamps her hands over her lips with a muffled, “Mmmph!”
I catch the winged gremlin mid-air and wrap it gently in the blanket until it stops flapping.
Aspen stares at me like I’ve just wrestled Lucifer.
I carry it to the door, set it free, and watch it flap dramatically into the night.
Aspen sags to the floor, clutching her chest. “Is your entire life a survival video?”
“Sometimes.”
“That was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
I smirk. “That was a Tuesday.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re lucky I don’t charge for pest control,” I tell her.
She flips me off. “You’re lucky I don’t sue for emotional trauma.”
“You’re lucky you still have a pulse.”
She glares. “You’re lucky your abs have pumpkins now, because I’m telling everyone you begged me for it.”
“You’re lucky you’re still breathing.”
“That’s a threat.”
“No,” I say, stepping close again, voice like a promise. “That’s a reminder.”
She rises to her feet, stubborn as hell. “Of what?”
“That I haven’t even started yet.”
We stare each other down.
She licks her lips—slow, nervous.
“You didn’t answer,” she whispers. “What are you going to do when you finally do touch me?”
I step close enough to feel her tremble. My voice burns low.
“Everything.”
She shivers.
And I don’t kiss her.
Not yet.
Because she asked for truth—and I gave it.
Next comes consequence.
And that—God help us both—is going to change everything.