Chapter 13 Aspen
Aspen
Iwake up draped in firelight and rock hard muscle.
Warm. Heavy. Tangled.
The world is nothing but embers, a wolfish heartbeat behind me, and arms—his arms—locked around my waist like he’s afraid I’ll slip into the night without him. I blink slowly, tasting sleep and smoke and the memory of him everywhere.
Oh God.
Last night wasn’t a dream.
I close my eyes again, letting the truth settle. The ache between my thighs, the soreness blooming along my hips where his hands held me, the fading sting of where his stubble scraped my throat—it all says the same thing.
We crossed a line.
And I didn’t just cross it—I sprinted into it, jumped over it, then set it on fire with gasoline and desire.
I don’t regret a single second.
The lodge is quiet, snow still pressed thick against every window. The storm rages on somewhere outside, but here—inside—time stopped. Magic happened. Something raw and dangerous was born.
Thorne breathes against my neck, steady and deep. I feel the drag of his chest along my back with every inhale, the slow grind of sleep-loosened instinct that makes him press closer.
Last night, he unraveled me. Broke me open. Told me without words that I am his—claimed, chosen, wanted.
And today?
I have no idea what today will be.
Because sex is just sex—but that wasn’t just sex.
That was a forest fire dressed as a kiss. That was a promise in the shape of his body against mine. That was an undoing. My undoing.
I try to ease away, because I need to think—need to breathe—but his grip only tightens. A hard arm slams me back to his chest with a warning groan. His voice, sleep-rough and sinful, slides along my spine.
“Don’t even think about it.”
Shivers roll through me. “Think about what?”
His breath drags slow against my throat. “Running.”
I swallow. “I’m not running.”
“Liar.”
God. He always sees too much.
His palm is splayed heavy across my ribs, thumb brushing the underside of my breast in idle, possessive strokes that steal sanity from my bones. My pulse trips. Every inch of me turns traitorous under his touch—soft, needy, raw.
“You okay?” he murmurs into my shoulder, voice lower than gravity.
“Yes.” My voice is a whisper I barely hear. “No. Maybe.”
He huffs amusement against my neck. “That was a lot of answers.”
“It was a complicated night.”
“Didn’t feel complicated to me.”
“It didn’t?”
“No, Aspen.” His lips brush just below my ear. “It felt right.”
Oh.
Oh, hell.
I hate him. I hate him for saying that and meaning it. For stripping me without touching me. For knowing—instantly—how to dismantle every wall I’ve ever built.
“We said we wouldn’t do this,” I breathe out.
He makes a low sound. “No. You said that.”
“I thought you agreed.”
“I didn’t agree.” His nose drags along my jaw, making my stomach drop. “I waited.”
“For what?”
“For you to stop lying to yourself.”
My pulse jolts. “I wasn’t lying.”
His hand slides up, fingers curling around the soft column of my throat—not squeezing, just holding. Claiming. “You’ve been lying since the second you walked into my life.”
“I have not.”
“You have,” he growls. “You act like this is a game. Like you’re here for a stupid Halloween contest. Like this—” his thumb strokes the tendon of my throat, making me shiver—“didn’t mean anything, when I know damn well it did.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Stop.”
“I won’t.” His voice digs deeper. “I won’t let you hide behind glitter and sarcasm and fake witch curses. You want real? Here it fucking is, witch. I want you. In my bed. In my life. For however long you’ll stay.”
My breath breaks. “Don’t—”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”
His hand turns my chin until I have no choice but to face him.
Glacial green eyes. Firelight. Truth.
“I don’t waste words,” he says. “If I say something, it’s because it’s carved into my bones.”
I ache. God, I ache everywhere. I want to kiss him so badly it hurts—but fear licks at me again.
Fear of losing this. Fear of wanting too much.
“You’ll get tired of me,” I whisper. “Everyone does eventually.”
He inhales, slow and lethal. “Look at me. Do I look temporary to you?”
My laugh comes out painful. “You look like the type to get bored when things get complicated.”
“You,” he growls, pulling me on top of him until I’m straddling his hips, “are never boring.”
His hand slides up my spine and buries into my hair. “You’re chaos. You’re wild. You’re alive. And I’ve never wanted anything more.”
Everything inside me goes silent.
Then loud.
I stare down at him. This brutal, infuriating man who guarded his heart behind stone and iron. This man who made me feel seen. Wanted. Matched.
“Thorne…”
“Say it,” he rasps. “Say you feel it too.”
My mouth trembles. “I do.”
He nods once, jaw tense. “Then stop fighting it.”
My lips part. “I’m not good with—”
“Trust?” he finishes for me. “Neither am I.”
“I always ruin things.”
“Then ruin me,” he says darkly. “If that’s what it takes to keep you here—do it.”
Shock flashes through me, followed by a wild, helpless rush of emotion. He isn’t asking. He’s choosing. Choosing me. Choosing this, messy and complicated and terrifying.
My fingers tremble on his chest. I lower myself slowly, heart in my throat. “What are we doing?”
A slow, dangerous smile curls his lips. “Living.”
I kiss him.
God, I kiss him like he might vanish. Like last night wasn’t enough. Like we might never stop. His mouth opens under mine and I taste him—coffee and candy corn and dark things I’m not afraid of anymore.
And it hits me.
I’m already his.
Completely. Stupidly. Undeniably.
“So now what?” I murmur against his lips.
He exhales like he’s been waiting for that question. “Now I give you something.”
I blink. “What?”
He shifts, reaching for something behind him near the stone hearth. When he sits back up, his hand is closed into a fist.
“What is that?”
He doesn’t answer.
My heart starts sprinting.
“Thorne—”
He takes my hand—my left hand—and places something in my palm.
It’s small. Round. Softly wrapped in purple foil.
I blink.
It’s a Halloween candy ring. A cheap plastic witch’s ring with a crooked hat, straight out of a trick-or-treat bag.
I stare at it, silent.
He holds my gaze, unflinching. “I don’t have diamonds but I’ll get one. I don’t do grand gestures. But I do real. And this? This is real.”
My throat tightens painfully.
“This ring,” he says, voice raw, “is a promise. I’m not running. I’m not letting go. I’m yours, Aspen Taylor—and you’re mine.”
Air leaves me.
He keeps going.
“If you want to leave here when the storm clears, I’ll let you. If you want your own space, I’ll build you a damn cottage.” His eyes burn into mine. “But whatever happens—I choose you. Today. Tomorrow. After. Always.”
My hand flies to my mouth.
He squeezes the ring between our fingers. “Marry me, witch. Make my life as insane as yours. Laugh at me every morning, curse at me every night. Stay. Be my chaos.”
Tears flood my eyes. Hot. Immediate. Unstoppable.
I look at him—this brutal man who howls instead of prays, who doesn’t know gentle but knows loyal so ferociously it hurts.
This is the moment. My moment. Ours.
“Yes,” I whisper, voice cracked open completely. “Yes, Thorne. I’ll marry you.”
He exhales like I just cut chains from his lungs—and then his mouth is on mine again, fierce, grateful, relieved.
He slides the stupid little plastic ring onto my finger, and it fits horribly. But somehow—it fits perfectly.
I laugh through tears, clutching his face. “You realize this means I’m staying, right?”
He grins—wolfish, wicked, mine. “Good.”
“And I’m redecorating everything.”
“Over my dead body.”
“And I’m painting your nails black when you sleep.”
“You try, I’ll tie you to the bed.”
Heat curls through me. “Promises.”
He growls.
We don’t stop kissing. Not for a long time. The storm howls outside, and his arms hold me like he never intends to let go. I don’t want him to.
Eventually, he pulls back just enough to look at me again.
“You’re not running anymore,” he says.
“No,” I whisper. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”
He presses his forehead to mine. “Good. Because I already warned the mountain—you’re mine now.”
I laugh into his mouth.
“I was always yours,” I whisper.
And he kisses me—slow and reverent and full of quiet, devastating truth.
The kind of kiss that feels like a promise.
The kind that lasts forever.