Chapter 11
Mara
It takes me a while to get my bearings when I wake. Watery light through a small window. The smell of charred wood.
Cabin. Remote village.
Amnesiac rescuer.
Right.
Just another day in Mara-land.
The fire has burned low, ash and embers scattered about the hearth. My neck aches from the makeshift bed, and every muscle protests as I push myself upright.
K’s pallet is empty.
I frown, hating how that makes me feel. He’s gone. Just… gone. Without waking me, without a word.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That his absence is probably a relief after yesterday’s tense silence and the mortifying kiss that apparently meant nothing to him.
But the hollowness in my chest argues otherwise.
The borrowed shirt I’m wearing—his shirt—still carries his scent. Male. Wild. My body responds before my brain catches up, heat pooling low in my belly.
Stop it.
I move to the washbasin and do my best to scrub away the dirt of the past few days.
Someone has laid out a set of new clothes on a shelf, and I’m not sure if I’m grateful or creeped out by the fact that they must have come in here while I was sleeping.
I lean toward gratitude when it turns out that there’s a thick, warm shirt that actually fits, and heavy trousers that don’t need to be rolled up to my ankles.
I pull on my boots, then reach for the cloak K lent me.
Wrapping it around my shoulders feels like being held by him again.
That furnace-heat of his skin, the way his arms anchored me against his chest while we walked.
God, I’m pathetic. Seeking comfort in fabric because the man who owns it won’t touch me. But it totally unsettles me that he’s not around right now. Like something in my chest has tightened, squeezing the air from my lungs.
Need to find him.
Not because I’m a pathetic little woman or anything. He’s just my best chance of getting out of these damned mountains alive.
Right?
Whatever.
The door protests with a creak as I push it open. Cold air hits my face immediately, sharp enough to make my eyes water. The sun is creeping over the tops of the mountains, touching them with glowing colors that would be beautiful if I wasn’t freezing my ass off.
The village is already awake.
People move through the square quietly, yet with purpose—carrying water, tending animals, building fires. Traditional tasks for a traditional place. It’s like stepping into a historical documentary, except everything is real and I’m the awkward modern intruder who doesn’t belong.
A few villagers glance my way. Their gazes linger just long enough to make me uncomfortable before sliding away. Nobody approaches. Nobody speaks.
Just watch and whisper.
Great.
I hunch deeper into the cloak and start walking. I need to find K. Need to… What? Apologize for snapping at him yesterday? Explain that I wasn’t angry at him, just hurt and confused and completely out of my depth?
Yeah, that’ll go over well.
I wander through narrow paths between stone buildings, trying to look purposeful instead of lost. The architecture is beautiful in a stark, functional way—thick walls, small windows, slate roofs weathered by centuries of mountain storms.
No power lines. No satellite dishes. No cars or even bicycles.
These people live like it’s still the 1800s.
Or maybe they just never left.
A woman emerges from a dwelling ahead, carrying a basket of what looks like root vegetables. She’s maybe forty, sturdy build, with dark hair pulled back in a braid. She sees me and pauses.
I freeze, uncertain whether to approach or retreat.
She makes the decision for me, setting down her basket and crossing the path. “You look for your mate?”
Mate?
I’ve heard Elena and Caleb use the term. Some of the others in the Aurora Collective, too. But K? My mate? No. That doesn’t track.
“Um… sure, okay,” I say awkwardly. “The man I’m traveling with. Do you know where he went?”
She nods, gesturing toward a path leading away from the village center. “The stream. For washing.” Then she pauses, studying me with the frankness of someone who lives without social media filters. “He carries old blood. You can see it in his eyes.”
The casual observation makes me pause.
“Old blood?” I keep my voice light, curious. Not alarmed. Not like my brain is screaming, “What does that mean? What do you know? Does everyone here recognize what K is?”
She shrugs. “My grandmother spoke of such things. Men who walked these mountains before the new ways came.” She picks up her basket. “Be careful with him, girl. Old blood runs hot.”
She leaves before I can ask what that means.
Old blood runs hot?
I follow the path she indicated, my mind churning.
Freaky. Just fucking freaky.
What the hell was that all about?
The thought cuts off as the path curves, and I see him.
K.
Standing in the stream.
Completely, gloriously naked.
Holy mother of Bigfoot!
I stop so fast I almost trip over my own feet.
Water runs over his skin, catching morning light. Every muscle is defined—shoulders broad enough to carry me for hours without strain, chest carved like something out of a Renaissance sculpture, abs that I didn’t know actually existed on real human bodies.
But it’s not just the aesthetics that freeze me in place.
It’s the steam.
The water literally steams where it touches his skin. Not heavy fog, but visible wisps rising from his shoulders, his back, his arms. Like his body temperature is hot enough to make the frigid mountain stream evaporate on contact.
Holy shit.
He dips under the water, then surfaces. Runs both hands through his dark hair, slicking it back. More steam rises as water streams down his face, his throat, his chest.
Water slides down the defined ridges of his stomach. Lower. I can’t help but track its path, and oh my God, the man is built everywhere.
Heat floods my face. My thighs.
I should look away. Should announce my presence. Should do literally anything except stand here staring like a creep while my body decides now is the perfect time to remind me how long it’s been since anyone touched me.
Since I wanted anyone to touch me.
I can’t move.
He turns.
And I get the full view.
Every. Fucking. Inch.
Strong thighs. The V-cut of his hips. And between them—
My mouth goes dry. My brain short-circuits.
He’s not just naked. He’s semi-hard. Thick and heavy, the kind of size that should probably intimidate me, but instead makes something clench deep in my belly.
What would he feel like? That heat of his, everywhere, inside me—
He sees me.
Our eyes meet across the distance, and I swear his irises flash brighter. Not a trick of morning light. Actual luminescence, like embers catching flame.
And his cock twitches. Thickens.
Oh God.
My breath stops.
He doesn’t grab for clothing or cover himself. Just moves toward me with that same focused intensity he brings to everything.
Predatory. Purposeful. Water sliding off him in rivulets that gleam on his skin before turning to vapor.
Completely unconcerned with his nudity.
Or with the fact that he’s getting harder with every step.
I’m very, very concerned. Specifically with how much I want to drop to my knees right here on the path and find out if the rest of him burns as hot as his skin.
He stops three feet away. Water still drips from his hair, sliding down the tattoos that twist across his shoulders and chest. His skin is flushed, and I can feel the heat radiating from him even at this distance—not normal body warmth, but furnace-hot, like standing too close to a bonfire.
My eyes drop again. Can’t help it.
He’s freaking huge. Thick and long and so goddamn perfect I want to—
“Mara.” His voice is low, rough. “I did not expect—”
“I was looking for you,” I blurt out, dragging my eyes back to his face. “The woman in the village said you were here, and I just… I didn’t mean to interrupt—”
“You did not interrupt.” He pauses. Studies my face. Then, quieter: “And you did not look away.”
Heat floods my cheeks. Busted. “I—”
“I am glad you are here.”
The words hit me sideways. Glad?
Silence stretches between us. Tense. Charged. The air feels thick, like before a thunderstorm.
My gaze drops again. I can’t help it. He’s right there, hard and wanting and making zero effort to hide it. Making zero effort to pretend this isn’t affecting him.
“You should look,” he says quietly. “If you want to.”
My eyes snap back to his face. “What?”
“You want to look.” Not a question. A statement delivered in that careful, measured way he has. “So look.”
Oh. My. God.
This is insane. We’re standing on a mountain path in a village full of people, and he’s offering himself up like… like—
I look.
Let myself really see him. The breadth of his shoulders. The way water clings to the hair on his chest, his stomach. The lines of muscle that lead down to where he’s thick and ready and—
“Mara.” My name sounds different in his mouth. Strained. “If you keep looking at me like that, I will not be able to apologize properly.”
“Apologize?” My voice comes out breathless. “For what?”
Then K does something I don’t expect.
He lowers his head. “For what I did yesterday morning. It was dishonorable. You are under my protection, and I violated that trust. I took liberties I had no right to take.”
My brain fritzes out. “K, you don’t need to—”
“I do.” He looks up, and the intensity in his eyes steals my breath. “You are vulnerable. Injured. Far from your home. And I—” His jaw tightens. “I showed no restraint. No honor. It will not happen again.”
The old-world formality is so at odds with everything I know. Nobody talks like this. Nobody bows their head and apologizes like they’re confessing to some medieval lord.
While completely naked and hard.
But somehow, on K, it works.
It’s oddly charming. Genuine in a way modern apologies never are.
And it melts me.
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” I say quietly. “You were asleep. Dreaming. You didn’t—”