I guess Kieran’s not really a morning person, I think.

I can’t quite tell what his deal is. The last time I saw him and Beckett, at my cousin’s son’s christening ceremonies, he seemed different. Not exactly outgoing and talkative, but not so...

...Dark, or growly.

I pour myself coffee, find the sugar next to it, and add a couple spoonfuls. Kieran doesn’t even look over at me as I stir the murky liquid, then take a good, long sip as I look out the window over the kitchen sink.

It’s late summer, so it’s green and leafy out there. Here in the mountains the foliage is mostly darker evergreens with a few handfuls of brighter-green oaks and maples thrown in.

I wonder how long we’re going to be here.

A week? Two?

A month?

I take another long drink of coffee as I glance over at Kieran. He’s wearing sweatpants with no shirt as he makes breakfast, his muscles rippling in the low sunlight, the hard lines of his chest and abs shifting.

God, he’s even got that V that points toward his...

I glance down, forcing my eyes away and back to the window, and turn bright red, taking another long sip of coffee to cover it up.

Kieran’s got a massive erection right now, tenting up his sweatpants. That must be what brushed against me just now as he leaned over me, getting a coffee mug out of the cabinet. I clear my throat, take a deep breath, drink more coffee and try to ignore the slow, fiery heat moving down through my core.

He could just bend me over the counter right now, I think.

No one would ever have to know. Beckett might not even wake up, and Kieran could push my pants down, slide that enormous cock into me and just take me here and now...

I drain my coffee mug, annoyed at myself for not being able to think of anything but sex, at least not with these two around.

But what if Beckett did wake up? Maybe he could join in...

I clear my throat and force myself to stop fantasizing.

“Can I help with anything?”

Kieran glances at me, his gaze sharp and hard.

“There’s frozen orange juice,” he says. “Think you can handle making that?”

I lean one hip against the counter, glaring at him, a little annoyed that he’s so hot and being a dick.

“I don’t know, do the instructions have big words in them or can even princesses follow them?”

Kieran doesn’t answer, just smirks, turning back to the stove.

“There’s a pitcher in the cabinet by your feet,” he says.

* * *

A bit later, Beckett wanders out of his bedroom, wearing sweatpants and a thin white shirt. Every time he stretches or moves, it pulls against his muscles, and I have to force myself to stay focused on what I’m doing — making the orange juice from frozen concentrate, finding the dishes and silverware and setting the table.

The two of them talk just a bit, but Beckett also goes to the coffee pot first thing, pours himself a full mug, and gulps it down.

“That bacon still good?” he asks Kieran, leaning against the counter.

I move in front of him, grabbing silverware, and as I do, I can feel his eyes on my body. I try not to shiver with the force of his, but I do. Despite myself.

“Of course it’s still good,” Kieran says.

“You check the expiration date?”

Kieran just turns and glowers at his friend.

“You want to watch me eat a piece of it as proof that I’m not trying to poison you?”

“I didn’t say you were trying to poison us,” Beckett says, grinning. “Just that you might by accident. I can remember an incident back when we were in the service...”

Kieran shuts the waffle maker a little too hard, and waffle batter splashes out as it thuds closed.

“Yeah, you remember one incident. Because there was only ever the one, and I cooked for you assholes how many times?”

I’m not really sure what’s going on with these two. I’ve never seen them bicker like this before — until now, as far as I knew, they were two peas in a pod.

Or two cocks in a...

I clear my throat to rid myself of that thought, and they both look over at me, expectantly.

“Sorry,” I say. “But also, stop fighting.”

“We’re not fighting,” Beckett says, still grinning. “I’m just winding Kieran up a bit.”

“Well, the princess said quit it,” Kieran says, wiping his hands on a towel, his eyes suddenly smiling. “You heard the girl.”

“So she’s in charge now?”

I lean against the table and cross my arms in front of me.

“If it gets you two old hens to quit bickering, then yeah, I’m in charge,” I say.

Kieran glances back at me, his muscled torso twisting. I force myself to look away.

“Go find the syrup and sit the fuck down,” Kieran says, but despite his words he’s clearly in a better mood.

“You gonna put a shirt on?” Beckett fires back.

I roll my eyes at them, find some glasses, and put them out on the table.

* * *

Hours later, I’m sitting on an expensive-looking Persian rug in one of the cabin’s many rooms, staring at a bookshelf, trying to find something to read.

In the panic of leaving, it somehow didn’t occur to me that I’d need some kind of entertainment while I was here — especially because I’ve got no idea how long I’ll be here for.

I didn’t bring my computer, or my phone, or any electronics, obviously — everyone was terrified that despite the cabin’s remoteness, the hackers would somehow find me that way. But I also completely forgot to bring anything else for fun.

So I’ve got no books, no crossword puzzles, no anything. I don’t even have the knitting project that I abandoned long ago, which could at least be something to work on.

And the books here are boring. This shelf, at least, seems to consist entirely of Griskoldian histories, and from the dusty tomes that I’ve taken down and thumbed through, they’re not even the interesting histories.

They’re the dry, dull, year-by-year histories of who held what office, what nobleman curried the most favor, what supplies each military division needed and how they got there. If I needed help sleeping, this would do the trick nicely.

I sigh and look at the bottom shelf, hoping that I can do better than that at least, but my hopes aren’t high.

But then, in the very corner of the very bottom shelf, I spy something else. Something that’s got actual colors on the spine and isn’t two inches thick.

The Woodsman’s Captive.

I raise one eyebrow and grab it from the shelf. I thought it would be some sort of swashbuckling story about, I don’t know, a woodsman who takes someone captive, but from the cover alone it’s clear that I’m wrong.

Or, kind of wrong. Because the captive is a sexy captive.

I’ve clearly found the cabin’s one romance novel, and it’s obviously the steamy kind. On the cover, there’s a big, burly woodsman, frilly shirt open to reveal bulging pecs and a six-pack, and in his arms is a blonde woman, practically fainting against him, her breasts nearly-but-not-quite out of her dress.

He’s got an axe in one hand. There are some trees around.

Actually, he’s got dark hair and piercing blue eyes, and... kind of looks like Kieran.

There’s nothing better to do, I think. It’s been a long time since I read a romance novel this old-school, but I get off the floor and settle into an overstuffed leather armchair in the other corner of the room.