Chapter 6

Avery

My nose wakes up before the rest of me. Its fine little tip pokes up out of the warmth of my fuzzy blanket cocoon. It twitches like a bunny rabbit’s as an alluring scent wafts towards me.

I breathe the scent in deeply.

Vanilla. Cinnamon. Hot melted butter—the real kind, not the no-calorie fake stuff I was raised on—crackling in a pan with little globs of rich milk fat pooling on its surface.

Pancakes. Oh my gosh, I’m smelling pancakes.

I could cry. I love pancakes.

And coffee, too. Not any of that mass-produced venti pumpkin-mocha-chino crap, either. No, this is black-as-sin Brazilian dark roast, freshly ground and brewed to perfection.

You know how the snake tempted Eve with that apple in the Garden of Eden? That’s nothing compared to what this smell is doing to me right now.

It’s like the olfactory implication of pancakes is a long, sultry finger beckoning me awake. It tickles beneath my chin in a delicious little come-hither motion, and I find myself raised into a sitting position.

But when I open my eyes, I realize that this was all a clever ruse. The smell of pancakes is still there, but with consciousness comes a less pleasant side effect.

Pain.

I ache. Every bone in my body. Every muscle.

Every battered, bruised bit of skin. My headaches and my back aches.

My freaking butt aches, and not in that hurts-so-good post-workout way, either. I’m pretty sure I can even feel this pain in my hair follicles.

It sucks. I don’t even handle period cramps well—and my entire body feels like the world’s worst shark week right now.

It takes me longer than I’d like to get my bearings. It’s like waking up in a strange hotel room the morning after a charity gala where I’ve indulged in a glass of champagne.

I’m Avery Wilkins. Daughter of Max and Erin Wilkins.

My father is a state senator. My mother is beautiful and quiet and puts up with being a state senator’s wife.

I’m nineteen years old and, as far as I can remember, a generally good girl.

Which doesn’t do much to explain why my whole body hurts so freaking bad.

“Boof!”

Or why there’s, apparently, a freaking dog on top of my, slathering my face with slobbery doggy kisses.

Okay. Where am I?

My eyes sweep the room, taking inventory of my surroundings. I’m on a plush, warm couch beneath a mountain of blankets. And a dog. Okay. Good—I like that.

There’s a wood fire burning from a massive fireplace in this room, which only contains a few more items of gorgeous, rustic-looking furniture. If I was a betting woman—which I’m not—but if I was, I’d guess they were all homemade.

Judging by the wood-log walls and provincial accouterments, I’d guess that I’m in a cabin—cool. Not a fancy cabin, though. Not the kind of cabin that my family would deem appropriate for someone of our blue-blood pedigree.

But I have to admit, it’s…cozy. It feels safe. Like it’s trapped in a bubble of warm golden light.

Until I shake off the dog and the blankets and see what I’m wearing, that is.

Then, safe is the last thing I feel.

A wedding dress—no, my wedding dress. Torn down the front of my corset bodice, so I have to hug my arms around myself to keep my breasts from spilling out. The virgin-white silk and lace are marred by what looks like smeared oil. I sniff myself and realize I reek of engine smoke and gasoline.

It all comes racing back to me. The wedding. My escape. The car crash.

The things I discovered moments before I almost made the biggest mistake of my life.

The things Adam tried to do to me too when he realized what I’d discovered.

Dread sets in like black ink dropped in water. First, it forms in dark little beads in my stomach, then it ribbons and pools around me, swallowing me whole.

When I emerge from that blackness, my every nerve is ringing with a fight-or-flight response. I might be innocent, but I’m not naive.

I’m weak, injured and scared. Barely 5’3” in heels, which I’m not even wearing right now.

I choose flight.

I always will.

Just as I’m about to shake off the impossibly huge coat that’s wrapped around my shoulders and book it, he comes into the room.

Imagine the biggest, burliest, most muscle-bound man you’ve ever seen. Now double that. Add a few inches, broaden the shoulders, give him the wildest, thickest beard you can dream up and dress him in a red flannel shirt that looks like it could rip right off of him if he so much as flexes.

That’s what I find staring back at me.

Like, right at me.

Fear shoots through my heart, and suddenly, the flight isn’t even an option anymore. I freeze. It’s all I can do to clutch my arms tighter around my body. Which is a fool’s errand.

My wedding dress is destroyed. Even as I do my very best to hold it together, my breasts are still practically spilling out of my blood-covered top.

“Good,” the man grunts. He’s got the deepest, gruffest voice I’ve ever heard. Like gravel in a blender. “You’re awake.”

“Boof!” adds the dog, tippy-tapping across the wood floor in excitement.

I just stare at them for a moment. Breathing. And the man stares back. Breathing.

When I finally catch my breath, it’s with every last bit of courage I have.

“I’m leaving, is what I am,” I say, gathering up my skirts in one fist as I hold my bodice together with the other hand. I meant for that to come out so confident and sure, but if anything, it only makes me sound more like a scared little mouse. “Thank you for your hospitality, but I’ll be—”

“Going?” His voice is mocking, and his shaggy, thick eyebrows are raised in grim disbelief. “No, you’re not.”

My heart drops right down into my gut. I can almost feel the kersplosh! it makes as it does a belly flop into my stomach acid.

“And… and why not?” I ask indignantly. The wives of my father’s colleagues use the same tone when the waiter has to explain to them that the restaurant is fresh out of oysters.

The man holds my gaze for a moment, saying nothing. My bright blue eyes meet the dark pools of nothing that stare back at me beneath his heavy brow. His irises smolder like hot coals on a fire that’s not yet dead—just waiting to be stirred.

Then, he looks out the window and my gaze follows his.

Whiteness. Blinding, all-consuming and so thick you could baste a quilt with it. I tiptoe across the creaky, polished floorboards of the living room over to that window to look out at the world around us.

Snowfall has enveloped us completely. It’s coming down harder than I’ve ever seen it. There’s a brief flash of red as a cardinal swoops down toward a well-stocked bird feeder outside, but even the birds don’t linger for long.

Not in this weather.

“I can’t be here anymore,” I assert, punctuating that statement with a little stamp of my tiny, barefoot.

That makes him laugh. Not a proper laugh, of course. Men this big and dangerous looking don’t laugh. They snort in amusement.

“Too bad,” he says, turning around and walking away. Like that’s the end of it.

Which, it is most certainly not.

When I see the opportunity, I jump on it. With his back turned, he can’t stop me as I rush toward the door towards freedom. What I’ll do with that freedom once it’s mine, I haven’t exactly sorted out yet—but this is America, isn’t it?

Freedom is all I need—after that, I’m sure the rest will fall into place.

But the floorboards creak beneath my meager weight as I make my move. The huge jacket around my shoulders slumps off and falls heavy in my wake.

I get five or six of my little strides in.

It only takes him one.

His rough, massive hand captures my wrist with ease, shackling me to where he stands. My body slumps forward. Even with all that momentum, I don’t have enough force to rip myself free.

Which doesn’t stop me from trying. I cry out in pain as I strain and struggle against his hold until he takes my shoulder in his other massive hand and gives my body a single, firm shake.

“Stop,” he commands. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“No…I’m…NOT!” I insist, twisting harder against his hold than ever, even as pain wracks every cell of my body.

“No?” he growls, raising his voice. I can see the fury in his eyes. It’s like I’ve tipped him over the edge. “You almost got yourself killed out there once, little girl. Want to make a second pass at it?”

“I—”

“No,” he says, shaking his head and narrowing his eyes. “I didn’t think so.”

“You have no right to keep me here!” I snarl at him.

“I don’t? You don’t think so?” Now he’s shouting—bellowing, snarling back at me like he’s more beast than man. “You know what happens in sub-zero temperatures with no socks, no shoes, no fucking gloves and only half a wedding dress to keep you warm?”

He twists my wrist, bringing it between us and holding it before my face. His hands are so big, he could practically wrap his fingers around my wrist twice.

“First, these pretty little fingers go pale. Your toes will go faster since you’ll be thigh-deep in snow and your bright little self must have left your dancing shoes in your other car crash.

“You’ll feel a prickling on your skin—that’s the ice crystals forming inside your soft tissue, either killing the cells or piercing right through them. But it’s not just that—those ice crystals are going to form blood clots, too.

“Which leads to inflammation. Which leads to necrosis. Not just in your fingers and toes, either—all this thick blonde hair won’t protect those pretty little ears, and you won’t be so fucking pretty anymore when that cute little nose of yours goes dead and black with cold, all because your prissy little ass can’t be fucked to follow simple fucking instructions.”

His chest heaves, and I say nothing. I’m too busy counting the sharp points of his teeth in his snarl.

“I SAVED YOU ONCE!” he shouts in my face. “Maybe next time, I won’t be so fucking generous!”

His words pulse through my body, knocking me back. I flinch, and I know he sees it.

“Avery,” I say softly. If only so he’ll stop calling me little girl and making me feel even weaker than I already feel. “My name is Avery.”

My voice is fragile and small. Like a porcelain teacup so tiny, you can thread it through the eye of a needle.

He moves back then. Let’s go of my wrist. I watch as he tries to recompose himself. Apparently, he succeeds.

“…Good,” he says, dropping my wrist. He turns his back to me and cocks his head for me to follow.

I wouldn’t dare disobey.

He leads me into the kitchen, where the smell of pancakes and coffee is at its source. The dog trots behind us, wagging his tail. I watch the man plate two mountains of thick, fluffy, golden-brown flapjacks, then toss a spare cake to the giant black mass of fur that goes boof!

The plates clatter to the table as he drops them there, then points for me to sit.

I sit.

You better believe I sit.

Next, he slices two thick pats of soft, yellow-gold butter and dollops them onto each of the stacks from the blade of his knife. I watch them melt atop the hot, steaming surface of the topmost pancakes, soaking into the porous surface and dribbling down the stacks’ sides.

Wordlessly, he returns to the table. A knife and fork clatter down before me.

I’m drooling.

I’ve never been this hungry in my whole life.

I grip each of the handles with all the care that this man isn’t currently giving them, ready to dig in.

I’m scared. I’m in pain. And I don’t know what I’m going to do next—although, having lost the argument with my captor, I’m finally in agreement that going outside is not an option.

But like I said. I love pancakes.

Before I can dig in, he looks back over his shoulder and stops me.

“No,” he says, pointing his finger at me like I’m a bad dog chewing up his stupid mountain man boots. Then, seeing the look of disappointment on my face, he adds: “Not yet.”

The door slams shut before I can even ask him why. I pop up slightly to look out the window and see my mountain man—the big, burly guy who just scolded me with the threat of frostbite not to go outside—traipsing through the blizzard towards a tree in nothing more than his flannel, his Levis and his boots.

When he comes back, he has a bucket.

He thunks it down on the table, and for a moment, I swear I see a proud little glint in his eyes. When I peer over the edge of it, I see something dark and sticky looking with the undeniable scent of sugary sweetness contained inside.

“Syrup?” I ask, blinking up at him.

He nods, dips his finger in, and holds it up to my lips.

There’s a big, glistening glob of cold, hard syrup on his fingertip. I can see it softening against the warmth of his skin.

What does he expect me to do? Lick it off of him?

I stare up at him, breathing heavier than I mean to.

He’s undeniably handsome. But at the same time, that handsomeness is buried under several layers of untouchableness.

He’s rugged and rough—rougher than any man I’ve ever known. More than a little scary.

To touch him would be like extending a hand to a hungry black bear.

So why am I getting butterflies in my stomach and a red-hot blush on my cheeks as I consider taking his big, thick finger into my mouth and sucking freshly tapped maple syrup off of it?

I take a deep breath and decide.

I want to taste.

But just as I’m about to wrap my lips around his finger, he pulls it away, sucking it into his own mouth instead.

“Jack,” he says with a little raise of his chin. He’s studying me with a deep interest in his black, hooded eyes, but what he’s thinking, I could never guess. “My name is Jack.”

As I dip my knife into the bucket and scoop out syrup to drizzle my pancakes with, my hand is trembling, and no matter what I do, I can’t make it stop.