Chapter Five

Savannah

A maelstrom of snow and ice swirls around us. All I can focus on are the pair of piercing eyes that bore into me, glowing blue jewels that search every corner of my doomed soul and unlock the secret feelings that dwell there. I can no more hide from him than from my own consciousness. I stumble and fall, hitting the snow on all fours.

The layers of fur that cover my stalker’s body make him appear larger than life, overpowering me with his physical presence, condemning me for my sins and false beliefs. I want to apologize, beg for his forgiveness and his acceptance. I cower and hide my face.

“Please don’t hurt me.”

I hear the ripping of my lacy panties as they’re torn from my body. Peeking over my shoulder, my eyes widen. He takes his massive cock in his hand and pumps it once. I shiver with a combination of fear and anticipation, not understanding how I’m possibly going to accept that monster inside my petite body. Looking at it, pointing straight up toward the sky, an unbidden wetness pools in my pussy, preparing me as if my body already knows what my mind refuses to accept.

He bends low, enveloping me in the warmth of his shaggy coat and pressing me down further into the cold depths of the white blanket of snow.

“I canna hurt yer,” his soothing voice says. “For we are one and the same. Two halves of the same world, light and dark. One can’t exist without the other.”

A strangled gasp of pleasure escapes from my mouth as he impales me.

My eyes snap open, banishing the howling wind and rumbling thunder of that voice back into the recesses of my dream. My hair feels coiled around my neck in a sweat-soaked tentacle, and my heart thuds a rapid staccato as I suck in a desperate breath.

Just a dream.

It’s not real, so get a hold of yourself, Savie.

I blink and rub my eyes, my brain swimming in the aftermath of the frightening dream. Where am I? Pale daylight fills the space, and the scent of wood smoke teases my nostrils. Above me soar rough-hewn wooden rafters that support what looks like thatches of long grass. What the hell?

I sit up in a rush of blankets and panic, a patchwork quilt falling away as I do. I glance around, finding myself in an unfamiliar iron bed frame set beneath a frosty window. A wooden ladder built into one corner leads upward to a platform above. Memory kicks in, and I realize I’m in Ronan’s cottage but have no recollection of how I came to be in this bed—or whether I’ve slept in it alone. My clit throbs with lust and frustration after the strength of my dream. Was it really a dream after all?

I push away the quilt to reveal the same sequined tunic and leggings from yesterday, wrinkled and twisted from having slept in them all night. I feel grubby, disheveled, and completely disoriented. I want a bath in the worst way, but I don’t recall seeing a tub in the dwelling’s small bathroom. If we’d just have made that damn ferry, I’d be surrounded in five-star hotel luxury right now. Instead, I lay tangled up in lumpy, homespun linens wearing two-day old clothes and rubbed-off makeup. I would never be seen in public like this.

I shudder at the realization that I’ve already been seen this way for quite some time, by a shaggy stranger I had no business following into this cottage. I cringe in embarrassment at the events of yesterday. What was I thinking even opening the bus door to this woolly mammoth of a man? I’d been so frightened, I’d taken leave of my senses. And where is my Bigfoot rescuer now? I don’t hear any movement other than my own as I get up and cross the polished floorboards of the modest bedroom, suddenly finding its Spartan tidiness oddly appealing. For a minute, I feel like I’m back at summer camp in the Poconos.

The warm memory fades as I glance out the window. The world has died a white death in this country, everything covered in a thick blanket of snow. At least it’s no longer falling, a fact for which I send up a prayer of gratitude. I can flee the scene of this sexual fantasy before I go and do something crazy, like throw myself at a man I’ve known less than twenty-four hours and beg him to take me.

Rockstar status notwithstanding, I’ve never been one to sleep around in spite of massive opportunity. Now, at least I can head into town and find Mel. My heart rate accelerates wondering what the poor man must be thinking. Probably that I’ve been kidnapped or wandered off and died in a snowbank. But if he read my note…

An eerie scraping sound interrupts my thoughts. I shiver, grab my ruined boots from the front door and make my way toward the great black wood stove and the warmth that emanates from it. The noise comes again, and again, in a slow, slogging rhythm. Someone is shoveling, and I don’t need to guess who it is. An image flitters into my mind of a hulking beast of a man with cord upon cord of chiseled muscle, cutting a path through a solid pile of snow. Another flood of wetness pools between my legs. Dammit.

Next to the chairs by the fireplace lays the intriguing instrument we played the night before. Now that it’s daytime, I notice other things I didn’t see last night—a guitar propped on a homemade stand in the corner, and a violin on top of an old steamer-type trunk. On the mantel are several small woodwind flutes, and in yet another corner sits the most stunning instrument of all. An Irish harp with an exquisite black ebony frame and intricate gold filigree along the head.

That thing must be worth a fortune.

It’s so beautiful I can’t believe I’ve missed it until now. Probably because Ronan seems to infiltrate my head and lungs, stealing my sense and every last ounce of oxygen from the room. My fingers itch to touch it, but I wouldn’t do so without permission. My God, does Ronan play all of these? The man possesses some serious talent. I discover a hot pot of tea on the stove and some cups laid out on the table. I’d murder for a tall caramel macchiato, but since tea is so readily offered, I pour myself a cup.

The hot dark liquid warms me, and the distinctive aroma of bergamot infuses the pleasant steam rising from the mug. I sit down at the table and sip as I look around the small kitchen containing a collection of unfitted period pieces of differing styles and finishes. A rough-hewn sideboard and hutch along with a wrought-iron baker’s rack that holds bundles of what appears to be yesterday’s forage of flora hung up to dry. Who is this guy, some kind of Irish medicine man?

That thought makes me uneasy, and I wonder how long it will take to get to town when the door opens and Ronan’s shaggy bulk steps in along with wisps of snow that blow in over the sill. He looks even larger than I remember, and my eyes travel the imposing stature of his body, starting at his booted feet all the way up to the massive shoulders draped in the long locks of his dark brown hair. I’m reminded of John Snow.

He turns to face me, and all of a sudden, I’m struck dumb by the intense cobalt blue of his eyes. Why hadn’t I noticed their hypnotic allure yesterday instead of just their unique color? I suppose I was so worked up and frustrated and terrified that I’d been oblivious to everything else. Not anymore. Not after last night’s fantasy has come to life. Now, I’m hyper-aware of everything concerning Ronan, and I just want to get the hell away from him before my long neglected hooha wakes up anymore from its long winter’s nap.

“Well. Good mornin’ to yer,” he says, matching my gaze. “Does yer itinerary allow for a spot of breakfast, or are we shovin’ off straight away?”

I set down my cup, unable to wrest my eyes from his. There’s something weirdly hypnotic about that stare. Somehow, I find my voice, and it comes out gritty and raspy, like I’m moaning his name right before the ecstasy of orgasm rips through me.

“I’ve put you to enough trouble. I don’t need any breakfast, thank you, but…I’d really like to have a bath or shower, if there is one?”

“Aye, there is.”

He shrugs off his furry coat and hangs it on a peg by the door. Underneath, I’m stunned to see that he’s dressed in quite normal attire this morning—a plain navy sweatshirt and jeans. I can’t help but notice the bulges of muscle beneath the material. Some impressive pecs fill out the puffy shirt, and the denim of his pants strain against solid, powerful thighs. He must get a lot of exercise living out here in the wilderness. All that wood chopping and animal hunting.

And fucking.

I shake my head, eradicating the image of what’s underneath his simple clothing.

“It’ll take time to get the shower ready.”

“Okay,” I say, wondering what that means.

Does he need to gather up the dirty underwear he left hanging on the shower rod or something? I wonder if he even wears underwear at all. I watch in interest as he strides over to the big black stove and opens a hinged lid on the far end of it. Steam rises from the opening, and he reaches down to grasp a spouted bucket from the floor and dips it inside.

I watch him curiously. “What’s that for?”

He spears me with that cerulean gaze again, as if I’d ask why the sky today is the same color as his eyes.

“Yer not fancy a shower with cold water, would yer now?”

Without waiting for an answer, he lifts the pail and carries it to the back door. Oh, shit. I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t asked about a shower. In a minute, he returns for a second bucket.

Curiosity crawls like ants beneath my skin. “What are you doing out there?”

“Listen, in case yer not be noticin’, yer not at the Hilton today, woman.” He lifts the filled bucket and looks at me, waiting. “If ‘tis a shower yer be wantin’, grab a towel and follow me.”

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding. The shower is…outside? And no hot running water? How can that possibly work?

I return a haughty glare of disbelief, then stalk—as much as one can stalk with a broken heel—to the indoor bathroom for a towel. You asked for it, kiddo. I follow him out the door and around the side of the cottage, my feet tramping awkwardly through the fresh snow. Damn, I didn’t put on my coat, and the frozen air knocks me for a loop. Even though it’s warmer outside and the snow is starting to melt, I can still see my damn breath.

There, wedged between the house and the horse shed is a sort of cabana with wooden sides and a curtained doorway. I gape in horror as Ronan empties his steaming bucket into a tank next to the structure, anchored to the wall of the house at about shoulder height.

“No running water?” I know my voice is flat with disappointment and disbelief. Even though I want to contain my true feelings, I just can’t. He’s been nothing but hospitable, and I’ve been nothing but a pain in his ass. But showering outside? In winter? It’s just not to be born.

He finishes filling the tank and rounds on me, his electric blue eyes narrowed in an expression of something between anger and exasperation. “Out here? Are yer serious? Look ‘round, woman.” With a snort and shake of his head, he parts the curtain to show me the inside. “See there, just pull the chain when yer want the water, but not too much at a time, mind. There’s only so much in the tank.”

I shiver and venture closer, wondering if there’s even soap available. “Why do you live like this?” The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them. I don’t mean to insult his lifestyle, but aren’t we in the twenty-first century?

Ronan releases the curtain and straightens to his full height, looming over me. I stare at his lips, pressed into a thin line. I want them to soften. I want him to soften. More than anything, I want him to scoop me up and—

“’Tis up to yer if yer want the shower or not,” he says calmly. Too calmly. I sense a storm building up, and not the kind that erupts from the sky. “I choose the way I live, just as yer choose yers. My way is real, ‘tis natural. It honors the earth. Yer don’t ‘av to like it. But as long as yer here, I demand yer be respectin’ it.”

“But, bathing outdoors?” I wave my hands around like an idiot. “Don’t tell me you enjoy that? What if someone saw you?”

He moves toward me, stopping a few feet away from where I stand clutching the towel to my chest as if the flimsy fabric could protect me if he decides to shake me to a bloody pulp. I shrink from the coldness in his stare as much as from the air temperature.

“If someone saw me?” He snorts. “I’d invite her to join me. Who in hades do yer think is goin’ to wander onto my property? The water comes from outside, so I bathe outside. It cleanses the soul as much as it cleanses the body. Then it drains away to the outside, nay plumbin’ needed. Nay waste. Nay pipes or drains to clog. We weren’t meant to live indoors, yer know. We’re still part of the animal kingdom.”

He holds me prisoner to his heated gaze for a frozen minute, then turns and walks back to the cottage, leaving me blinking in bewilderment. I see rage there but something else lingers there too. A fierceness that resembles passion. Ronan has some pretty strong—and pretty weird—beliefs from my vantage point.

He’s right.

I don’t have to like it, but I do have to respect it because he’s offered me all the hospitality he possesses. I regret what I’ve said, both now and yesterday. I should have been more gracious.

Vowing to do better from now on, I step inside the shower enclosure, finding pegs on the wall for my towel and clothes. I pick up a round ball of soap from a corner ledge and hold it to my nose. The shape and texture say handmade, and the aroma of mint and other woodsy herbs make me smile in spite of the circumstances. It smells like him. That agonizing throbbing in my lady parts starts up again as I give the soap another deep inhale, imagining Ronan standing in this shower with me. It’s crazy, but I’m actually starting to feel a bit earth-mother-ish myself in these rustic surroundings.

I undress and give the chain an experimental pull. Water pours through a reasonably modern-looking shower head attached to a pipe running from the tank. Warm enough, considering it’s been heated on a stove and carried here by hand. What a fascinating process. It makes me wonder how often Ronan showers, considering the toil it took just to have one. But I’m freezing my ass off in spite of the growing heat between my legs, so I stop analyzing and jump under the warm torrent of water.

Unfortunately, I have to stop the flow while I soap up, and my teeth chatter in the uncomfortable intervals between rinses. On second thought, fuck this Earth Mother shit. It’s nice in theory, but it’s too fucking painful in reality. I pull the chain one last time and close my eyes against the dump of water pouring over my head. They snap open again as I hear the most blood-curdling growl from just a few feet away. I let go of the chain and scream.

A black snout and a mouthful of pointed teeth poke through the curtain. The thing snarls and then barks, almost like a dog. I grab for the towel and cover myself, as though the thin cloth will offer some kind of protection against the hideous creature.

“Get out!” I scream, quivering where I stand. My wails seem to only encourage it to enter further, shoving its flat head with a white stripe down the middle directly inside. My God, it looks as ferocious and hungry as an angry grizzly bear, the rest of its hulking body covered in grey-black fur. Its beady eyes appear full of murderous intent.

“Help!” I cry, backing away from it as far as possible in a phone-booth sized space.

Its horrific smell assaults my nostrils, accompanied by dank and rotten breath. It barges its way in, teeth bared, opening the curtain to the frosty outdoors.

“Help!” I wail again, terrified and blinded by the resulting cloud of steam.

Headlines flash before my eyes as I steel myself for the pain of being shredded from limb to limb.

Pop Princess Savannah Starr dies in remote Irish backwoods, eaten by bear.