Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 33333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
He leaves me there, heart wrecked, lipstick smeared, breath gone.
I don’t follow.
But I watch him go.
And I know—deep in the bones of me—that whatever this is, it’s not over.
It’s only beginning.
Tomorrow, I’ll hang more decor.
Tomorrow, I’ll break another rule.
And tomorrow, when Thorne Maddox comes for me again?
I won’t stop him.
Not anymore.
Chapter 6
Thorne
Snow falls quietly over Devil’s Peak, turning everything white and still.
Everything except Aspen—who currently stands on my goddamn coffee table stringing orange tinsel across the antlers mounted above my fireplace like she’s decorating for a satanic cheer competition.
“Take that crap down,” I growl from the doorway.
She doesn’t turn.
Doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t even pretend to care that I’m a six-foot-four threat still holding an axe and dusted in sawdust and cold rage.
She just keeps humming some off-key Halloween tune, hips swaying in those short black shorts that have no business being worn in late October.
The woman is infuriating.
The woman is trouble.
The woman is mine—and that last thought hits me so hard I have to lock my jaw to hide it.
Because she’s not mine.
And that’s a problem.
I stomp snow off my boots and set the axe by the door. “Aspen.”
“Yes, Mountain Man?” she says sweetly—fake sweet, wicked sweet—still not looking at me.
“I told you: no decorations unless they’re fire-safe and approved by me.”
“Well lucky for you,” she says, stretching higher to tape a bat garland to the wall, “I don’t do approval.”
“I mean it.”
“I bet you do.”
I walk toward her, slow and lethal. “I’m not joking, Aspen.”
She glances over her shoulder then, red lipstick bright, eyes lit like a match. “You never are. That’s why it’s so fun to ruin your day.”
I step closer. “You think this is a game?”
“I think my entire existence is a blessing on your cold, dead soul, and one day you’ll thank me.”
“Unlikely.”
“Possible,” she sing-songs.
I exhale, long and hard, trying to keep my cool. “Get down.”
“From the table or emotionally?”
“Both.”
She grins.
Hell. That smile.
It does something ugly in my chest.
I reach up—close enough to smell the vanilla on her neck—and wrap a hand around her waist. Her breath locks. Good. She needs reminding who’s in charge here. I lift her off the table like she weighs nothing and set her down on the rug, slow, deliberate.
She stares up at me. No fear. Just defiance.
“You’re bossy,” she says.
“You’re reckless.”
“You’re controlling.”
“You’re chaos.”
We stand inches apart, heat crackling between us. Same damn cycle every time: she provokes, I warn, she ignores, I get close, and suddenly the only thing I can think about is how good she’d taste if I kissed her quiet.
She’s poison.
I’m already addicted.
“You done?” I ask, nodding at the ribbons, plastic skull candles, and glitter cobwebs chaos-spread across my lodge.
She plants her hands on her hips. “Absolutely not. I’m only halfway done. I still have the haunted village to set up by the staircase, pumpkin lights for the hallway, and a fog machine that’s going to bring this dead space to life.”
I look around slowly. “This place doesn’t need life.”
“This place needs therapy.”
“It’s a lodge.”
“It’s a cry for help, Thorne.”
I grit my teeth. “No fog machine.”
“Yes fog machine.”
“No.”
“Watch me.”
She turns to go, and I step forward, catching her wrist—not tight, just enough to stop her. Her pulse kicks under my thumb.
“Why do you keep pushing?” I ask quietly.
She twists to look back at me. “Why do you keep pretending you don’t like it?”
Her eyes flick to my mouth—fast, unintentional—but I see it.
She wants me.
I want her harder.
Too bad I can’t touch her. Because if I do, if I get even one taste, I won’t stop.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
I let go first. I always do. It feels like yanking out one of my own ribs, but I do it.
She walks away.
And I watch her go.
Hours pass.
I chop wood until my shoulders burn and my head clears, but it doesn’t help. She stays lodged too deep beneath my ribs now, stubborn as a splinter.
When I finally head inside again, the scent hits me first.
Pumpkin spice and black licorice.
And her.
She’s kneeling by the hearth, setting ceramic pumpkins along the mantle. She doesn’t hear me at first—she’s humming again. Soft this time. Almost sad.
I pause.
She thinks I left for the night, that she’s alone. And without the verbal sparring, the deflection, the glitter armor—she looks different.
She looks… young.
Breakable.
That thought shouldn’t gut me the way it does.
I lean against the doorway and watch.
She lifts a velvet pumpkin and runs her finger over it like it’s something precious. Her shoulders curve inward. Something in her expression flickers—gone too fast to read.
But it leaves a bruise in the air.
My voice comes out rougher than intended. “I thought you were here for a contest.”
She jumps, spinning toward me. “I—what?”
I nod to the pumpkins. “Looks like more than winning a prize.”
Her throat works. She looks down, then back up. “Maybe I like making things beautiful.”
I fold my arms. “This is a historic fishing lodge. It didn’t need your help.”