Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
It can’t be. Not here. Not in this godforsaken middle of nowhere.
Is this what dying feels like? Do you start to see people you once loved? Is this some strange illusion?
“I’m s-s-so cold,” I stammer, my lips trembling.
Then arms, strong, warm, and achingly real, scoop me up from the ground. I'm pressed against a broad chest, and I feel the rumble of his voice more than I hear it as he curses under his breath in Gaelic before he utters what I can understand.
“Fucking hell, lass. You came out here in this mess? You’re a bloody snowman. Jesus Christ on a cracker.”
His voice is low and furious, muttering against my hair, but I think he’s talking to himself more than to me.
“We're closer to your cabin than mine. Let’s go.”
“What?” I mumble, my thoughts scattered and half-frozen. I can’t make sense of anything, but he’s so warm. So fucking warm.
My cabin?
I don’t argue. I can’t. I just close my eyes and press my face to his chest, my numb fingers curling against his coat. I’m still not sure this is real.
He walks and walks, trudging through the snow like it’s nothing, carrying me with ease. I hear his boots thudding on wood in a few minutes.
My god. Was I really this close?
I blink.
A porch. A step. Then we stop.
At the doorway, his fingers brush my jaw. He rests his forehead against mine, and I feel his heat, his breath, his presence.
Owen.
It grounds me.
His words are rough, hurried. “Let’s get you warm.”
“I-it’s l-l-locked,” I manage to whisper.
“Who the fuck cares?” he growls. “I know how to get in.”
I think he’s reaching into his pocket. Keys? Does he really have keys to this place? Or am I just imagining all of this? None of it makes sense.
But then, a few moments later, the door swings open with a creak and a gust of wind.
“Jesus,” he mutters again, breathless. “You’re fucking freezing.”
He kicks the door shut behind him with a loud bang that echoes in the quiet.
“Here—come here,” he says, urgency replacing his anger. I want to ask questions, but my lips won’t work. My tongue feels like lead, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. I’m shivering now as he gently lays me down on the couch.
“O-O-Owen?” I blink up at him. “Is that you? Really?”
“Aye.” He grunts, kneeling beside me. “There’s time for questions later. First, we stop the fucking frostbite.”
I shiver harder as he kneels in front of me, tugging at my boots.
“Fucking useless pair of boots,” he mutters, tossing them aside. “Goddamn prop.”
He leans in, inspecting my lips, and his thumb brushes against them, lingering. Even half-frozen, a jolt of heat zips through me.
I stare up at him—at those wide green eyes, now shadowed with concern. His features are sharper than I remember, more mature. Time has worn something into him. It’s been a few years, but it shows. His beard is thicker, jaw more defined, and yet… his eyes are still the same.
Green as spring grass. Familiar.
And right now? Furious.
“What the hell were you doing out there?” he asks, his voice taut.
“I was decorating the tree,” I mumble, suddenly embarrassed. I look away.
He glances toward the window and scowls, but mercifully doesn’t say anything. I can’t take judgment right now. Not from him.
He works quickly, peeling off my soaked outer layers, replacing them with every blanket he can find in the place until I'm swaddled like a child, warm and dazed.
I look around, surprised there’s light in here now, and heat. When did that come back on? God, it feels so good.
“Why was the goddamn door locked?” he snaps. “Why did you go out in the fucking snow with no way to get in?”
“I d-don’t kn-know,” I stutter, shivering.
“Jesus,” he mutters again. “No more questions for now. Let’s get you sorted.”
“How did you get in here?”
“I had to build a fire,” he says, as if that explains everything. “Stay put.”
“As i-if I’m g-going anywhere,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. He just shakes his head.
He moves toward the fireplace, drops to one knee, and within minutes, he’s coaxed it into a blazing roar. The heat spreads across the room, licking at my limbs like sunlight. I sigh in relief.
“Oh my god, that feels so good.”
I glance down and realize I’m in nothing but panties and a bra, hidden beneath layers of blankets. My cheeks burn. He’s seen me like this. He undressed me.
Owen’s practically a stranger now… except no. No, he’s not.
No. He never really was.
“Stay right there,” he says again, the command in his voice leaving no room for argument.
“It was you,” I whisper, testing my voice again now that I’m warmer.
“What hurts?” he asks, spinning around with that fierce glint in his eyes, like he’d destroy anything that’s caused me pain.
“My fingers,” I say softly. “My hands. They’re tingling.”
“Aye, that’ll happen,” he says with a nod.