by Liz K. Lorde
I’m doing this for her. And if it’s for her, this will be no trouble for me at all.
I stomp my big, heavy boots down into the snow, planting them firmly. Sounds stupid, but once I’ve got my stance set, I open my mouth and let out a yell that echoes down the whole fucking mountain, fists beating against my chest.
Sounds stupid, but it gets your blood pumping. And right now, my blood is pumping just right. My cock is rock-hard, my muscles are rippling in anticipation of a challenge, and I’m ready. I’m going to tear this massive-ass tree off this little lady’s car and get her somewhere safe.
My meaty fingers curl around the old oaken bark. The smell of fresh splintered wood fills my nostrils. This is a hearty, healthy tree—or at least, it was until this hot little piece’s car came crashing into it.
I squat down under its trunk and push up high. I can smell the fucking pheromones pouring off me in my sweat. The scent only charges me further. I lift that sucker up and toss it straight to the side. It feels like it shakes the very ground I stand on when it hits.
I take a step back and clap my hands against each other to dust off the bark. Piece of cake. My muscles are aching with the exertion, but it’s a good kind of ache. The best kind.
Now for the car.
Thick black smoke is pouring up from beneath the hood. It mars the freshness of the winter air with its oily, cloying scent. Black smoke doesn’t bode well for this runaway bride’s future—or mine, if I don’t get us both out of here and away in time.
I climb on top of the hood of the car and squat down, leaning myself in through the freshly busted windshield. It’s all bent out to hell from that fucking tree.
I spit on my hands and rub them together. If I was a smarter man, I’d have my gloves on me, but time is of the essence—and she’s worth the risk of picking a little glass out of my palms later. I find a couple spots where the glass is completely knocked out and I pry the rest of the windshield open, enough to grab her by the arms.
I pull her out slowly, careful not to jostle her head too much. Even as I do it, I feel the hood of the car go hot with flames beneath me. I’m being torn between my need to make sure I don’t hurt her more than she’s already been hurt and the reality of the situation: if I don’t hurry the fuck up, we’re both going to end up dead.
I pull her against me, cradling her body to my chest to keep her away from the ragged bits of metal and shattered pieces of glass.
Unconscious still. Not a good sign. Beautiful as ever—I have to keep myself from staring at that lovely face just to keep myself in the right state of mind—and barefoot. Barefoot in this weather, with no fucking coat.
Her wedding dress is ripped down the front, and it doesn’t look like any car crash did that. No sir—that tear looks man-made. Makes my blood fucking boil at the thought of some man putting his grimy hands on this beautiful little angel and ripping her ridiculous little dress.
But this isn’t the time to get all pissed off at whatever hypothetical aggressor she might have been fleeing from. This is a time for action.
Don’t think. Act.
I take my coat off my own back and wrap it around her, sliding us both off the smoking car.
As I bundle her up in my arms, I hear something crackle nastily, then the smell of burning oil fills my nose.
That’s the point at which I just fucking run.
This little angel is covered in oil and gasoline, plus enough hairspray in that pretty blonde hair of hers that she’s not much more than a lovely little matchstick in my arms.
When this fucker blows, I need to have her as far away from it as possible.
We take flight back up the mountain, my big boots finding purchase on even the smallest of footholds. Seconds into our trek, the car erupts in flames. I turn back and see the bright yellow and orange embers escaping the sides and the big black cloud of smoke at the top.
That hot air traveling up with us feels good. It has me sweating harder and is making my smell stronger. I take in a big breath of it, easing my shoulders back with the satisfaction of a mission successfully completed… then, we really take off.
As fast as she tumbled down this mountain, my feet fly us back up the side. I traipse us through thorns and brambles that rip at the shins of my coveralls to do it. They could tear clear through and slice up my skin and I wouldn’t care.
The snow has started to fall down around us in tiny little ice crystals. They gather on her long, dark eyelashes and flutter down into her pale hair.
Up this way, once the snow starts falling, it doesn’t fucking stop. My brain is dead set on getting us back to my cabin as fast as possible, before the pretty little princess bride in my arms catches cold or before we find ourselves stranded in a fucking blizzard for the next five days.
The girl’s weight adds virtually nothing to me. I’ve carried deer heavier than this back up to my cabin. Suddenly I’m reminded of my fish I left cooking—the smell of it is still in my beard, although the snow has probably smothered out the fire and started to bury it by now.
It fuels me even harder to get back home. Once this fallen angel is somewhere safe and warm…dammit, I’m going back to get that fucking thing. A man does not waste a fish, especially not one caught with his bare hands.
It’s not long before my cabin is in sight. Not too far off the main road, but tucked away down a side path lined by evergreens that most people easily miss. First thing I hear is my dog, Buck, barking happily at my return.
Dumb mutt has been sitting right there on the porch where I left him this whole time, pouting. Would have taken him with me, but the big bastard would’ve eaten every damn fish that I caught and then some.
Buck is big, black and just as shaggy as I am. Scares some people, which is fine by me. I found him as a stray when I first came up here—skinny, dirty, half-starved, chasing squirrels for his supper, but too hungry to have the energy to catch them.
Now, Buck eats what I do. If I’m being honest, he’s turned into a bit of a porker, but that doesn’t bother me none. I figure he’s earned it, after the life he’s had. Sheriff in town thinks he might be part wolf—wouldn’t surprise me a bit if he was.
As I clomp up the porch steps, Buck perks up and pants excitedly. Silly mutt is usually pretty excited to see me, seeing as I usually have the courtesy to bring him back a consolation fish. But when he sees the woman in my arms, I watch his ears stiffen and his nose twitch with curiosity.
Don’t I know it, boy. We don’t often get visitors up here, least of all, beautiful unconscious brides-to-be.
Buck sniffs at the foot of the angel with his big wet doggy nose and I cluck at him with my tongue.
“Down, boy,” I say. “This ain’t no fish.”
Tentatively, Buck licks at her toes anyway. Can’t even say I blame him. If I was a dog, I’d want to lick this beauty too.
Even as a man, it’s a tempting prospect.
But I need to shove those thoughts out of my head and get this poor girl warmed up and cared for. She’s been through a lot tonight. Last thing she needs right now is some grizzly old bachelor nosing between her legs.
I lay her down on the couch and am pleased to discover she’s still breathing. Well, that’s something, at least. Buck curls up on the floor in front of her, occasionally casting glances up at her beautiful face.
“Behave,” I tell him, not that I need to. Buck is a good dog. A nosy old mutt, but a good dog. And I can tell he’s already just as protective of this girl as I am.
Blankets. She’ll need blankets, enough to lose herself in. When she comes to—if she does—we’ll sort out what to do with her next then.
I cast a tentative glance to the window, watching the snow pour down harder than I’ve ever seen it.
I just hope her plans don’t involve going anywhere—because this shit won’t be letting up any time soon.
Avery
I feel the weight of the world on me. No, maybe it’s the weight of the universe.
&nbs
p; Whatever it is, it’s threatening to crush me.
If I could, I would run away, but my legs won’t obey me. Neither does anything else.
All my attempts at moving fall on deaf limbs. My arms won’t lift, and my legs feel like they’re filled with lead.
And then there’s the pain, slicing through me like a cold knife.
Every inch of me hurts, from the top of my head to my big toe’s toenail. If I’d been run over by a speeding train, I’m sure I’d be feeling less pain than I do right now.
And not only is it difficult to breathe, it’s difficult to just be. I can’t make sense of where I am, what’s weighing me down, or how I got to this unknown place.
Have I died?
Possibly.
Don’t people who have come close to death talk about having an out of body experience? Maybe that’s what this is. I’m having an out of body experience.
It feels like it, anyhow, although I have always imagined that it would feel more floaty than this. More detached. Painless.
Well, right now, the pain is very, very real.
For some reason, my eyes refuse to cooperate and stay open for any length of time. When they do open, I catch a glimpse of flickering flames. Bright yellow fingers with orange tips that reach upwards, like they’re trying to grab something, something just out of reach.
There’s something I’m trying to grab, but it’s out of my reach, too.
My thoughts are in disarray, like slippery, tangled spaghetti noodles in my head.
The flames are oddly reassuring. I guess if I’m dead, at least I died warm.
I try and stretch under the mountain of furry things covering me. Immediately, I stop. The pain shooting through me is unbearable. Maybe something is crushing me—something furry and warm and alive.
I dismiss the thoughts almost instantly. If it was living, it would have a distinct smell, and whatever is covering me does not smell the way I assume a wild animal would smell. At the same time…it doesn’t exactly not smell like an animal, either.
“Boof!” I something hear bark above me.
A dog. There’s a dog on top of me. A huge freaking dog.
At least that explains the crushing warmth.
I try again to open my eyes. Instead of opening all the way, they turn into tiny slits.
The world looks strange this way. Everything is kind of squashed and blurry. I feel like the camera app of an iPhone that’s been dropped one too many times.
Thinking hurts too much, and so I stop. I let my gaze linger on those flames instead.
Fire.
It plays with my mind and lulls me into a fantasy world.
Am I in Hell?
The thought upsets me a little. I know I haven’t been a model citizen, but then again, who has?
I went to the charity galas I was supposed to. I honored my father and mother. I don’t even really swear that much, for freak’s sake.
Look. Let it be known that while living, Avery Wilkins did her very best to behave as a very good girl.
But maybe I’d missed something. Maybe I’d thought too many naughty thoughts about Channing Tatum or said too many things in anger. Maybe God was angry at me.
Had I really behaved so badly in life that Hell is where I ended up? If that’s the case, I shudder to imagine where the likes of Hitler and Stalin and that sinister looking guy on the Quaker Oats box went.
I bury my head deeper into the pillow. At least I think my head’s on a pillow. Maybe it’s just another dog. It’s difficult to tell.
I’m not really in a fit state to check out what’s under me. I can’t even raise my head.
The flames continue to lick at the walls and change in size. Something makes them crackle, grow, and then throw sparks into the air.
With the increase in intensity, I close my eyes again.
If I’m dead, I may as well get used to the experience.
So far, it’s not exactly what I imagined being dead would be like. Or rather, how I would have imagined, if I had ever actually imagined being dead.
I mean, who would, at my age? I haven’t even reached my twenties yet. Now, I never will.
My ears detect a noise of some sort. Is that…heavy breathing?
No. Negative.
Ugh. This is all so frustrating. So confusing! So hard!
Whatever has happened to me, it is so much worse than one of those hangovers I suffer from when attending one of Daddy’s boring social gatherings. To cope with the entire ordeal, I usually drink too much champagne. One glass is fine, but two?
Daddy’s security agents usually have to escort me back up to my room at that point, before I fall asleep on the French ambassador’s shoulder again.
But what can I say? The champagne helps dull the agonizing speeches and bad jokes from those dreadful evenings. But never without consequence.
No, the next morning, the alcohol comes back to haunt me in spades. Massive headache, aching body, nausea, and lethargy are the after effects. They last for about half a day—and then I’m good to go again.
But all that seems like a piece of cake compared to what I’m feeling now. Half a day, a glass of ice-cold organic coconut water, and a greasy cheeseburger that Daddy’s security team promises not to tell Mommy about seems like a cakewalk compared to this.
I’m not sure that this will ever end.
Each and every time I wake up hung over from one of those silly events, I vow not to bow to Daddy’s will and attend one ever again, but my resolve never lasts.
Neither does my resolve to avoid that second glass of champagne.
I was a weak human being. No wonder I’ve been sent to Hell.
It’s a stupid version of Hell, by the way. No welcoming party, no gift bags, nothing.
Although, I guess at least there’s a dog here. I can feel his wet nose poking around in my hair, sniffing me with curiosity.
My useless thoughts are disturbed by a shadow falling across the fire.
Actually, shadow is the wrong word. Something blocks my view of the flames altogether.
I close my eyes again. The sheer effort of keeping them open is too much for me.
When I do, strange images fill in the darkness inside my head.
Someone’s yelling at me, grabbing my wedding dress, and ripping it apart.
Then there’s the broken headlights of a dying car.
Strong, big hands. A man smelling of wood and cold.
Then, nothing. Nothing at all.
Something touches me. It feels like a butterfly is landing on my cheek before moving onto my forehead and then to my hand.
I like it.
Butterfly kisses, that’s what it feels like. Hot, gentle butterfly kisses that leave my skin tingling with delight upon contact.
In my mind, I see tissue paper wings of purple, red, and blue.
This time when I open my eyes, I no longer see the fire. But there’s no butterfly, either.
Instead, what I see bent over and looming above me, is a bear.
No, that’s stupid. Not a bear.
A man.
But he’s certainly a big man, with dark, wild hair akin to a Grizzly. His facial features aren’t exactly friendly, either.
His thick, dark brows are knitted together, leaving his forehead with more lines than a road map.
If I thought some of Daddy’s security guards were scary looking, they now pale into insignificance compared to this mountain of a man.
Mountain man. He looks like a mountain man. Part man, part Grizzly, part mountain.
My eyes refuse to stay open for too long. I close them again. For how long I can’t tell, but when I open them again, he’s still there.
I can feel my heart beat faster.
Some Hell this is. Could he really be a man crossed with a bear? His shoulders are so broad, I think he could put an actual Grizzly back in its place without any trouble.
I can’t see his mouth or his lips. There’s a beard covering the lower half of his face, a bear
d that looks more unruly and unkempt than, I don’t know, Harry Potter’s BFF Hagrid.
Now that’s a thought—one that I warm to the longer I think about it: maybe I’m not dead. Maybe I’m just dreaming. Maybe I’ve entered some kind of book world, following along with the plot as a sort of bystander or something.
At least that would be nicer than being in Hell.
“Hi, Hagrid,” I say in a tiny, sleepy little voice. I smile a little at the thought. “Will you show me your magic umbrella?”
But unlike Hagrid, this big man is wearing a strange, red checkered shirt. It takes incredible effort for me to work out that the material is flannel.
It’s not something I would usually wear. In my super expensive, über cool wardrobe you won’t find flannel, not even in the night dress department. But like every well-educated girl, I do know my fabrics, so I recognize the stuff when I see it.
The chocolate eyes of the stranger now come closer.
Chocolate.
His eyes are like chocolate.
Dark, delicious, and not at all good for you.
Scary-looking men like this one are no good. I know this from Daddy’s security team. They might have their sweet spots, but they all have a terrible reputation for a good reason—most of them have at least killed one person and could snap my neck with just their forefinger and thumb.
Menacing and intimidating. That’s what they look like, because that’s their job: to menace and intimidate other people.
My throat feels dry and I find it difficult to swallow.
Fear is taking hold. Is this man going to kill me?
Deep down, I know I need to be worried, but I just can’t remember why right now.
“Relax,” the beard says in a remarkably soft voice. “Relax. You’re gonna be okay. No need to panic.”
His voice is nothing like those of Daddy’s bodyguards. It’s like chocolate melting on my tongue.
Chocolate.
I’d really love some chocolate right now.
His face comes closer, and I find those brown eyes studying me intimately. If I were in a better frame of mind, I might ask him why he’s looking so stern. His lips, partially hidden by all that hair, are drawn to a thin line, not a hint of a smile.