by Liz K. Lorde
There are worry lines around those eyes.
I move my gaze from his face and take in the rest of him. He’s so broad in the shoulders that it looks like the shirt, probably a triple extra-large as it is, would pop at the seams any second now. Even through my little slits, I can see that the top half of the shirt is unbuttoned and that there are muscles upon muscles and dark, thick chest hair beneath.
Daddy’s personal bodyguard, who looks like he’s spent most of his life in the gym, would take one look at this man and die of envy.
Is this even a real man? Maybe not. He definitely looks too good to be real.
If I’m dead, he could be a god. If so, my pastor is going to be totally put out. Jesus on the cross might have a six pack, but this man is packing more like a baker’s dozen.
I try and rummage around my head for any knowledge I have on the Greek and Norse gods and the afterlife.
The sheer effort is too much, and I drift into a light sleep once again. Now my head is filling with visions of gods: Apollo, Odin, Zeus, and Thor.
Maybe being dead isn’t going to be so bad after all. This man scares me the way that an all-powerful God should, but there’s something undeniably attractive about him as well.
He’s mumbling something to me.
I wish he’d speak up.
But try as I might, I can’t rouse myself into a fully conscious state. The world, whatever world I’m in now, stays out of focus and beyond my comprehension, until finally, I give in to the exhaustion and drift back to sleep.
Even in my unconsciousness, I don’t think the stranger—or his strange dog—leave my side.
Jack
“Take cover! Everyone, take fucking cover!” I yell and sprint from the cover of a large rock to press my back against a twisted, bullet-riddled tree.
“Help! Jack, help!” one of my men screams but there’s no goddamn way I can help him.
All around me bullets are pummeling into the ground. One of them catches the loose edge of my sleeve and leaves a gaping fucking wound.
Something’s gone wrong. Something’s gone terribly fucking wrong.
The enemy is coming and we’re sitting like fucked ducks right in front of them without even the ability to fucking defend ourselves.
Thwack. A small explosive lands several yards away from me, followed by two more. Foley, my second-in-command, is hit. The impact of the explosion does things to his body that I can never wipe clean from my mind.
I look away. My insides feel as if they’ve been torn out of me. Pure survival instinct is the only thing that keeps me going. I need to get out of this fucking predicament. I need to survive, and I need to bring enough of my men through it with me so that whoever is responsible for this fuck up can pay.
The operation is already tits-up. Our original mission is irrelevant now. The important thing is the lives of my men—their lives, and our revenge. I want to make sure someone fucking pays for the slaughter that’s happening here today.
“RUN!” I scream. “Fucking RUN!”
And that’s exactly what we do. We run as fast as we fucking can. I can hear the boots of my men hitting the dirt behind me. None of our high-tech weapons—war-enders delivered courtesy of Stanton Engineering and good old Uncle Sam—are working. Not a single fucking one.
I, Jack Lawson, am not a man to run away, but I ain’t no fucking idiot, either. I know when it’s time to admit defeat and pull back. You don’t keep fighting a losing battle when you’re outmanned, outgunned and defenseless out of some false sense of glory. There ain’t no glory in being dead—you’re just dead.
No shame in retreat if it means you and your men can live to fight another day.
I never should have lead my men into this certain death fucking trap. Not on the promise of some high-tech weaponry that has turned out to be about as useful as an arsenal of water guns.
Actually, I’d trade these pieces of shit in for a water gun right now if I could. At least we could enjoy the illusion of doing something.
If I can get even a few of us out of here alive it’ll be a fucking miracle. I’ll buy a water gun for every goddamn one of us.
Smack! Thwack! Splat! The bullets and explosives rip up the ground beneath my boots as they pound dirt.
More screaming assaults my ears. Slowly, one by one, my squad is reducing in numbers. We’re the most elite special operations team the U-S-of-A has to offer, and we’re dying like fish in a barrel. Everybody that hits the ground behind me is a letter home to a loving family that I don’t want to write—because I shouldn’t fucking have to.
Fuck. I need to get the rest out of here and to safety. Easier said than fucking done.
Desperate as I am I try one last time to shoot my high-tech, allegedly super accurate machine gun, but nothing fucking happens.
This time, I chuck the damn thing away. My remaining men do the same. At least we’ll be able to run faster without the weight of a useless fucking weapon. Whoever sold us these pups had sold us a dud. And what’s worse about all this is that fucking innocent lives are being lost. My men shouldn’t be dropping like flies.
We’re the best of the best. The hardest of the hardened. We’ve been training for years for this. We’ve been constantly deployed for months now. Each and every one of our missions has been a success. Until now.
This one is a fucking disaster.
For some reason the faster I run, the less progress I make. Around me, bits of my men are flying through the air. There’s an arm, a leg, a torso.
Just then, a volley of gunfire digs the dirt up to my left. It’s so close, a little pebble hits me in the fucking face.
My heart is beating so wild in my chest now, I fear it might rip it open. And still I barely cover any ground.
Ahead of me, I see giant explosions. Houses are being torn apart, debris flies through the air and there’s screaming like I’ve never fucking heard in my life. There are children crying, women screeching and men howling in pain.
All this turns into an almighty crescendo of unbearable sound. If I could, I’d cover my ears, but I need my hands to help me run as fast as I can. But where the fuck am I running to?
My lungs feel as if every last bit of air is being squeezed out of them.
Any second my life will be over, just like those of all my men and no doubt countless fucking innocent people who are caught in yet another fucking war. A war where no one even remembers why it started or how. A war that feels like it’ll never end.
My right foot catches on something. I feel the end come quickly. Regrets, I have a few. But there’s not enough time to dwell on them now—or ever for that matter.
I tumble. I roll. I try and grab hold of something, anything, to feel one last sensation before the world goes black and—
My eyes open and stare at the ceiling. My breathing is fast and shallow. My body is drenched in sweat. It takes me several seconds to realize I’m not really in that war and I’m not in my bed either.
I look around and I find I’m laid belly up on my bedroom floor.
One of my night terrors has obviously paid me a visit. I sit up and run my hands through my hair, trying to remember if I’d screamed.
The girl.
I recall the girl I picked up the previous day. Picked up being a fucking understatement more like barely rescued from a burning car. She’s tiny, fragile. Exquisite, even in her pain—though I shouldn’t be thinking of her like that. What I should do is check on her, make sure Buck hasn’t licked her to death yet. But first things first.
I need a shower.
When I step under the shower head, I only turn on the cold tap. My body is practically burning and I need to douse the fire blazing within me. And the girl will need a shower too, later.
A shower or a bath. Whatever pretty women in destroyed bridal gowns prefer. There’s a limited amount of hot water available for bathing here, and I’ve never minded the cold all that much. Instead, I save it all for her.
When I’m a littl
e cooler and calmer, I pull on a clean shirt and jeans, then make my way downstairs. I do my best to tread carefully on each step to try and make sure they don’t creak. It leaves my big, burly form tiptoeing around like an idiot, but if she’s still asleep, she needs it. I don’t want to wake her.
Last night, before I went to bed, she looked pretty fucking worse for wear. If I were closer to a doctor, I’d have taken her to get medical help. The tumble she took down that mountain…it’s a miracle she’s even alive.
She ought to get her head looked at, for one. What was it she called me? Hagrid, or some shit, wanted something about a magic umbrella.
Of course, driving on those roads that late at night, I’m not surprised if she winds up being a little touched in the head…but hell, maybe it was just a concussion talking. As it is, I’m miles from civilization and in this snowstorm, we’ll be trapped in here for a while.
Once I’m in the kitchen, I pull the blinds open and find myself staring at a mountain of white. The storm is worse than I thought it was.
My eyes move over my limited supplies. I could easily survive on what’s here for a month. With two people, it might get more difficult, more so when nursing someone back to health.
I turn around and look at the small head poking out from under the mountain of blankets I piled on top of her last night. With the place not having central heating, I didn’t want her to get cold.
On tip toes again, I go over to check her out a little more closely.
All I can see is the tip of her tiny nose, extremely pale skin, luscious lips that are still smeared with red lipstick and the golden locks of her long, blonde hair.
Something stirs deep within me as I watch over her. I feel like picking her up and holding her. I want to make sure she’s okay. Hell, I want to hold her against my chest until I can be completely certain.
But I don’t dare touch her. She looks so small, so fragile, like a porcelain doll. I don’t want to risk breaking her with my rough embrace.
From what I can see, she’s still breathing. In fact, her breathing seems relaxed and steady. Much better than last night.
So far so good.
I still can’t believe she survived that fucking car crash.
She’s one lucky woman.
Of course I have no fucking idea where she came from and what she’s doing out here, all on her own and wearing a wedding dress. Of all the dumbass things to crash her car in, she was wearing a wedding dress.
If I’m not going to pick her up, I should do something useful.
But I don’t.
I can’t tear myself away from this angel. My left hand extends slowly toward her face, but then I pull it away at the last minute.
An inner struggle ensues. I’m such a large man. I’m dangerous. I’m sure to cause her more fucking harm than good.
In the end, my brain wins and I shove my hands deep into the pocket of my jeans, just to keep them out of trouble.
I head back into the kitchen and rummage around in my cupboards. No doubt my visitor will be hungry when she wakes.
Since I’m not prepared for visitors, I’ll have to be careful. We could be stuck up here for days, maybe even weeks. I don’t want us to starve to death after I went to the trouble of rescuing her.
I’ve got enough deaths on my conscience. I don’t need another one.
I think if we’re careful, we can make it. It’s all about planning. If I plan our meals, ration them out like the military man I used to be, we should be fine.
Pancakes. I make damn good pancakes. Best fucking pancakes anyone will ever eat, if I do say so myself. It’s a family recipe. I don’t need to consult a book or any of that shit. I work from memory.
Soon the kitchen is filled with the smell of melted butter and sizzling batter.
From time to time, I glance in the direction of the angel on the couch to watch for movement. So far, there’s none.
Buck has tucked himself up on top of her and occasionally nuzzles her with his nose. As long as the mutt doesn’t crush her to death, he’ll likely alert me if she stirs.
I tip the pan back, and with a flick of my wrist, launch the pancake into the air. It tumbles on the way back down, the uncooked side hitting the hot pan.
She’ll wake up sooner or later.
I just have to decide what the fuck I’m going to do with her when she does.
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 almos
t 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.”