Cabin 1

by Amanda McKinney

  “Chased into the woods by what?”

  “A drunk bastard.”

  “Don’t see any drunk bastards.”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “Of course I don’t believe you.”

  “Well, that’s just freaking great then.” I stepped back, out of the shadows and into the moonlight, shook my head and laughed a humorless laugh. “Well, do you have a cell phone that I can use, at least? So I can call someone to tell my make believe fairytale to and they can come pick me up on a shiny white horse?”

  The hard edges of his face faded as he looked me over—seeing me fully for the first time—from my shoeless feet, to my ripped shirt, and finally to the lump on my cheek. Something flared in his eyes.

  “You’ve been hurt.” He slowly stepped forward.

  I’ll never know why, never, ever, ever, but the moment the words left his lips, the heat of tears stung my eyes. A dam finally starting to break.

  “Yes,” I whispered, staring back, fighting the quiver in my voice.

  You’ve been hurt.

  The guy had no idea.

  I blinked and clenched my jaw willing the emotions aside. Taking a deep breath, I jutted out my chin and squared my shoulders. Do not fall apart, I told myself. Do not fall apart.

  His look shifted over my shoulder, scanned the woods, then back to me, and slowly trailed down my body, stopping at my feet. He reached for my hand.

  I flinched, jerked it away.

  His eyes widened for a split second at my reaction, then narrowed again. “Your feet hurt?” A sarcastic statement more than a question.

  “They’re fine.”

  “Really? Then we need to skip getting you back to your car and take you right to the podiatrist because that’s the most wicked case of gout I’ve ever seen.”

  “What’s gout?”

  “I don’t know. Something that swells your feet.”

  I looked down at the balloons that were once my feet, and the tiny sausages-for-toes that twenty-four hours ago had been pampered and painted a fire-engine red with little sparkles. Now, the skin matched the nail polish.

  “Where are your shoes?”

  I motioned behind me. “Somewhere out there.”

  “Okay then.” He stepped forward and in one single motion, swept me off my feet, effortlessly, without so much of a grunt.

  I wiggled against him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Carrying you.”

  I pushed away from his chest. “No. I can walk.”

  “Listen,” he snapped. “It’s a steep climb up the mountain and your feet are ripped to shreds, and quite frankly, I’m tired.”

  “If you’re tired, let me walk.” He started up the mountain with a pace that had me both impressed, and clinging tightly around his neck.

  “Not that kind of tired. Tired as in, I want nothing more than an ice-cold beer and a remote control.”

  I decided to shut my mouth and hang on for dear life as he navigated the mountainside, knowing every rock, dip, tree, it seemed.

  Yes, it was his land.

  We stepped out of the woods onto a narrow paved driveway that cut through the mountainside, snaking upward between lighted lampposts. I kept looking for a company sign. I knew it wasn’t a hotel, because I knew all the hotels in the area.

  My gaze froze on a dark silhouette beyond the tree line in the distance, then another beyond that. Two men, watching us from the shadows.

  He didn’t seem to notice, or care. My heartbeat started to pick up.

  The driveway curved and the world opened up to the biggest home I’d ever seen. I questioned my sanity again, thinking it was another mirage, like a lush watering hole in the middle of the desert.

  Like the man carrying me.

  Landscape lighting illuminated a log cabin mansion with at least six peaks disappearing into the night sky, with walls of windows sparkling in the reflection of the lights. Massive natural stone pillars held up three floors of wrap-around porches and balconies. Trees closed in around it, making the shocking structure blend into the surroundings. Rock-walled landscaping ran through the yard, colorful mums decorating the steps that led to a rounded entryway with an iron chandelier hanging from its peak.

  I twisted my head as we passed one of the men in the woods, his dark gaze looking at me like I was either a rabid raccoon about to attack, or perhaps, a raving lunatic who belonged in a padded room.

  I looked up at the man carrying me, the chiseled jaw colored with a five o’clock shadow. The strong lines of his face marked with a steely focus.

  We stepped onto the front lawn where the silhouettes finally emerged from the shadows, one by one, silent, stealthily coming into view. One, two, three men, as tall as trees, as wide as oxen assumed a circle around me, one in front, two in back, the man who found me, carrying me.

  A small army, encircling their captive.

  5

  Niki

  They led me up the steps, through the covered stone entryway with the iron chandelier, and finally, through the enormous double doors of the home.

  I was met with the assaulting gaze of a blonde-haired stunning woman with eyes as cold as ice. The woman shifted her gaze to the man carrying me, and after some sort of nonverbal communication, she nodded and disappeared up the staircase.

  “Kitchen,” my guard dog demanded to his crew, and like a wave in an ocean, the men simultaneously turned and guided us across the foyer. I took a moment to look around the secret castle I’d found in the woods. Soaring ceilings with log support beams, sweeping windows with views of the mountains, bathed in the silver glow of the full moon. Stone floors speckled with furniture, colored like the nature outside.

  It was like a tour inside Architectural Digest.

  Strong. Masculine.

  I was carried into a kitchen the size of my house, with stone floors, marble countertops, copper cookware, and state of the art appliances… and even one of those refrigerators that blended into the wall. I wouldn’t have noticed it if not for the computer screen next to the hidden handle.

  I was placed at a charming breakfast nook at the end of the room, next to windows framing a rolling front lawn speckled with lampposts. I stood, not sure why, and took a moment to look at the men flanking me like a prisoner. They weren’t cagey, nervous-like, no, they were in ready-to-attack mode. I noticed they all looked similar, brothers no doubt about it, and each as ruggedly handsome as the one who hadn’t left my side.

  The room was so silent you could hear a pin drop, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.

  They settled around me, two leaning against counter tops, one next to the doorway as if I was going to try to bolt, and mine, disappeared for a second, then returned with a first aid kit.

  “Sit,” he demanded.

  My brows pulled together. I wasn’t accustomed to taking orders from men, no matter the circumstance. He stared at me—they all did—as if I’d sprouted horns and wings. Apparently, they were not accustomed to anyone not taking their orders. I continued to stare back, hesitating in some sort of ridiculous pissing match, then realized my options were limited. Very limited. Whether I liked it or not, I was in need of help, and I was in their territory. It didn’t take one minute to realize these guys were extremely territorial. So, I sat—as I was told—and assessed my current situation.

  My Finder, as I called him in my head, grabbed a chair from the table, pulled it within an inch of my bloodied knee, kicked his leg over, and pretty much straddled me. He smelled woodsy, like country air, pine needles, with a hint of soap. All male. All sexy.

  As he ripped the top off an antiseptic wipe, I glanced at the brothers, three pairs of eyes boring into me with the skepticism of a stray dog eyeing a piece of food. A rottweiler pit-bull mix.

  “What’s your name?”

  My gaze shifted back to My Finder. “I already told you.”

  “Tell me again.” Those grey-blue eyes flittered to mine, sending a flutter in my stomac
h.

  “Is this a test to see if I’m lying?”

  He cut a glance to his brothers, then focused back to the bump below my eye. “Yep.”

  “Niki Avery.” I flinched at the sting as he dabbed the wound. He didn’t stop, didn’t pause, just kept cleaning.

  “What are you doing out here, Miss Avery?”

  “Niki.”

  “Niki.”

  “I told you, I’m lost.”

  “How long have you been lost?”

  Since I was thrown to the ground and mounted like a piece of trash.

  “Since I was attacked.” My eyes drifted to the floor, shame heating my cheeks. I ground my teeth and looked up again.

  My Finder froze, frowned, then pulled back, recoiling like a snake, a dark shadow sweeping over his face. Disgusted with me? Annoyed? The vein in his neck bulged. No, he was pissed, fuming as he stared back at me with a look that pinned me to the chair. Assessing, assessing, assessing, perhaps seeing.

  If the room could’ve gotten any more silent, it did. A heavy, uncomfortable stillness as we gazed at each other. Him reading right through me. The hair on the back of my neck started to prickle so I glanced at the others, who were fixated on me with the same intensity. I then glanced at the clock on the wall, focusing on the tick, tick, tick while I grappled with the idea of jumping out the window behind me.

  I couldn’t take the silence, the metaphorical dress-down that these jacked-up dudes were giving me. God, they were high-strung. What were they thinking?

  Did they know?

  Know that I had been assaulted?

  … Then, my question was answered.

  My Finder leaned forward and said softly, “Tell me.”

  A lump formed in my throat. Yes, he saw. This stranger somehow knew exactly what had happened to me—whether he’d seen it many times before, I didn’t know—but with that, came a comfort. A trusting.

  A security blanket.

  I released the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and felt the damn tears start to creep up again. Christ I was a mess.

  “Get her a drink,” My Finder says to no one in particular, keeping his eyes on me. I couldn’t tear mine away, either. My stomach was swirling, a tornado inside me as I stared back, pulling strength from the understanding of his gaze. Pulling strength from him, from this stranger who saved me from the woods.

  A bottle of whiskey was set in the center of the table.

  My Finder cuts a glance to his brother, this one almost identical to him. Twins.

  “Water.” You idiot was missing from the rest of his sentence. “And get a blanket, too.”

  The twin hurled a bottle of water across the room, and another delivered a blanket. My Finder wrapped the soft flannel around my shoulders, the warmth, the fresh scent of dryer sheets, shielding me, or perhaps hiding me from the mess I felt inside. He set the water bottle in front of me. I passed it by, grabbed the Johnnie Walker Blue and chugged until the burn down my throat began to distract from the emotions.

  I set it down, the liquor like a shot of courage. After blinking the tears away, I cleared my throat. “What’s your name?”

  “Gage. Now that we got that out of the way… tell me what happened to you tonight.”

  I turned my head to the soldiers around me, but, the man I now knew as Gage, placed the tip of his finger on my chin. He turned my face back to him. “Here.” He pointed to his face. “Tell me right here.” He leaned forward on his elbows, making me feel like I was the only person in the room.

  I nodded, dissolving under his magnetic gaze, and launched into the attack that I knew had already changed my life. He listened, expressionless, unmoving, except for the slow clenching of his fists on his knees.

  By the time I’d finished I swear to God even the ticking clock had silenced. I’d managed to fight the tears, thanks to the unrelenting rage that had surfaced while describing the attack. If they were surprised that I’d killed a man, they didn’t show it. Then again, I doubted any of these guys allowed a pesky little thing like emotions to get in the way of anything. I felt like I was sitting buck naked in the middle of Times Square. My confidence, my armor, completely stripped of me.

  I’d heard plenty of victims speak about their embarrassment after an attack. The notion always puzzled me.

  Not anymore.

  Sitting there, in the castle kitchen, I felt the most vulnerable I’d ever felt in my entire life.

  Finally, Gage spoke. “You’re sure two men? Only two?”

  “Yes. Without question.”

  “You’re sure the other one quit chasing you?”

  “Yes, I’m positive. He meant to kill me. But I got away.”

  Gage turned to his brothers. “Get Jagg over here. And call BSPD.”

  The statues moved, one pulling keys from his pocket, another his cell, and the third, pulled his gun as he stepped forward.

  “Gage,” the tallest said, I guessed he was pushing forty. I concluded he was the oldest brother, based on the fine lines forming around his eyes, and the overly-protective demeanor. He nodded Gage over to the corner.

  Gage squeezed my knee. “I’ll be right back.”

  Although I couldn’t make out most of what they were saying, two words cut through the silence as clear as a bell.

  “She’s yours.”

  6

  Gage

  “She’s yours,” Feen told me, the words laced with a warning as subtle as a train crash. As he disappeared out the back door, I looked back at our newest client—apparently—as she stared out the window pretending not to eavesdrop.

  She was an absolute mess.

  A devastatingly stunning, beautiful disaster of a woman.

  Her arms and legs were covered with scratches and the beginning of bruising that was going to resemble a bushel of grapes. Her hand sliced from wrestling the knife away from her attacker. But all that was nothing compared to the shiner below her eye. A knock like that would give her a black eye for days, maybe weeks, and very likely be swollen shut in the morning.

  Like her attacker’s face when I got a hold of the son of a bitch. It didn’t occur to me at first, no, like the blunt instrument I was, attack meant attack, simple as that. It wasn’t until I’d gotten her inside, close to her, that I saw it in her eyes.

  The pain. The real attack.

  The survival.

  Those fucking eyes, a doe-eyed deep brown, smooth, chocolate, as alluring as a nymph calling me to my death, and as paralyzing as the warning mixed with it. They were lined with a feather of long lashes sure to drop any man to his knees.

  The eyes that had ignited a fire inside me so intense, I’d had to hold myself back. Hold myself back from grabbing every weapon I owned and hunting the son of a bitch down at that moment. Hold myself back from wrapping her up in my arms and carrying her to my bed.

  She had long, brown hair that reminded me of silky caramel, with golden highlights shimmering like pixie dust under the harsh florescent light of the kitchen. And those lips, the lips she kept running her tongue over, pink and plump as a ripe strawberry. She was a handful of years younger than I was. Late twenties, early thirties? And that body—holy shit. One would think she’d be self-conscious in the skin-tight tank top and little shorts that hugged curves so dangerous they needed their own caution sign. Nope—maybe it was the blood that speckled them, the rips along the sides, but she didn’t give a second thought to the racy attire.

  Mess, disaster, whatever, this woman sparked something in me that I hadn’t felt since I’d been knee-deep in a war zone.

  It was immediate. Visceral.

  Jarring.

  The woman looked like a walking punching bag. But did she cry? Tremble in fear? Cower down to us when we demanded her into the house? No. Instead, she was controlled. Capable. Strong. In the face of any woman’s nightmare come true, the one spoke with the strength and confidence of a seasoned soldier.

  Her gaze flickered to me, then shifted to her shoeless feet, before another q
uick glance. Nerves, most would probably assume, but I knew better. This was a woman who knew her current role, knew she was in the hands of strangers, knew we were her only hope at that moment.

  Knew I was her only hope… because… well, because she’s mine now.

  What else did I know? Two things. Two things, without question.

  I knew Niki Avery was the sexiest fucking woman I’d ever seen in my life, and the second thing? I knew I was going to kill the bastard that tried to kill her.

  I felt a burst of anger as I crossed the kitchen, wanting nothing more than to scoop her up and put her in my pocket, or perhaps in my bed… which was the last thing I should’ve been thinking about. I knew that. I knew what my brother’s warning meant. If I screwed up this case, or screwed the case, he’d put me on probation, most likely in a caged facility promising ninety days to salvation.

  Screw that.

  Ax walked back into the kitchen, sliding his phone into his pocket. “Jagg’s working a case. Says he’ll get back to us. I called BSPD. Lieutenant Colson and another officer will be here soon.” He looked at Niki. “You up for some interviews?”

  “Of course.” Her back straightened. Her eyes sparked with a shot of energy. Hope.

  “Good.” He looked at me. “Gunner’s on the four wheeler heading to her Jeep.”

  And the dead guy… he didn’t say it but based on the shudder that flew over Niki’s body, she got it.

  “Feen’s already in the woods, searching for tracks.”

  “We need to look for tracks on the road, too. Get a make on the vehicle.”

  “I told you already,” she snapped. “It was an old, red Chevy.”

  “I heard you,” I said, the spunk of her attitude sending a tingle through my balls. She didn’t appear to be intimidated by us, by me, and I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. “If we can get a good tread track, we can determine the exact model, maybe even the type of tire which gives the police a few different leads to chase.”