by Eve Langlais
“Expecting us to get snowed in for a while?” she asked.
“This storm might last hours, or it could be days. Best be prepared.”
Days? Before panic could truly set in, he’d disappeared back into the storm. She tidied some more, finding a pot with a handle that fit on the hook inside the hearth. She melted snow in it and rinsed it out three times, along with a pair of tin mugs she found, before letting the snow in it melt and boil, making it safe for drinking.
She hoped.
She poured it into the cleaned mugs then melted more snow and, using a corner of the sweater she’d removed, dampened it and washed her face. Then hands. Hesitating, she finally dabbed at her neck. The bite didn’t hurt. Perhaps it wouldn’t get infected.
More time passed, and no Lawrence. The storm outside intensified, the wind whistling and at times shaking the cabin. Yet very few drafts made it inside, and not a single flake of snow.
A good shelter. If only it came fully stocked with a pantry.
Time to check out the mystery cans. She rummaged in the rustic kitchen and found a thing that had to be an opener. When she couldn’t figure out how to use it, she resorted to drinking more water to quell the hunger pains in her belly.
When Lawrence finally returned, she almost burst into tears of happiness.
I’m not alone.
When she realized she wanted to run to him like some weakling, she instead barked, “And where have you been?”
“Getting us dinner, Peanut. Ever had roasted squirrel?”
Chapter Seven
Charlotte blanched as he held up his find. Perhaps he should have skinned it and made it look more store bought before bringing it in.
“What is that? Rat?” she asked.
“Squirrel. Tasty when smoked. I don’t suppose you found some salt and pepper.”
“You brought back road kill?”
“Snare, actually. And is that a no on the seasoning?”
She’d been busy while he was gone. He took in the tidied nature of the cabin, the nest she’d built in front of the fire.
She pointed. “Tons of salt, a shaker of solid pepper, which is probably no good, and something that could be either oregano or weed.”
“No one leaves their weed behind.” He winked as he entered and shut the door firmly against the storm.
He’d not meant to be outside so long; however, he’d wanted to scout and ensure they were as remote as he believed. In his mad dash while drugged, he’d taken them deep into the forest. Climbing a tree had only shown more trees as far as he could see. Which admittedly wasn’t as far as he liked with the impending storm.
He searched for tracks and laid snares for animals. Not everything hibernated all winter long. He tossed his furry catch onto the cleared counter and emptied his pockets of the nuts he’d also found, hidden in the bole of a tree.
“Can we eat those?” She showed interest and grabbed one, turning it in her fingers.
It shouldn’t have fascinated him to watch, yet as with everything else about Charlotte, he couldn’t help himself. The effect must have been amplified while he was drugged. That would explain why he’d marked her as his mate. Fate, knowing he wouldn’t go willingly, had arranged for him to be in a weak spot and swooped in to screw him.
He was mated.
Shackled.
Screwed.
There had to be a way to nullify what he’d done. Charlotte didn’t know what he was. Hadn’t consented. Probably never would, given she didn’t seem to like him most of the time. Whereas he was finding he liked her all too much.
“Earth to abominable snow guy, how do we eat them?” She shook the nut at him, snapping him out of his contemplation.
“We need to roast those before they’ll be edible.”
“How?” She didn’t question his knowledge, but she did insist on washing the dusty pan they located, and then she listened as he explained how to cook them.
It was only as he dressed his catch that she asked, “How do you know how to do all this? You don’t look like the survivalist type.”
“What type do I look like?” he asked as he turned from hacking with the dullest knife in existence.
“Not the outdoorsy kind.”
“Because I am wearing a nice suit?” He gestured to his now grimy attire. “This was for the wedding and reception.”
“What do you usually wear then?”
“Jeans and tees if I’m going out. Track pants the rest of time, when I’m not naked.”
Her nose actually wrinkled. “Ew. I didn’t need to know that.”
He ogled her for a second. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had a woman say that to me before.”
“Never told you how conceited you are and how gross you speak?” She arched a brow. “Not everyone you meet is gonna wanna see your junk.”
“Just breaking my heart. Crushing my ego.”
“I highly doubt that,” she said with a snort as she shook the pan and rattled the nuts around atop a rusted rack he’d fitted inside the hearth. “How do we know when these are ready?”
“When you can’t stand waiting any longer, so you grab a really hot one, burn yourself trying to crack it, and pop that hot nut in your mouth for a hopefully satisfying crunch.”
“Spoken by the voice of experience,” she stated, giving the pan yet another wiggle.
“I’m a man of many faces. Spend time with me, and you might see a few of them.” No need to tell her about the fact that she’d be the first woman, other than a family member, that he allowed to get close enough to see past the tomcat exterior.
“Guess I won’t have a choice. We’re going to be stuck here until the morning at least, aren’t we? Maybe even longer.” Her lips turned down.
“Some women would be delighted at a chance for alone time with me.”
She pursed her lips. “I’m not most women.”
The thing he liked most about her. “Who are you, Peanut? What secrets are you hiding inside that head of yours?”
“If they’re secret, then I’m not going to tell you.”
“A woman of mystery,” he said as he headed for the door and tossed the unwanted parts of the squirrel outside.
“Hardly. You said something earlier. About your friends finding us.”
“I don’t know if I’d call them friends.” He grimaced. “But if there’s one thing I am sure of, there is nowhere on this earth they won’t come looking for me.”
“But how? Even if they had dogs to trace our scent from that house, the snow would have covered the tracks.”
“Let’s just say they have other ways.” The chip they’d put in him after that kidnapping would show up as a ping on a passing satellite at one point. Once the storm passed, they’d be able to pick up his signal.
“Take it from me, it’s not easy finding people who are lost.” Her shoulders drooped.
The statement indicated a story, but he didn’t prod. Mostly because he didn’t think she was ready to relate it yet.
He watched her hesitating to grab a hot nut from the pan she’d placed on the hearth. Her tongue poked from her lips. Her glasses sat low on her nose. A miracle she’d held on to them.
“I’m surprised you still have those.” He indicated the frames.
“As a person who has lost or broken a few pairs, the first thing I do in an emergency is get them somewhere safe. I tucked them in my pocket before climbing out of the window.”
“Smart and beautiful.”
“Still not doing the flirting thing,” she reminded.
Even rebuffing him, she was so damned cute.
And his.
The marks were on the other side of her neck, and yet he sensed them. How could he feel them? Why was he so drawn to her? Did the drugs still course through his system? Or had it finally happened? That dreaded thing that seemed to afflict personally reasonable people and turn them into couples?
Look at his best friend, Dean, who’d just married. Volunteered to be tied down by a b
all and chain. The guy had never looked happier.
If a confirmed bachelor like Dean could find someone, maybe it wasn’t farfetched that Lawrence could too. But was Charlotte the one?
He crouched beside her and flipped the pan, pouring the scorching nuts onto the sleeping bag.
“What are you doing?” she squeaked, jerking away from the piping-hot shells.
“Cooking our dinner.” He dumped the seasoned meat into the pan. There was a satisfying sizzle. He returned the pan to the hearth, shoved in far enough to cook.
“How do we eat them?” she asked, having recovered from her freak-out. She leaned forward and made sure she didn’t touch the nuts she pointed to.
“Crack them open.” He grabbed and pinched one hard enough it split. He handed her the treat inside.
It was three bites before she caught on. She held the nut between two fingers and eyed him. “Aren’t you having some?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you, or are these poisoned?” She suddenly held the nut away from her as if it might attack.
He snorted. “Are you always this paranoid?” Only to immediately apologize. His aunts had taught him women experienced a different reality than men. “No, they’re not poisoned. I didn’t eat any because you are hungry.”
“I am, but you need food, too,” she insisted.
“Go ahead. I can wait. Dinner is coming.” He pointed to the pan.
“Exactly. Which means I won’t be greedy. Eat.”
To his surprise—and pleasure—she shoved the nut at his lips. He took it and crunched, his gaze locked with hers. “Thank you.”
Her lashes dropped along with her head. “Let me try and open the next one.” She sought a nut and squeezed it. It didn’t crack. She squished it and strained. Growled in annoyance.
Lawrence didn’t smile, but he did snare a pair of nuts. Crunch. He opened his hand. “They’re kind of tough.”
“I can do this,” she insisted. She rose, and since she was on some kind of mission, he ate the two nuts.
It didn’t take her long to find what she wanted, a meat mallet, the handiest tool to have in the wilderness for tenderizing meat and whacking shit. She lightly tapped a nut. When it didn’t crack, she pulverized it.
They both stared at the remains, shell and nut mixing together. “I think that one was bad,” she declared.
“Most definitely,” he said without hinting at his humor.
The next nut she smashed survived mostly intact, and he let her open all the nuts. They shared them, and when they were done, he swept up the shavings and tossed them into the fire, causing the flames to leap.
The hut remained surprisingly weatherproof. They could hear the whistle of the storm outside, and there were small drafts, but the fireplace chased the chill. They were safe from the snow, and—
“Should we turn it?”
“What?” He startled and took a moment to grasp what she meant. “The meat. Yes.” Still somewhat in a bemused state, he snared the pan and hissed at the heat of the handle.
“You might want to use this.” She grabbed the makeshift potholder from the floor where it had fallen unnoticed. He blamed her for the distraction.
He reached for it, only to have her grab his hand.
“You’re hurt.”
“Barely. I don’t feel a thing.” Not entirely true, his hand did throb, but he knew it wouldn’t last long. Shifters healed at a quicker rate. Especially true in some hybrids.
He slid the glove on and pulled the pan close enough that he could roll the meat. It sizzled as it hit the hot metal. He shoved it back for some more cooking. “It will be awhile yet.”
“If you’re hungry now, I found some cans.” She gestured.
“What do we have?” He held one up. “Some kind of green vegetable.”
“Sounds delicious?” Her nose scrunched at her query.
The corner of his lip tugged. “That is more optimistic than this image deserves. What do you say we find out?”
“There’s a weird can opener.” She located the tool, and Lawrence showed her how to peel metal with it.
The moment he pierced that seal, the smell hit them. Hard.
“Oh god, that’s awful,” she exclaimed. “It must have gone bad.”
He peered at the contents. “I don’t know. Seems like it matches the picture. He held it tilted in her direction to show off the green lumps.
“I can’t eat that.” She put a hand over her mouth.
“Me either.” Nor did he want to smell it a minute longer. Opening the door for only the barest of seconds, he tossed it as far as he could into the storm. Something would find it and not be as picky about eating.
The next can held a soup.
“Think it’s any good?” she asked dubiously of the yellowish fluid with chunks.
“I think that, along with the bones and whatever meat is left, it will make a fine stew for later.”
“Something else you learned in the Boy Scouts?” she asked.
“You might say.” He winked. “Growing up, the nights I spent in the woods were some of my most formative.”
He then proceeded to regale her with a story about how he and some of the other kids went to a camp thought to be haunted and just about pissed themselves when some of the older kids decided to pretend they were psycho murderers out to get them. A good, screaming time was had by all. Except for Kelvin. Well into his thirties, he still slept with a nightlight.
“That is way more exciting than anything I ever did,” she admitted. “The only time I ever did anything outdoorsy like that was in my backyard with my brother. We found a pup tent someone was tossing out.”
“You’re close to your brother?” he asked as he tested the meat, not worried so much about the rawness for him but more so for her.
“Yes. Was. Kind of.” She sighed. “He’s the reason I’m in Russia. He came here months ago to work, and while not the most reliable guy when it comes to communicating, he usually manages to get some kind of word out to me.”
“He’s missing?” he asked to clarify.
“Yeah.”
“How long?”
“Seven months since I last heard from him. At least five that I know for sure he’s been gone. The junk mail really started piling up about a month before that, though.”
“Wait a second, you came to Russia to find your brother? Alone?” Because she obviously wasn’t native to the place.
Her expression tightened. “You think I’m stupid.”
“I think you must love him very much.” And yes, she was a little dumb, but only for the best reasons.
Her shoulders sagged. “I just wish I knew if he was okay.”
“Have you made any progress in your search?”
“What search? I don’t know anyone. I thought maybe someone at his building or job would have answers, but no one would talk to me.” Her lips curved even lower. “It’s like he never existed.”
The sheer weariness of the statement tore at him. He had to ease that weight. “When we get out of here, I’d like to help.”
Her gaze rose to meet his. “Why?”
“Because family is everything. I recently had a cousin go missing, so I know how that feels.”
“Did you find them?”
“Yes. Miriam came back to us.” He left out the part where she was shot and tossed in a river to die. She’d recovered but would always have a scar.
“It’s been so long since I’ve heard from Peter.”
“Don’t give up hope. Not until you know for sure. I’ll help you get answers when we get out of here.”
“You are way more confident about that happening than I am.” A rueful admission.
“Don’t you worry, Peanut. I’ll get you back to civilization in one piece.” He pulled the pan from the fire and shook it to roll the charred meat in the juices. “Dinner is served.”
Not much was said as they chowed down. He didn’t eat much, having already partaken outside while in his lig
er form. It meant there was enough left to throw in a pot with the can of stew and some more snow.
“Soup for breakfast?” she quipped as she stirred the pot.
“Wait until you see what I plan for lunch.” He lay on the sleeping bag, feet aimed at the fire, hands crossed under his head.
“You don’t think we’ll be rescued before then.” Stated, not asked.
“We could try walking out, but that will be miserable in that snow. Our best bet is to wait.”
“Wait for someone to rescue us?” She snorted. “I wish I shared your optimism.”
“Are you always this pessimistic?”
“I’m a realist. And as a person who’s been clumsy her entire life, I always have to look for the worst.”
“You need someone to catch you.”
“I do not. I—” She whirled to rebut his claim, her ankles got confused, and the next thing they both knew, she landed in his arms. Proving his point.
“I think you should have a seat.”
“I agree. I’m tired,” she muttered, her cheeks hot. He shifted her so she could sit on the pillow beside him. Rather than park her sweet ass in it, she gestured. “You’re the one lying down. You should put the pillow under your head.”
A soft cushion would be nice, but a man should always strive to be a gentleman. “You found it and were using it first.”
“We’ll share.” She flopped the cushion down beside his head, and then inched herself down in a way that gave her an edge of it without any part of her body touching his and put her back to him.
Invitation to spoon? Or, more likely, her way of shutting him out? He might have been more offended if he hadn’t caught whiffs of her arousal or the way heat sometimes stained her cheeks when she peeked at him.
It was a few minutes of silence before he dared to sigh and say, “I can’t sleep.” He could tell by her breathing she didn’t either.
Rather than pretend, she accepted the opening and made conversation. “Were you afraid you’d get lost when you went hunting?”
“I’ve got good sense of direction.”
“Even in a storm?” she asked.
How to explain that he now apparently had a lodestone to orient him. A mate. No one ever told him they acted like a compass. Would it work in reverse? Would she know when he went to the bar?