Page 33 of Carved Obsession (The Sanctum Syndicate #4)

Cocking an eyebrow, she considers my words, then nods, stepping back. I turn around and press the wooden door’s rusty, heavy handle. After turning on the light on my phone, I aim it inside.

The space is tight. Really tight. A basic kitchenette covers half the left wall, with a large storage chest filling the rest. As I step inside, I spot a wood-burning stove tucked behind the door, wood stacked high in the corner, and across from it, a small bed squeezed into the farthest nook.

One ridiculously small bed.

“Oh shit . . .” I mutter under my breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. It’s all clear,” I announce, making room for her as I walk further into the vacant space.

“Damn, when do you think someone came here last?” She swipes her finger over the kitchen counter.

“Hard to say. Dust settles fast in a place like this.”

Especially when the narrow cracks between the wall boards let the wind howl through. There aren’t many, but the leaking roof near the wooden chest doesn’t help. A puddle is already forming on the floor.

Scarlet stops before the blanket-covered wooden bed, the moments she takes to stare at it stretching uncomfortably. Her shoulders tense, mirroring my own uneasiness—we’ll have to share.

I’m bracing for a flurry of complaints—demands too—yet the woman startles me as she claps her hands together and turns on her heels with a spring in her step.

“Right, please pick up that bucket and come with me.” As she walks past me, she points to the old tin vessel tucked away beside the kitchenette, then disappears out the front door. “Chop, chop, killer-boy!” she calls out, impatient.

Tension builds in my temples. This damn woman raises my blood pressure so much that I might end up in the hospital before the night ends. Yet, intrigue takes over, and for once, I do as I’m told.

“Right, let’s see...” she mutters to herself as she bounces around me in the rain, attention focused on my clothes.

She takes the bucket from my hands, places it in the corner where the water drains off the roof, then hurries back to me. I flinch when she touches my back, brushing her delicate hands over my muscles as I frown, confused. But I tense further when they’re on my ass.

Is she wiping me?

She sighs, the sound sharp, and mutters something I can’t distinguish.

In the next second, she pops up before disappearing again, bouncing around me as she studies me.

I’m too mesmerized to question her, realizing she’s trying to remove the mud from my clothes with quick and unsteady movements.

But I’m more caught up in her slightly unhinged perkiness and the unexpected care she’s showing.

She’s a motherfucking ray of sunshine in this apocalyptic storm.

One moment, she’s behind me. The next, she’s crouched at my feet, swiping frantically at my trousers.

“Scarlet, stop th—”

“This isn’t working.” She shakes her head, rising to her feet, and I don’t even think she heard me. “Right. Off with them.”

I frown as she cranes her neck to fix me with her dark gaze. She doesn’t offer an explanation. She removes my jacket from around her waist and dumps it into the bucket, ignoring my protests completely when I try to explain she needs to keep it against her wound.

The woman hushes me, demanding I strip as her T-shirt flies over her head. She’s already kicked her shoes off, and she’s pushing her leggings down.

She’s an unhinged, blood-boiling, stubborn little woman, and I can’t even argue with her.

I’m forced to watch the strings of blood flow out of the small wound on her side, mixing with rainwater as she ignores the damn thing completely and demands I hand her my shirt and trousers.

I oblige, then bring my gun and holster inside the old cabin, taking the opportunity to look for a first-aid kit in the few storage spaces.

“Bingo!” I exclaim as I finally find a weathered tin stocked pretty well with everything from gauze to painkillers.

Someone’s definitely using this cabin. What a surprise they’re gonna get next time they come here.

I want to look in the large chest, but the ache in the pit of my stomach calls me outside. To her. I need to make sure she’s safe.

So I hurry back out, gauze and tape in hand.

“What are you doing?” she asks when I grab her arm and pull her to her feet, turning her side to me.

“You’re bleeding.”

“We already knew that, genius.”

Her insult drifts over my head as I focus all my attention on patching her up. It’s temporary. I’ll have to replace it when she moves her ass back inside the shelter. But at least it will put some pressure on the wound.

She squats down the moment the bandage is on, and my attention is once again pulled to her actions. To the care with which she rinses the mud off our clothes passing one by one through that small bucket before she attempts to squeeze the better part of the water out.

I tell myself that I’m relenting when I begin to pluck them out of her tired hands and wring out the excess water, but the reality is that there wasn’t much protest in my intention.

I help her with each garment, taking them inside one by one and temporarily laying them on the wooden chest. There are only five pieces of clothing, but the repetition grows curiously comforting.

Domestic, somehow. And the empty bucket sends an odd, disappointing sensation through my stomach.

I walk out of the cabin but halt, mesmerized.

The kitten stands a few feet away, arms spread wide, head craned back, closed eyes aimed at the sky as she takes in every heavy drop battering her almost naked body.

The cotton panties cling to every curve, sports bra tight against breasts I’ve already admired, and she makes no attempt to come out of the deluge.

I’ve already crossed half the distance before I realize my legs are acting on their own, pulled in by this ethereal image.

My fingers itch to trail down her skin, and deep in my chest blooms a need to feel what she feels right now.

The rawness of whatever emotion drives her to stand there and absorb the chaos of this ruthless storm.

The beauty in her burrows deep beyond her soft skin, and it compels me to attempt to experience the world through her eyes.

Maybe she hears my steps, maybe her instincts alert her to a predator closing in, but she straightens and turns to me slowly.

Charged moments pass, stretching the silence that has been remarkably comforting between us, and just like this cloudburst, the reality I’ve been shoving into the deep corners of my mind assaults me.

Scarlet can’t be someone I simply play with in Metamorphosis. Definitely not a quick fuck, or a singular, all-night-long conquest. She can’t be part of my life temporarily. If I let Scarlet in...she will never be rid of me. Nor I of her.

The slight shake in her flesh is the only thing capable of pulling me out of this train of thought, and I urge her toward the cabin, refusing to walk in before she’s safe inside.

I shut the door behind me, annoyed that apart from an old lock a strong wind could break through, not much else keeps us secure in here.

With the lights from our phones turned on, we make our way through the tight space.

She moves the bucket below the spot where the roof leaks, and I scramble to make a fire in the old stove.

Luckily, all we need is already here. The cabin is well stocked by whoever uses it.

Yet, with my thoughts distracted by Scarlet’s current state, it still takes me a few attempts to get the fire going.

Though, my lack of experience contributes to it too.

But it’s on, lighting up the space as well. When I turn, warm light bathes Scarlet, shining and sparkling over her wet skin as she stands next to the bed, arms wrapped tightly around herself.

Her clattering teeth make me anxious, but her lack of interest in the wound soaking the bandage concerns me more. I’ve been watching her, and I wonder if she either has a really high tolerance for pain, or she just masks it extremely well.

The latter raises too many questions that threaten to turn me violent, especially combined with her sharp retort regarding her upbringing.

She turns toward the bed, cocking her head.

“Do I dare?” she asks, bending over to lift the blanket that covers it.

“Not yet. Sit,” I tell her, walking toward the wooden chest to look for something that could help me take care of her.

“I’m fine,” she argues.

“I said sit.”

Her eyes widen, the protest shining bright in her fire-lit gaze, but something else, something more primal, glows just a bit brighter.

Then she sits, hands clasped together in her lap, attention fixed on me, complete absence of protest, but the defiance is there. ..in the goosebumps marring her skin.

That does something to me. Her obedience to my words. The responsiveness. It makes me wonder how else I could bend her to my will.

It makes my cock twitch. Hard. It heats my blood and brings to the surface cravings I’ve been ignoring. Desires that exist for her and her alone.

I don’t know if the stove is doing its job or it’s me who’s suddenly hot, but it takes me a moment to gather myself and turn back to the task at hand.

“This is useful.” I pull out the rack I find folded and tucked next to the wooden chest.

“What’s that?”

“A clothes rack. To dry them.” I unfold it and set it in front of the door, next to the stove, before I grab our wet clothes and hang them there.

Scarlet wants to help, but I stop her. She’s done enough.

With a screech, the lid of the wooden chest gives way as I lift it open, revealing all sorts of treasures inside. A weathered fur, a couple of blankets, a pillow, and a few towels. I’m not sure how clean they are, but they’ll be perfect to attempt to dry our hair with, Scarlet’s especially.

I grab the pillow, blankets, and towels, running one of the latter quickly through my hair before I set them all next to her on the bed.

“I can do it.” Scarlet attempts to stop me as I capture her hair in the towel and squeeze the water out.

But I respond with a stern look that settles her instantly. Calmly, I massage her hair, her scalp, allowing myself a few extra moments.

When most of the excess water is absorbed, I gently pat down her skin, then tend to her wound once more.

“It’s bleeding, but it’s not too bad.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

Yet again, I don’t hear the little strain in her voice that I’d expect from someone in pain. Or at least discomfort.

“Up,” I order.

She cocks an eyebrow, and I don’t miss how she sheepishly chews on her bottom lip before she does as she’s told. I drape a blanket over her shoulders, wrapping her tightly in it, then peel off the cover so that I can inspect the bed.

“It’s clean,” she exclaims.

“I think whoever uses this brings clean linen with them and takes away the used one each time, based on the contents of that chest.”

“We’ll have to make it up to them.”

I nod in agreement.

“Take off your underwear and slide in.”

“My underwear?”

“It’s wet.” I briefly turn to her, cocking an eyebrow as I grab the towel and dry myself before laying it over the lid of the chest.

I put the pillow in place, carefully folding the second towel over it to avoid getting it too wet, then gesture for Scarlet to get in. She listens, jumping in and setting all blankets over her shivering body.

“What about you?” she asks.

I’m already pulling down my boxers, reveling in her sharp intake of breath as I hang them next to her underwear on the drying rack.

When I turn and walk toward the small bed, her eyes widen, but fuck, her mouth is wider.

A little pride blooms inside me. Way down low, it hardens too, and I can’t help grin.

“What about me?” I respond as I lift the blankets and slide in.

“You’re serious!” She yelps as my cold skin makes contact with hers.

“It’s either this or one of us will be extremely uncomfortable, and potentially cold, on the dirty, wet, wooden floor. And it’s not going to be me.” I shift on my side, tucking the blankets behind me.

We’re facing each other, burnished flames dancing over her features as she attempts to keep her naked body away from mine. But the bed is too small, and I may not be as big as Maddox, but I fill this pretty damn well.

“You’re shaking, kitten.” I tease. “You won’t be going on the floor either.”

“Yes, I will. Right in front of that stove.”

I roll my eyes and lift the blankets to make a little space. “Turn around.”

“What?”

“Turn around, Scarlet. Back to me.”

I poke her with my knee, suppressing a laugh when she slaps my bare chest.

“What’s your intention, killer-boy?” She flips over, and I tuck a bit of the blanket between my cock and her ass, attempting to be the good guy here.

“To keep you from freezing.”

She groans deep in her chest when I wrap her in my arms and press her against me, muscles softening as our joined bodies begin to produce a bit of heat.

“Better?”

Silence stretches.

Finally, she nods.

But those quiet seconds allowed my thoughts to drift toward an answer... I’m not better .

Fuck, I’m much more than that.

In this foreign, unfamiliar place, in a stranger’s bed, with Scarlet tucked within my arms, I think I found home.

I’m done pretending I’m not ready to fuck this woman into oblivion. I need to get her out of my fucking system or fuck her deep enough in there that she can’t pry herself out.

And I don’t want her out of my system.