Page 3 of Mountain Storm (Mountain Shadows #1)

I come to in an enveloping silence, the relentless wind having ceased its howling. My head pulses with a dull ache. Something warm and comforting encases me—a bundle of furs, perhaps, or animal skins? The light in the room is dim, wavering gently like the heartbeat of the fire casting its glow.

I blink, taking in my surroundings. I find myself inside a rustic cabin.

Sturdy wood forms the cabin walls, their surfaces rough-hewn and earthy.

Beams stretch above, creating a rugged framework.

The air is thick with the scent of smoke mingling with the fresh aroma of pine.

Nearby, a cast-iron stove emits a steady heat, its presence both soothing and unfamiliar.

My own clothes have disappeared, replaced by a thick thermal undershirt and nothing but weighty blankets enveloping me.

A ripple of panic begins to rise within me. Then, a shadow shifts near the doorway, drawing my attention.

I see him standing there. His figure is imposing—tall and broad, with a worn thermal Henley stretched taut across a chest that seems capable of snapping bones without effort.

A dark beard frames his face, and his eyes, deep and unfathomable like polished obsidian, remain fixed on me.

He is still a silent observer. A storm wearing skin.

Nothing about him feels entirely human—not the way he moves, not the way he looks at me.

There's danger in every breath he takes, as if violence is something he exhales without even trying.

I swallow hard. "You going to say something or just keep staring like I'm tonight's main course?"

He doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Then finally, in a voice that rumbles like distant thunder, he speaks.

"You should not be here."

His voice is deep, measured—almost gentle.

But beneath that quiet tone lies something razor-sharp and immovable, a command not spoken so much as embedded in every syllable.

It vibrates through the space like a low warning growl, leaving no doubt that he's the one in control here, and always will be.

I wet my lips, a feeble attempt to steady the tightness winding through my chest. The man standing before me isn't just flesh and blood—he's something older, darker, more dangerous than memory ever allowed.

I'd imagined this moment a hundred different ways, but none of them prepared me for the reality of him.

The weight of his gaze. The quiet threat in his stillness.

Still, I hold my ground, lifting my chin. "And yet, here I am."

He stalks closer, and every instinct in me screams, run.

But I don't. I lift my chin instead. "Are you the one they call the Beast?"

His gaze drags down the length of my body—slow, unapologetic, and hungry. Not like a man checking out a half-naked woman in his bed, but like a predator assessing the weakness of prey that dared step into its territory.

"You're lucky I found you before the storm buried you," he says, voice gravel-deep and edged with something feral.

"And stripped me?" I shoot back, keeping my voice level even as my pulse spikes.

"You were soaked. Hypothermic. Would you rather I left you to die in your wet jeans, teeth chattering while the cold chewed through your bones?"

My cheeks flame, not from embarrassment but from the raw challenge in his tone. I don't flinch. Don't back down. "I'd rather you not talk to me like a child who wandered off the guided bus tour."

His expression changes, subtle but unmistakable. The corner of his mouth lifts—no kindness, no warmth. Just something darker. More amused. Like he's waiting for me to break.

"You have no idea what you walked into, sweetheart."

"Then educate me," I whisper, holding his gaze like it's a blade I intend to catch.

He steps in close. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gray in his beard. The faded scar along his jaw. He radiates heat. Tension. Leashed power.

His hand lifts slowly. One gloved fingertip brushes a damp strand of hair from my cheek.

"Storm's not letting up till morning. You'll stay here. You leave when I say it's safe."

"Do I get a name?"

"No."

My breath catches, jagged and shallow, as though my lungs can't quite decide whether to seize in fear or sigh in surrender.

Something low in my belly clenches—a pulse of heat that spreads outward even as a chill prickles across my skin.

I should be angry. Should be terrified. Every instinct is shouting at me to get up, run, escape.

But there's another voice beneath it—quieter, darker, needier.

A voice that likes the way he looks at me, that leans into the dangerous gravity between us.

My skin prickles with hypersensitivity, every nerve raw and alert to his presence.

It's like standing in a charged storm just before the lightning strikes, the air heavy with potential and danger, each breath more difficult than the last.

A breath too long, a glance too hard, and I might come undone. There's a pull between us, taut and charged, like a wire strung tight with tension and heat. It's volatile. Unwanted. And yet undeniably real.

He leans in, lips near my ear.

"Don't mistake my silence for weakness. I don't play by your rules, Miss Stevens."

That brings me up short. I'm the one who's supposed to know about him... not the other way around. "You know who I am?"

His eyes glint. "I know everything about you."

My heart knocks hard against my ribs, but I keep my tone dry. "That sounds less like concern and more like obsession with a convenient excuse."

His gaze doesn't flinch. "Call it whatever helps you sleep tonight. But you're not leaving until I say you can. And if you fight me on that, you're going to learn exactly what kind of man I am and the consequences for disobeying me."

A thrill moves down my spine, unbidden. I should say something snarky. Something smart. Instead, I ask, quieter now, "And what kind of man is that?"

He doesn't smile. He steps back slowly. "The kind who doesn't enjoy being hunted."

Then he turns his back on me, moving with the same effortless, predatory grace—like he owns every inch of this space, including me.

He crouches before the stove, feeding the fire with precise movements, the muscles across his back flexing beneath the snug fabric of his shirt.

The way it clings to him, molding to every ridge and shadow of his body, sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold.

The heat rising from the fire seems to thicken the air between us, stoking something hotter, rawer, deeper inside me.

My pulse skips. My breath catches. It's not just arousal—it's something sharper, more primitive.

Like my body recognizes him as a danger worth wanting.

Something dark and untamed coils low in my belly, tightening with every breath I take.

He doesn't look at me, doesn't speak, but I feel him—his presence pressing against my senses, his silence louder than a shout.

I know I should fear him. Maybe I do. But right now, still swaddled in the thick furs he wrapped me in—his scent clinging to them, wild and masculine—I feel cocooned in something more primal than safety.

Something possessive. Something heated. And I want more of it, more of him.

I want whatever he's about to become when the last log falls into place and he turns back around.

I might be in over my head—alone in a stranger's cabin, half-naked and completely at his mercy.

Every warning bell screams, but the sinful beat beneath drowns them out.

Desire. Curiosity. Hunger twisting through fear until I can't tell them apart.

This isn't safe. He isn't safe. But all I can think about is what it would feel like to let him catch me.