Page 8 of Mountain Storm (Mountain Shadows #1)

ZEB

She's mine now. Lying in my bed, wrapped in my furs, tucked away in my mountain cabin like a secret too dangerous to speak aloud.

Every rational part of me screams that it's wrong, that I crossed a line I can't uncross.

And yet—the darker instincts I've spent years choking down rise up in triumph, whispering that this is right.

That she belongs here. With me. Under me. Marked by me. Claimed.

I pace the far side of the room, too wired to sit, my muscles coiled so tight I feel like I might snap in half.

Each step echoes like a warning bell, my boots grinding against the floorboards as if the sound alone could drown out the storm inside my skull.

I tell myself I'm walking to stay calm, to think.

But the truth is darker. If I stop, if I let myself pause for even a second, I'll turn toward the bed—and I won't be able to stop myself.

I'll go to her. I'll touch her. I'll take her. And not gently.

Because the urge clawing at me isn't some noble instinct to protect or nurture.

It's hunger. Rage. Obsession. It's the part of me that doesn't belong in polite society.

The side forged in blood and frost and silence.

The one I buried so deep I thought it had finally died.

But now it's alive again. She brought it back to life.

And if I don't keep moving, if I don't pace this room like a beast in a cage—I'll unleash it.

And there will be no putting it back. I'm too close to losing control to do anything but keep moving.

The urge to turn around, to go to her, is a living thing inside me—sharp, gnawing, relentless.

The rhythm of my boots scuffing across the plank floor is the only thing keeping me tethered.

If I stop, I'll look at her. And if I look at her too long, I'll touch. And once I touch—I won't stop.

My hands ache with the memory of pulling her out of the snow, of stripping her bare and wrapping her in warmth that had no business feeling as intimate as it did. I tell myself it was necessity. But it felt like something darker. Something I've kept buried under years of solitude and ice.

I'm not a man who believes in fate. But this feels too precise to be an accident.

Like the mountain itself brought her back to test the last shreds of my restraint.

And I'm failing. The storm is still howling outside, battering the trees like a pack of wolves trying to get in.

But it's the quiet in here that rattles me more—the sound of her breathing, slow and shallow under the weight of sleep.

She's here.

Caryn fucking Stevens.

Of all the people to come back into my world, of all the goddamn names to echo through Hollow Ridge, it had to be hers. And not as a whisper or a memory this time—but flesh and blood, curled in my bed like a temptation I never asked for but always knew I wouldn't resist.

I told myself it was the storm. That I dragged her out of the snow to keep her alive. That stripping her out of those wet clothes was survival, not sin. But even now, with her safe and warm, I'm still watching her like a starving animal waiting for the chance to feed.

She's older now. Sharper around the edges—but still, it's her.

The girl from all those years ago, hidden under a snapped pine limb, frostbitten and barely breathing, bundled in a ridiculous red parka that swallowed her whole.

I remember the way her eyes—wide, wet, too big for her face—locked on mine and didn't let go.

Her tiny voice cracked on a whisper: 'Are you real?

' That memory lives buried deep, like shrapnel lodged in muscle, impossible to dig out.

Now she's back, a woman molded by time, but unmistakable.

She walks with a tension knotted just beneath her composure, speaks with a confidence she didn't have back then.

There's bite in her words now—teeth she hadn't yet grown the first time.

But her chin still lifts in that same stubborn defiance.

Her eyes still spark like flint in the dark.

Time didn't erase her. It sharpened her.

Hardened her. And somehow, made her more dangerous and compelling than ever before.

I watched her the moment she stumbled into the storm's teeth.

Watched as she defied the mountain, as if it hadn't almost killed her once already.

Even when I dragged her back here, half-frozen and slipping toward unconsciousness, she stared at me like she couldn't decide whether I was her salvation—or her doom.

Back then, she clung to me with fragile, frostbitten fingers like I was the only solid thing left in a world turned to ice.

Now there's steel beneath her skin—but the softness lingers in ways that drive me mad.

In the delicate slope of her neck, the hesitant flutter of breath against her lips even in sleep, the soft crease between her brows when she dreams.

She's not fragile anymore. But she's not untouchable, either.

I should've walked away when I saw her silhouette between the trees.

Should've turned my back like I did with everything and everyone else.

But I didn't. Couldn't. Because that connection—that dark tether that wrapped around my soul the first time I saw her—never severed.

It's still there, thrumming between us—taut and humming, like the charged silence before a lightning strike.

She was mine then, though I refused to believe it. She's mine now—and this time, I won't pretend otherwise.

She's mine because no one else ever could be. Because the mountain gave her back to me, and I'd be a fool to waste this second chance. Because some things, once claimed, never let go—no matter how far they run or how many years pass.

That's the lie I told myself all this time, that she could leave and I could forget. But even then, I knew. I was waiting for her shadow to return, for her scent to ride the wind again. And now she's here—breathing, warm, within reach—and the tether between us pulls tighter with every second.

She was mine even when I told myself otherwise.

Even when I convinced myself that pulling her from the snow was a mercy, not a claim.

But deep down, there's a part of me that knows better.

That part whispers that the mountain gave her back for a reason—that the years of solitude were merely a test, a prelude to this moment. That I've waited long enough.

She doesn't remember what she meant to me back then.

Maybe she never knew. But I remember the exact shade of her lips when she turned blue from the cold, the way her fingers clutched my wrist like I was the only solid thing left in a world of ice and death.

That memory has haunted me through every storm since.

And now, with she's back in my bed, older, stronger, but still mine. I don't need excuses. I need her. Claimed, marked, broken to fit me, and me alone.

She was always mine, and now, she will be again.

Even when she was a half-frozen girl in the snow, even when she didn't speak a single word, I felt it.

That pull. That tether between something broken in me and something untouched in her.

And now that she's back, now that I've seen what time has done to her—and what it hasn't—I can't pretend anymore.

She's not a girl now. She's not innocent. And I'm not interested in saving her.

She stirs under the furs, murmuring something incoherent. I stop pacing. Her leg slips free of the blanket, the pale length of her thigh catching the firelight like a brand.

I force the breath out through my nose, sharp and hot, like it might scorch the edges of the restraint I'm barely holding on to. Not yet. Not when her body is still caught in that fragile in-between—half-draped in sleep, warm and pliant. I don't want pliant. I don't want soft.

I want her awake. Sharp-eyed. Furious. Stripped of every illusion she's clung to. I want her to see me—really see me—for what I am. Not the savior she hoped for, not the lie she told herself when things got too dark to face alone. I want her fully conscious. Fully aware. Fully mine.

Because when I take her—and I will—it won't be gentle. There won't be lies dressed up as protection or mercy. No blurred lines or whispered reassurances. I want her lucid. Defiant. Drenched in the knowledge of what she's surrendering to. What she's choosing.

And when she gives herself to me—with her eyes wide open and her pulse thundering—I'll take her in the only way I know how: without hesitation, without apology, and without an ounce of restraint.

I crouch beside the bed, a volatile pressure building low in my spine, radiating outward in sharp, electric pulses.

My knuckles skim the edge of the fur, then her cheek—a glancing touch that sends a jolt straight through me.

The heat of her, the scent of her skin, is so close it threatens to undo every shred of control I have left.

Her breath catches beneath my fingertips. Lashes flutter. Even asleep, she feels me. Responds to me.

For one raw, selfish moment, I imagine leaning in—stealing that first taste while she's still unguarded, warm and unaware. But I don't. Not yet.

Because I want her watching me when it happens. I want her to know exactly who's claiming her.

I brush a curl from her cheek, my hand lingering as it grazes the soft flush of her skin.

Heat surges through me—swift, sharp, dangerous.

She's safe now, tucked beneath the furs I wrapped around her, breathing steady.

But all I can focus on is how near her mouth is to mine. How easily I could take it.

The ache pulses through every inch of me—chest, gut, cock—a brutal need that has nothing to do with gratitude or restraint.

Her skin is warm, but she still shivers beneath my touch. Not from cold, but from instinct, from recognition, from me.

A dark satisfaction blooms low in my gut, sharp and primal. War shaped me. The mountain changed me. But whatever I've become—whatever this thing is, crawling and simmering inside me—she draws it out like no one else ever could. And the worst part? I don't want to bury it again.

I want to show her... all of it... all of me.

She stirs again, eyes fluttering open. For a moment, she looks confused. Vulnerable. Then wary. Then furious.

Good. Let her fight. Let her snarl and spit and curse my name.

It'll only make it sweeter when she begs me not to stop.

"Why did you do this?"

"So you would survive," I growl.

"But that's not all, is it?"

She moves again, the blanket slipping lower. I make no move to adjust it. Let her squirm. Let her remember that I've already seen everything. Touched everything. Saved and claimed it in one breath.

"You're insane."

"Maybe. But I'm not the one who came chasing ghosts into a storm."

"I wasn't chasing you."

"Weren't you?"

The silence hangs, thick and charged. She glares at me, cheeks flushed.

I rise to my full height and stare down at her. "You're not going anywhere."

She stiffens. Her chin lifts, rebellious. "The storm will pass."

I lean closer. "The one outside, perhaps."

She understands then.

This isn't about weather. This isn't about timing. This is about her trespassing in more than just my territory. About how once you step into the lair of something feral—you don't walk back out untouched.

She shivers again, breath hitching as her nipples tighten beneath the fur. Not from cold. From recognition.