Page 9 of Mountain Storm (Mountain Shadows #1)

CARYN

The morning breaks with a silence that feels threatening—a brittle, unnatural stillness that presses against my skin like frostbite, cold and warning.

It's the kind of silence that holds its breath before a scream, that creeps into your bones and whispers that something's changed, something's coming.

My chest tightens under the weight of it, instinct prickling like a thousand tiny needles beneath my skin.

At first, I think it's just the thick log walls muting the outside world, but then I realize: the storm has stopped. The wind isn't screaming anymore. The snow no longer claws at the windows. All that's left is the eerie hush of winter holding its breath... and him.

I roll onto my side, careful not to let the furs slip too far, and spot Zeb at the stove, shirtless, muscles tense as he pours coffee like he's fueling up for battle. He doesn't glance at me. Doesn't say a word. But I feel the moment he notices I'm awake—his shoulders stiffen, his back straightens.

"Good. You're up," he says without turning.

His voice still has that grit to it—rough-hewn, weathered, like it clawed its way out of stone and snow with bare hands and teeth.

It's a sound that scrapes over my skin, low and jagged, curling down my spine and pooling heat between my thighs before I can stop it.

I hate how my breath catches. I hate how my nipples tighten under the fur, aching like they know who's in the room.

My stomach clenches, traitorous and tight, and I feel the slow, humiliating bloom of arousal where there should be nothing but rage.

"Is the storm over?"

He turns. Slowly. Controlled. Like a predator deciding if the meal is worth the effort—and suddenly realizing the prey is both familiar and far more tempting than it should be.

My breath catches, pulse skipping as his gaze latches onto mine, sparking something hot and primal in the silence between us.

I don't know if it's fear or anticipation crawling up my spine, but I know I can't look away.

"The weather cleared. The rules didn't."

I sit up straighter. "Rules?"

He walks toward me with that same deliberate stride, eyes unreadable.

"No wandering. No lying. No leaving."

"What am I, your hostage?"

Zeb sets the coffee down on the side table next to me, his looming presence impossible to ignore. The scent that clings to him hits me hard—sweat, cedar, and something darker, like smoke clinging to skin after a fire. It's a primal, male scent that sinks its claws into my senses.

My fingers curl tighter around the fur, nails digging into the pelt as a shiver rakes down my spine. I don't know if I want to rip the furs away and confront him fully or bury myself deeper, hide from whatever this is swelling in my chest—fear, fury, or something far more dangerous.

"You're something I should've let be; let the mountain have you—but I didn't. And now, I can't," he says simply.

My heart stutters. I blink up at him, throat dry. "You don't get to decide that."

He shrugs, gaze dropping to my lips before dragging slowly back up. "Too late."

There's a beat of silence so dense it presses against my throat, thick and unyielding, like a noose cinching tighter with every heartbeat.

It wraps around us, heavy with all the things we didn't say, thick with heat and warning, with need neither of us will name.

My pulse hammers in my ears, and for a breathless second, I swear the air itself is braced—waiting to see which one of us will shatter first.

I throw the covers back and stand, chin lifted. "I need to pee. Or is that against the rules, too?"

He steps aside but doesn't turn his back. As I disappear into the bathroom, I see him turn away. I pull the door shut behind me and it clicks like a cell locking.

I grip the edges of the sink with trembling fingers.

I don't recognize the woman looking back at me.

The mirror shows a woman—eyes wide, cheeks flushed, hair tangled from sleep and confrontation.

I splash cold water on my face, hoping to drown the heat rising beneath my skin, but it only sharpens my awareness.

My breath comes too fast. I try to slow it. Try to center myself. But the phantom of his hands still lingers on my waist, his voice still curling around my ears like smoke. I shut my eyes and count backwards from ten. I tell myself to get a grip. It doesn't work.

When I come out, he's gone. The absence of his looming presence hits me like a vacuum sucking all the tension out of the air—and leaving behind something worse.

The cabin feels too empty, too still. The kind of stillness that isn't peace but warning.

The silence crawls over my skin like icy breath down the back of my neck.

Fifteen minutes later, I'm wrapped in one of his oversized flannel shirts, the fabric worn and faintly scented with pine, woodsmoke, and something unmistakably male.

It hangs down past my thighs like a stolen armor, brushing against bare skin with every step I take toward the front door.

My toes are cold against the floorboards.

My heart pounds in my throat like I'm sixteen and sneaking out a window.

I don't even know what I expect—freedom?

Cell service? A goddamn reality check? Maybe I just need to feel the cold to remind myself this isn't a fever dream.

The door creaks when I open it, the sound jarring in the unnatural stillness. Snow is piled high and gleaming, a blinding white canvas that stretches to the edge of the world. The woods beyond are draped in silence—ancient, brooding, and watchful.

I start to step out barefoot. The snow bites into my skin like tiny teeth, each step a jolt of icy shock up my calves.

My breath stutters, visible in the frigid air, and my nipples tighten beneath the flannel, reacting to more than just the cold.

Something primal stirs, some part of me that craves the wildness, even as it terrifies me.

Every instinct screams that I don't belong out here, but my feet keep moving, as if drawn by something darker, deeper, and far more dangerous.

Before my foot can actually make contact with the frozen porch, a massive hand clamps around my waist and yanks me backward, the grip possessive, punishing.

I shriek, panic spiking as adrenaline floods my system.

I thrash, elbowing blindly, but it's like striking granite—unyielding, immovable.

My bare feet scramble against the icy ground, heart hammering against my ribs, the cold forgotten in the face of the heat pouring off the man behind me.

I know that grip. Know that heat. And still, my body rebels—hips jerking, breath stuttering, an electric jolt racing from the base of my spine to the tips of my breasts. Shame licks at the edges of my panic, twisted and raw.

"You disobeyed," he growls, his mouth so close to my ear I feel the heat of it slide down my spine like a brand.

The words hang in the air, thick with menace, and something darker—something that knots my stomach with shameful anticipation.

His grip on my waist tightens, and my breath catches, torn between panic and the wrong kind of thrill.

My skin prickles under his hold, fury clashing with something that feels far too much like want.

I can't move. I can't speak. I can only burn.

Zeb's voice is a growl against my ear, breath hot, arms like iron. Before I can scream again, he throws me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing.

"Put me down!"

"No."

I kick. Flail. Pound my fists against his back, wild and frantic. He doesn't budge. Doesn't grunt. Doesn't flinch. My humiliation burns hot enough to rival my rage—but it's the next moment that sears it into something else entirely.

He storms back inside, slams the door shut with his boot.

With one arm wrapped around my thighs, Zeb adjusts his weight, tilting me across his body.

The first sharp swat lands square across my ass, the crack of it echoing like a gunshot in the closed space of the cabin.

I freeze—more from shock than pain—until another lands, harder.

The sting blooms fast, electric, each strike sending a ripple of heat through muscle and bone.

A third makes me gasp, the pain sharp, cleansing.

..but worse is the jolt of arousal that floods me in its wake.

By the fourth, I'm panting, ashamed of the way my thighs clench and moisture slicks between them. The shame scalds deeper than the swats, burning in my chest, my throat.

I hate him. Hate how my body reacts. But oh God—some dark, depraved part of me wants more.

Zeb hauls me straight to the bedroom, his grip unyielding as he strides with lethal purpose. He drops me onto the bed with jarring force—like I'm nothing more than a sack of flour, a possession returned to its place.

My breath punches out of me on impact, and I scramble upright, the mattress still bouncing beneath me.

My fists ball at my sides, blood roaring in my ears, every instinct screaming to fight.

I surge forward, aiming for his jaw, every inch of me vibrating with fury and something darker—something I don't want to name.

But he's already towering over me, eyes wild.

"Don't ever pull that shit again."

"I'm not your property!"

"The hell you aren't."

My fists clench. "You're insane."

"You're reckless. Foolish. You could've died."

"So let me! It's not your damn job to keep me alive!"

His nostrils flare. His jaw flexes. "No, Caryn. It's not a job. It's a need."

He stalks forward, seizing my wrists before I can retreat.

His grip is firm—possessive—but stops just shy of pain.

His breath tears out of him, ragged and hot, and his pupils are blown so wide his irises nearly vanish.

The wildness in his eyes sends a jolt of something sharp and forbidden straight through me.

A tremor races down my spine, and heat twists low in my belly. I feel the tremble in his fingers, the tension radiating off him in waves, and it hits me—he's battling something dark, primal, and he's a hair's breadth from losing that fight.

"You scared the hell out of me."

I laugh. Bitter and breathless. "Because I walked outside?"

"Because I can't watch you disappear again."

Silence. Then, quietly, "Again?"

His grip falters. His eyes drop to my mouth. "I remember everything, Caryn. Every goddamn second."

I try to yank free, panic crashing through me in a hot, chaotic wave.

I don't want this—not the way his touch unravels me, not the feelings clawing their way out of the dark.

My heart pounds like a war drum, a sick cocktail of fury and arousal thudding in my veins.

I can't afford to feel anything for him.

Not now. Not ever. But my body betrays me, drawn to his heat even as my mind screams to run.

He doesn't let go. He yanks me flush against him, the force of it knocking the air from my lungs. "I should drag you back over my knee and light up your ass until you scream—and not from pain."

A surge of heat detonates inside me, violent and consuming, stealing my breath.

My thighs tense, muscles clenching with a humiliating rush of need I can't suppress.

I feel the slick heat building between my legs, my nipples straining against the flannel, betraying every ounce of resistance I've clung to.

I hate it. Hate that he can draw this from me without even touching me.

Hate that my body has already surrendered when my mind still wants to fight.

His eyes darken, pupils swallowing the green as he takes a slow breath in through his nose, nostrils flaring. A low, primal sound rumbles from his throat, and his voice comes out rougher than before, thick with knowing hunger. "I can smell how badly you want this. You're soaked."

"Go to hell."

"Too late. I'm already there. And you? You're coming with me."

His mouth crashes onto mine without warning, no hesitation, no apology.

His tongue forcefully penetrates my lips, clashing with mine, as our mouths explore each other in a feverish dance.

The taste of strong coffee clings to his breath, undercut by something uniquely him—earth, musk, heat.

It fills my lungs like a brand, searing into memory, as though he's marking me from the inside out.

The rough stubble on his face scrapes against the soft skin of my chin, sending shivers down my spine.

The heat between us intensifies, curling low and hot in my belly, a wildfire licking through my veins.

My breath hitches as my body arches toward him on instinct—helpless, hungry, betrayed by need.

This isn't a kiss born of affection or tenderness; it's a conquest, brutal and claiming.

His mouth commands mine, and a helpless, breathless moan escapes, torn from someplace deeper than I want to admit, a place that should be locked tight but isn't anymore.

His hands seize me with the force of a claim—one arm cinched around my waist, the other coiling into my hair at the nape of my neck like a leash.

He lifts me as if I weigh nothing, pinning me to the wall with a single, brutal movement.

The roughness of the wood bites into my back, cold and unforgiving, but it's nothing compared to the heat erupting between us.

His thigh wedges itself between mine, thick and unrelenting, the pressure demanding and indecent.

My body betrays me—my hips roll, seeking friction, seeking more.

Lust claws through me, shoving shame to the background, turning me into a creature both ravenous and reckless.

He finally breaks the kiss—our eyes lock together. Wild hunger burns within them.

"You break the rules again," he growls, voice dipped in dark intent, "and I'll tie you to the bed, spank you until you're sobbing, and fuck you so hard you forget your own name."

"Is that supposed to scare me?" I retort, hoping that he'll take the tremor in my voice for fear and not what it is... arousal.

He smiles. "No. It's a promise."

My body trembles with rage, lust, and shame intermingling until I can't distinguish one from another.

All I know is that I feel alive—more alive than I've felt in years.

As he slowly lowers me to the ground, dragging my body against his chest until both feet touch the floor, every nerve ending prickles with anticipation.

I slap him hard across the face. His head snaps to the side.

He laughs—dark and dangerous. "You're going to be hell to tame."

Through gritted teeth, I reply, "Then maybe don't try."

He reaches out, cupping my jaw with one hand, forcing me to look up at him. "Oh, sweetheart. I'm not trying. I'm doing."

The air between us crackles. My breath falters. Outside, the storm may have died, but in here, another one is building. And I know exactly who's holding the match.