We stumble across the tough, windblown grass of the dunes and onto the packed, sandy earth in front of the cottage.

It’s tiny—one bedroom and a bathroom, if I had to guess.

Maybe a kitchenette. There’s a sign for Hamblen’s Security in the grimy window, but someone has also nailed boards across the front door.

Heathcliff’s probably right that the security for this place has lapsed.

Besides, if an alarm goes off and somebody does come to check it out, we can explain our desperation to get warm.

At the very least, they’ll give us blankets before they take us to jail.

Heathcliff grips one of the boards and the muscles in his arms tighten as he rips it free. One after another, he tears off the pieces of wood, then gives the door a good kick. There’s a snap of rusted metal and a crunch of wood, and the door flies open.

With a grim flourish and a faint smirk, he gestures to the dark opening. “After you, Earnshaw.”

Another woman might be squeamish at the thought of stepping into an abandoned cottage that probably hasn’t seen pest control in ages.

But I’m used to walking barefoot in the bristly undergrowth of Carolina forests, squashing through the marshy landscape of the Lowcountry.

During my wanderings, I’ve stepped on more night-crawling critters than I can count.

Plus, I’m freezing, and I just want to be out of this damn wind. I move past Heathcliff, into the dark.

My foot lands on dusty wood. No sharp nails, no crunch of a cockroach’s stiff wings under my toes. I walk farther inside. “Light,” I say over my shoulder, and Heathcliff enters behind me, drawing the door shut with a scraping creak and shining his phone around the space.

There’s a musty, acrid tang to the air, the sourness of moisture seeping somewhere in the cottage, though the floor I’m walking across feels dry.

The phone’s pale light passes over a shabby couch, a metal folding table, a big wooden chest that could probably fit a dead body, and, as I suspected, the smallest of kitchenettes.

Nothing here worth stealing, which is probably why the place doesn’t actually have an alarm.

At least, none that we know of. Someone could still show up, I guess.

Funny thing is, I don’t much care at the moment.

My whole body is trembling uncontrollably, and my head feels weird.

Things keep tilting and then righting themselves again.

The stark glow of the phone light isn’t helping; it makes the shadows jump and dance until my stomach clenches with terror.

I can almost imagine a giant fist made of darkness emerging, smashing us both to pulp.

I sway suddenly, careening into Heathcliff.

“Hey.” He grips my shoulder with his free hand. “We gotta get you warmed up. Come on, let’s see if there’s any hot water or electricity in this place.”

He hustles me toward the back of the cottage. The first door we open is a closet, full of stale air and dusty blankets and towels. The second leads to a tiny bathroom. Heathcliff turns the squeaky knob, and water spurts out, dark at first, before it runs clear.

“It’s not getting any warmer,” he says. “But it’s not as cold as the ocean. You should rinse that sand off before you wrap up in blankets. I’ll hold the light for you.”

“Of c-course you will,” I manage through my chattering teeth. “You just…want to…see me naked.”

“The only thing I’m concerned with right now is getting you warm. We don’t know how long this water will last—there’s probably not much in the tank, so you get your ass in there right now, you hear me? I won’t look. Just hurry because I want a turn when you’re done.”

“Fine.” With trembling fingers, I strip off my hoodie, my dress, and then my swimsuit, which is pretty much congealed to my skin. I’m coated with sand, and even though the cold shower makes my breath hiss, it is warmer than the ocean, and it feels good to rinse the grit away.

When my skin is smooth again, I step out, wet and shivering and naked. There’s nothing sexy about it—I feel like a chilled salamander, with my hair plastered to my quivering shoulders.

“Hold the light,” says Heathcliff, and I do my best. He shucks off his swim trunks and rinses swiftly, running his hands over his body to clear the grainy sand.

I realize I’m watching and I almost look away—but he didn’t tell me I couldn’t watch.

I’m in no state for arousal, but I do like the sight of him.

His body is broad, powerful, long-limbed, rippling with muscle.

He cups his balls, holding them out of the way while he rinses every crevice.

I glance away then, and if my blood wasn’t desperately trying to keep my extremities warm, I’d probably be blushing.

“Come on.” He grabs the phone from me, hurries me back into the main room. I’m in a strange headspace now, where the pain of the cold isn’t so bad and part of my brain is telling me that’s not a good sign.

“Stay with me, okay?” Heathcliff sets the phone on the arm of the couch, rummages in the closet, and gathers up an armful of beach towels and blankets.

I stand where he left me, blinking, feeling oddly hollow inside.

“Hey!” He dumps the blankets on the couch, then wraps one around my shoulders before toweling himself off rapidly. “Don’t pass out, okay? Keep talking. Tell me something.”

“A god tried to kill me,” I murmur.

“Yeah. Yeah he did.” He’s leading me to the couch.

“Juventas isn’t the name of any Irish deity.”

“No. No, it isn’t.” He stretches out his big body, grabs my wrist, and pulls me down on top of him.

I make a small sound of protest.

“Earnshaw, this isn’t about sex. You need body heat.”

He’s right, so I let myself relax against him. He grabs the other towels and blankets, draping them over us both in a big pile. His phone light winks off, burying us in darkness.

The damp hair on his chest tickles my cheek and brushes against my left eyelashes when I blink. He tugs one of the blankets up higher, tucking it around my shoulders and my face.

My left hip is settled against the V of his abdomen, my legs lying between his. I can feel his dick against my thigh, not totally erect but definitely not limp either.

His right arm encircles me, heavy and somehow soothing. Its comforting strength and the weight of the blankets settles me, while the pockets of air around our bodies slowly heat.

After a few minutes, Heathcliff mutters, “How do you feel? I can see if I’ve got service, try calling 911 if you think you’re going into shock.”

“No, I’m okay.” I rub my chilly nose with my fingers, which are much warmer now.

“Good.”

Another stretch of silence.

“You saved me.” Words I never thought I’d say in real life. They feel more awkward than I expected—and more necessary. “Thank you.”

“Well…” His big chest heaves with a sigh. “You saved me from doing something I’d regret.”

I kept him from killing Edgar. “Wonder what they said about us after we left,” I murmur.

“I don’t give a fuck.”

“You really don’t, do you?” Dimly I’m aware that my right hand is moving, running along the heated skin over his ribs.

“I don’t either, most of the time. But the way they look at me at church, like I’m the soiled, stained rag that needs to be washed in the blood of the Lamb—it’s tough to handle sometimes.

They know I only go to services because of Dad, and they’re always trying to ‘get through to me.’ Like whoever finally forces me to change will get a badge of honor or something. ”

My hand moves higher, my fingertips gliding over the lower contour of his left pec. So solid. So warm. “They’ll probably head back without us. They’ll assume I’m riding back with you. Wonder what Edgar will do with my bag. Leave it behind or take it along?”

“My stuff’s in my truck,” Heathcliff says. His voice sounds thicker and deeper than usual, and as my palm glides higher, over his chest, there’s an answering twitch against my thigh. I smirk in the darkness.

“So how was she?” I say softly. “Isabella? How did she taste when you kissed her?”

He sighs again. “What do you want me to say?”

“The truth.”

“You don’t want to hear the truth. The truth will upset you.”

“So she was good then. How about her ass? You seemed to like that a lot.”

“Enough, Cathy.”

“Too bad you didn’t get a chance to taste her pussy.”

“Catherine.” His voice is a deep warning through gritted teeth.

“What? If you’re going to grope and tongue someone, you should be able to talk about it. I just want to know how you’d describe the kiss.”

He’s silent, while I listen to his heartbeat thumping through his chest. “Not you.”

“Hm?”

“The kiss. The way I’d describe it is—not you.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Not you,” he growls. “Her taste, her smell, the shape of her ass, her flimsy little fingers, her breathy voice, that wispy hair… not you. Everything, every day, since I dropped those crates off at your aunt’s fucking store—everything is not you .

That’s all I can think about until I see you again, and then…

you fill up the world. Everything is you. ”

It’s terrifying to hear those words. Terrifying because there’s an echo of that violent truth in my heart and in my mind. I’m convinced I’m wrong, though, because it happened too fast. It’s been too easy to fall for him.

But is it really falling, or is it running? Running headlong, arms wide open, eyes wild with joy, wind screaming through my hair? Is it crashing into him, shattering my bones and body against his until we’re both broken, until the pieces of us reassemble as one person?

Since I met him, he has simply been there . Like he already belongs in my life. We understand each other too well, almost as if I’m him and he is me, and our souls always knew we’d fit together someday.