A Night by My Fire

He had such a knack for making her blood run cold, for making her cheeks grow pink. For making her look at him. For making her listen.

River’s voice went low, hard, and serious—the kind of tone that would have seen one of Mikhailov’s females dead before she’d finished a sentence. “I’ll tell you what I know. The storm will pass. You’re going to leave and it will be as if you were never here.”

Stephen considered her words, his arm growing over warm from crouching too near the fire for so long. Not sure what prompted such a statement, it passed over his tongue. “I could come back.”

“No.” Of this she seemed certain. “You won’t.”

A blast of wind screamed past the cabin, the shudders shook. The blizzard hit with a vengeance.

With its gale, River dismissed him, settling in her chair after taking a book from the shelves, leaving Stephen to burn the bones of dinner and tend the fire while she began a story… reading aloud before he got more ideas of speaking when he knew to hold his tongue.

It was abnormal, at first, the woman’s rendition of a great man’s work, more so her skill for voices. She drew him in.

Utterly.

Positioning himself on the couch, with the optimal distance was between them, Stephen rested his ankle, watched the flames, and listened to beauty. To cadence. To River.

* * *

When the clock showed morning, the girl was sound asleep, her nose tucked into a sloppy braid. Stephen hadn’t slept one minute. He’d managed little more than staring straight ahead at the flames, hating his hostess for drifting off and abandoning the slight distraction her story had offered.

Then hating her more for choosing a book so engaging he desired to know what happened next. More than once he’d considered reaching out, taking her shoulders, and shaking her awake to continue... or shaking her so hard her neck snapped... or wrapping his hands around her throat and squeezing until her eyes bulged and that damn throat could not make another sound... or scooting nearer to look at her the way he tried not to when her sticky, tar eyes met his and puzzled him... because she did not shrink back.

He’d seen so few young women.

If they were anything like the specimen trapped with him in a cabin the size of a coffin, the idea of encountering more was less than appealing.

The hours wore on. Whatever sleep deprivation she’d suffered was covered, more than adequately, River almost comatose when Stephen eased closer. Staring.

Shuttered windows blocked what little sunlight might have broken through the storm, yet he watched by the flickering firelight. Watched the line of illumination creep over the monstrosity huddled in sleep.

The tips of her dark hair had been sun-bleached into a lighter shade of brown.

Thumbing the end of the nearest rope, Stephen found the texture smooth. It might have even been appealing. Unlike her eyes. Black eyes behind slender lids were common. The female was common.

Quintessential.

And she lacked the archetype necessary for female survival. She had no male.

There were no man’s things visible in her ramshackle cabin, leading her to have an overabundance of masculine qualities to cover for her lack of success in drawing a protector. She’d grown crass. She was foul, unkempt. River was unacceptable to society. That had to be why she lived like a hermit.

No one in their right mind would want the woman who’d dragged him out of the water.

Stephen pulled the overabundance of her braid nearer, disturbed it was so long and heavy. The thickness of River’s hair did feel nice. But why grow it so excessively? River’s over-long hair was a disadvantage, could be grabbed and used against her.

As if in sleep she grasped the trail of his thoughts, the female moved in her chair, a stifled disgruntled noise coming from her puckered mouth.

He looked down to find that he’d coiled River’s hair around his fist, that he was tugging it so she might be closer.

And dropped the braid like a hot coal.

Chapter Five

River didn’t much like the way he grunted at her food. Two mornings in the dark she’d graciously used powdered eggs. That shit was precious out in the boonies. She’d even thrown in some dehydrated cheese and folded the mess to sorta resemble an omelet.

He’d narrowed his eyes.

She’d used salt! Everyone and their mother loved salt. So what the fuck? So what if his rabbit on a stick had tasted good? What the fuck else had he done but stack wood? Too much wood, she might add. The bonehead had piled two stacks up to the ceiling, creating an accident waiting to happen should any supporting logs decide they no longer wanted their jobs.