Tate (Mountain Men 3)

The woman in the book protests, and insists she isn't the one sent to be married, but the men don't believe her. Supposedly the woman's been trying to get out of this arrangement, and the men are at once overbearing and fucking brutal. My eyes grow heavy, just as the main character carries the woman off to a cave.

I slide my phone into my pocket and grab some sleep.

I wake the next day to the sound of rustling and look to find Fran shoving her blankets off. Jaysus, she’s such a fucking looker.

Full, pert tits covered by the tiniest white camisole, a flat belly I want to feel under the palms of my hands. A full arse begging to be worshipped and spanked, and legs for fucking days.

I try to quell the raging hard-on I get just from staring at her. Christ. It’s been a while since I’ve gotten laid, and this woman, scantily clad and dangerously dependent, is pinging all my fucking sensors.

“Sit down,” I grate out, my voice deep and raspy in the quiet of the room.

“Excuse me?” She looks at me as if I’ve sprung a second head.

"I said sit down. That medicine’s knocked you on your arse. I don't want you falling and hitting your head or something like that. All we need is more head trauma.”

“I think I’ve slept off the meds.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Her brow furrows, and she smiles at me. "Who says?"

"I do."

I like the way she challenges me. I like the way she pushes me. It's fucking annoying, but undeniably hot. I don't know why, maybe because the way that she pushes me away makes me want to haul her by the hair, drag her over my knee, and spank her until she cries.

I like a woman with a little backbone.

It looks as if she's about to sass me again. She's got quite a smart mouth on her. But instead, she gives me a smile. "Did you really sleep on that couch all night long? Why?"

I shrug. "Promised my sister I’d give you a hand. And you heard my father last night. The older he gets, the fewer scruples he has. Truth is, lassie, you aren't safe here."

Her eyes widen ever so slightly. I’ve spoken the truth, though.

“So this has nothing to do with you not trusting me?"

I swing my legs over the couch and lean over, resting my elbows on my knees. I hold her gaze for a moment.

"Should I not trust you? Do you have a reason for me not to trust you?"

She rolls her eyes. "Of course not."

But she's brushing me off. She’s hiding something. I’ll find out what.

“Good,” I say, pushing myself to my feet. Christ, but I’m tired, my whole body sore and fatigued from lack of sleep. “Would hate to have to punish you.”

Her mouth drops open. “What the bloody hell are you talking about?” she says, but before I can elaborate, and I really want to elaborate, there's a light knock at the door, and Islan comes into the room.

“Good morning,” she says brightly. For a fairly snarky lass, she’s usually chipper in the morning.

“Morning,” Fran says.

“Morning,” I mumble.

“Did you sleep alright?” she asks Fran, kicking the door shut behind her. Her arms are laden with folded clothing, and she's got little bottles of things that look like soap and various toiletries as well.

“Aye,” Fran says, but she yawns, belying what she says.

“You?” she asks me. I grunt in reply, not in the mood for chitchat. My mind’s still on the book I read the night before.

The author described every detail of this very room, from the crown molding to the fireplace. She even knew about the little trapdoor near the wall where we used to hide biscuits and sweets when we were children. Mum never allowed such things, but we’d sneak them in just the same. She was never the wiser.

It isn’t one of my sisters, is it?

I look at Islan with different eyes. It would explain how Aisla escaped, wouldn’t it?

“Breakfast’s in the kitchen,” Islan says brightly. “You hungry?”

Fran frowns and shrugs. “Don’t seem to have much of an appetite.”

“You’ll have to eat something,” I snap. I have no idea why she makes me so short-tempered. I’m usually a little more easygoing.

“Is that right?” she asks, rolling her eyes at me again. Jesus, the woman’s smart mouth will land her in trouble before she knows it.

“Aye,” I tell her. “You can't take those bloody pain meds on an empty stomach."

"Not a problem," she says. "I have no intention of taking any more of those stupid meds. They make me high, and I don't like being out of control like that."

For some reason she holds my eyes when she makes the statement. Something tells me that she absolutely likes being out of control, just maybe not that way.