A Shifter Disaster Thanksgiving (Holiday Shifters of Frost Mountain #6)

Chapter Seven

“I’m Her Husband”

The thing about having an accident in midair and plummeting thousands of feet toward the earth was that you didn’t quite get over it. At least, not right away. Each time Diane closed her eyes to sleep, the memories came rushing back to her, and she spent hours tossing and turning in the bed before she finally got any rest.

It was morning when she awoke, drawing a deep breath before her eyes snapped open. Her gaze landed on the tiny cracks in the wooden boards that formed the wall. For the next few seconds, she froze, trying to get her bearings, and relaxed only when she remembered where she was: Sylvester’s bedroom. He’d asked her to come in here last night.

She stiffened, suddenly aware of a slight pressure on her torso. Lowering her gaze, she let out a soft gasp. Sylvester’s arm was draped over her body. At some point in the middle of the night, he’d pulled her closer to him. Her body was nestled snugly against his, and his warm, gentle breath teased the back of her neck.

Crap.

Diane’s heartbeat rose to a light flutter. His arm felt like a weighted blanket, but that wasn’t even the problem. No, it was the fact that her body had begun to respond to him. In a moment of panic, she started to pull away from him, but the effort merely fit her breast into his open palm. Before she could protest, he kneaded it, and a soft moan escaped her lips.

Diane rocked backward, trying to free herself from his grip, and her bottom pressed against something solid. It throbbed, and her eyes grew wide as Thanksgiving dinner plates. Sylvester’s breaths continued in a gentle rhythm, and she pictured him lying with his eyes closed, oblivious to his own bodily reactions.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered.

He was aroused. Asleep, but very, very aroused. And Diane could feel the pool gathering between her thighs. How long had it been since she’d last felt like this? It seemed like forever. Diane was half grateful, half dismayed that they both still had their clothes on. Otherwise, their morning might have gotten an intense start.

Sylvester kneaded her breast again, sending a shiver of pleasure through her body. Her nipples sprang to attention, poking through her sweater. The urge to reach between them and touch him came over her suddenly, and it took nearly all of her willpower to keep from giving in to the sudden tidal wave of lust. His entire body was hard against hers. She balled her fists, feeling herself growing wetter by the second and unable to do a thing to stop it.

“Sylvester,” she muttered. “Sylvester, wake up.”

He grunted in his sleep, but that was all the response she got. Diane swallowed. He was still pulsating against her. If he kept this up, she was bound to lose her sanity.

“Sylvester, please!” she said a little louder.

He stiffened for a second, and she knew he was conscious but was saying nothing. and then his breath caressed her neck again.

“What’s the problem?” he asked her. His voice came out as a husky, erotic whisper that struck at her resistance in a desperate attempt to tear it down.

“You…” she said tentatively. “You have your arm around me.”

“You are my wife.” He gave her breast another squeeze. “It is not wrong.”

“Oh, fuck me,” she muttered. If he could have seen her face, he probably would have laughed. She was certain she resembled a tomato about to explode.

“I could do that,” she heard him say. “Right now. You feel… warm.”

Diane doubted that had anything to do with the sweater she had on. The things he was doing to her were more to blame. He brushed his thumb lazily across her nipple, and she gasped again.

“We shouldn’t do this.” She forced herself to say. “I’ve only been your wife for one day. Quinta told me you’ve never been married before.”

“But this will not be my first time making love to a woman. I can show you things many wives would only dream of.”

Okay, that did it! Before she could melt on the spot, she strained against him, extricating herself from his grasp, and sprang out of the bed, standing clear of him as she tried to steady her racing heart.

“We’re supposed to meet your brother today,” she said. “Remember?”

Sylvester, who had been smiling, suddenly scowled. “I remember. We’ll go and see him this morning.”

“Right.” She took another step backward, arms folded across her diamond-hard nipples, grateful for the diversion. “Is there any food we can eat or I could cook something. Where’s the kitchen?”

The smile was back in the blink of an eye. “You cook? I picked a good woman after all.”

Diane frowned at him. “That’s not a very nice thing to say.”

He gave a throaty laugh. “It was a joke.”

“You’re not very good with humor, are you?”

“Ah.” He got up and, before she could move away, closed the distance between them in a matter of seconds. “I excel at a lot of other things.”

Diane gulped. “I bet you do.” She nearly bit her tongue as the words came bursting out. Why had she said that? “Look, let’s just get ready, okay? Show me the ropes.”

For a second, desire flickered in his eyes, and her knees nearly buckled beneath her. “Of course.”

And he obliged. Minutes later, they were standing in his tiny kitchen, which Diane thought passed for a pantry except for the small corner where what looked like a miniature furnace sat, its chimney stretching up through the ceiling. Diane wondered if all the other cabins in the village were like this. Before she could ask whether it wouldn’t be easier to just cook over the furnace in the living room, he turned and walked out of the sight.

Diane sighed. It wasn’t so terrible being here after all, she decided. At least, not so far. She was stuck on this mountain as far as she knew, with no technology, no internet, no way to get back to the world she’d come from, not to mention she was apparently surrounded by magic.

She felt like Alice, taking a one-way trip to Wonderland if Wonderland was a freezing mountain crawling with dragons, strange people, and God knows what else.

She was still having trouble coming to terms with the fact that this was her new reality. But she had already lived with her world being turned upside down when Walter died. Somehow, she’d managed to accept it and move on. Now it was happening again, except for the fact that she’d been reminded a dozen times in the past day that she wouldn’t survive on this mountain on her own. Her life was pretty much in the hands of the people of this village, particularly the dragon shifter who had just made her his wife.

Diane laughed ruefully. This was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it, Soa life straight out of a romance novel. Sylvester was… well, he certainly wasn’t like the other men she’d met in the past. This morning had confirmed that. She’d finally bumped into the man of her dreams—no, the man she’d dreamt up for her books—but she’d had to end up on a prison mountain for that.

“Careful what you wish for,” she muttered to herself.

Breakfast wasn’t difficult to make, although the limited amount of supplies left her wondering how these villagers survived. After shoveling some hot pottage—which, to her dismay, only tasted a tad better than what Quinta had prepared yesterday—she and Sylvester headed out of the cottage and moved through the village.

Pine Gap was just as picturesque as it had been yesterday. She gazed in awe at the trees in the distance that towered over the village. There were few people on the streets, but those that were stopped to greet Sylvester, and Diane felt their gazes land on her. It wasn’t difficult to tell what they were thinking.

They gazed unabashedly in her direction, eyes unblinking, and Diane hugged her arms close to her chest, only partly against the biting cold, but mostly in a futile attempt to shield herself from their stares. She knew exactly what they were thinking. She was a newcomer, not to mention that she was with the tall, powerful Sylvester. He walked by her side, his gaze forward, his jaw clenched, making him look even more handsome.

“Be calm,” he said suddenly, as though sensing her discomfort. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

He took her hand in his, sending a jolt through her body.

“Why is that?” she asked.

“Because,” he replied, “you are with me.”

They walked for a few more minutes before Diane’s curiosity finally got the better of her. She glanced up at him. “You’re still not going to tell me why you want to see your brother?”

She felt his grip on her hand tighten for a split second but then he relaxed. They continued to walk in silence, Diane waiting to hear his explanation.

“My father was murdered a few months ago,” he said in a quiet voice.

Diane nearly stopped in her tracks. She blinked at him. “Wh-what?”

He nodded solemnly. “His body was found half-buried in the snow outside the chief’s quarters. He’d been stabbed to death.”

“I’m so sorry,” Diane said, feeling a surge of sympathy. It occurred to her then that this was the first bit of information he‘d given about himself. In all honesty, it surprised her to think that someone of Sylvester’s age still had a living relative. Then again, he looked young for his age, which she gauged was somewhere around fifty. “Did they… did you ever find out who did it?”

Sylvester’s blue eyes flashed. “No one seems to know who the killer is,” he said, “except me. I know who murdered my father, and he’s the one we’re going to meet.”

An icy sensation crawled up Diane’s spine. “Wait, what ? Your brother?”

When Sylvester responded, it was in a much quieter voice. “He’s the only likely culprit. Before my father’s body was discovered, they’d been arguing.”

“About what?”

“About this village and Glenstra and the possibility of another war.”

“Oh,” Diane said, remembering that Quinta had mentioned something about an invasion.

“My father, Malcolm, wanted to keep the peace,” Sylvester continued, his strides quickening. “Gregory, on the other hand, wanted to crush Glenstra once and for all, no matter the cost. But since my father was village chief, there wasn’t much Gregory could do about it.”

“So he murdered him and took his place.”

Sylvester nodded again. “No one suspects it, not even Jon, despite everything I’ve told him. After all, why would Gregory murder his own father and put the entire village in possible danger? I’m not a fool. I can see what’s going on.”

Anger flickered across his face. Diane couldn’t help wondering just how much pain and hatred this man was carrying within him. It was justified, no doubt. It was one thing to lose a loved one, but quite another when they’d been murdered by another family member.

“This is… a lot,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind my questions. I’m not trying to pry.”

“Of course not. You are my wife. It is your right to know these things.”

Diane smiled in spite of herself. He was taking this wife thing a lot more seriously than she’d assumed he would. And to be honest, it felt great. It was an experience she hadn’t had in several years. And certainly not with someone like Sylvester.

As they turned a corner onto another street, another question popped into her mind. “But you still haven’t explained what I’m doing—”

A familiar voice cut her off. “Diane Garrick?”

She stopped, trying to ascertain where she’d heard the voice before. She turned slowly, unsure of what to expect, and her eyes widened at the sight of the balding man standing on a nearby porch, almost completely enveloped by the parka he was wearing. He waved at her, snapping her out of her daze.

“Tom?”

“It really is you!” he exclaimed. “I can’t believe my eyes.”

Neither could Diane. She struggled for words. “You’re alive? How many others survived?”

He descended the porch steps, shrugging slightly. “I’m not sure, honestly. No idea what’s going on here. One second, I was falling, and then I woke up inside this cabin. I’m still not sure how I got here. The man who lives here says we’re somewhere called Frost Mountain, and I can’t ever leave. Can you believe that?” He scoffed. “I’m just waiting for emergency services to get here. They should be arriving any day now.”

He really had no idea what was going on. Diane sighed. In any case, it was somewhat of a relief to find out that she wasn’t the only one who’d managed to survive the plane crash.

“Tom, I don’t think—”

“Who’s this?” Tom asked suddenly, pointing a finger in Sylvester’s direction.

Diane followed his gaze and did a double take. Sylvester’s demeanor had changed somewhat. He’d looked annoyed before, but now he stared back at Tom like the man was a fly he was considering swatting out of his sight.

“Uh, Tom, this is—”

“Sylvester,” Sylvester finished for her.

Without warning, he grabbed Diane by the waist, pulling her toward him.

“I’m her husband,” he said. “And I’m the one who saved your life.”

Sylvester had saved Tom, too? It hadn’t occurred to Diane at first, but she supposed it made sense that he’d plucked both of them out of the sky the other day.

Tom frowned. “Husband?” He shifted his gaze to Diane. “I didn’t know you were married. Heard your husband passed on a few years back.”

He bit his lip as though suddenly aware of what he’d just said. Diane couldn’t really blame him. Lots of people had knew about Walter’s death, especially after she began writing and winning awards. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sylvester’s jaw tighten.

Tom seemed to notice it, too. “I… I guess I’ll be seeing you around.”

He backed away, heading up the porch steps, and Sylvester and Diane continued walking. She could feel Tom’s bewildered gaze on them. The poor guy was still struggling to hold on to his own reality. That much was obvious. Diane knew how he felt. The thought of abandoning all hope of returning to their old life was crushing.

“So,” Sylvester said, after a moment of uncomfortable silence, “you must have been quite popular back in your world.”

When she glanced up at him, his expression had softened. She nodded. “I mean, I wasn’t world-famous, but my books did win a couple of awards. For a writer, that’s a lot.”

“A… writer?” A puzzled frown crept onto his face. “What is that?”

“That’s what I am. C’mon, you’ve got to have at least one or two other writers around here. I can’t be bestseller by default.”

The confusion on his face grew even more pronounced.

She chuckled. “I’m messing with you. But yes, I am a writer. That means… well, for me, it means I write stories for people to read.”

His eyes lit up suddenly. “Stories are… beautiful. My mother used to tell them to me and Gregory when we were children.”

It was the first time he’d spoken about his mother, although it wasn’t hard to guess that his mother was gone, too.

“What were the stories about?”

“Our ancestors,” he replied. “And the battles they fought.”

“Oh.” Diane had been expecting something else, like Peter Pan or Robin Hood, but she supposed there wasn’t a lot of literary material when you were stuck in a magical dimension. “That sounds really nice.”

“It was.” He nodded in agreement, then suddenly stopped walking. “We’re here. The village chief’s quarters.”