Braving the Storm (Crimson Ridge #2)

Chapter 2

I ’m trembling like a fragile leaf about to blow away in the wind. With wobbly fingers, I make several clumsy attempts to knot the sash around the waist of my silk robe. One that is far too thin, too short, too slinky, and is made for LA temperatures.

In fact, my entire hastily packed suitcase is stuffed full of expensive clothes suited to a blue-skied day in the mid-eighties.

Clothes that he bought, because they were the type of thing I should be seen in whenever I was on his arm.

Not because I actually liked them.

Certainly not the kind of wardrobe suited to mountain survival in some back-of-beyond, snow-covered, frozen cabin. I’m almost positive there are rats in the walls based on the scurrying I heard when I first stepped foot inside.

Yanking the pink sash to make sure it’s secure, I quickly tie my hair up in a bun and do a final check to ensure I’m something approaching half decent before venturing into the living area.

Before I figure out what the fuck is going on.

In twenty-six years, I always assumed I’d be at the greatest risk of a home invasion while living in the Palisades. Not barely half an hour after arriving in bum fuck nowhere Crimson Ridge, and not at the hands of the giant, tattooed man who nearly left a hole in the wall trying to get out of this bathroom as fast as humanly possible.

My uncle.

Technically, adopted uncle. My father’s estranged adopted brother from when they were fostered together. But still… Uncle St?rmand is the last person I expected to ever see again.

And now? Now I know. I know what it felt like to have his hands on my naked body, and shame coats me in a rapid, clammy sweep down to my cold, bare toes… because I froze.

When he grabbed me, I froze.

When he growled in my ear, I froze.

And up until the moment I finally recognized the man I hadn’t seen in over ten years, I liked what I saw.

Jesus, the fucking mess made by my exploding life over the past forty-eight hours must have taken more of a toll than I realized.

For the briefest moment, all I felt was relief and anticipation colliding with an addictive hit of adrenaline. A temporary moment of insanity fisted my every last brain cell just like his hands grabbed hold and took command of my body.

Guaranteed, a man like that would know exactly how to fuck a woman.

Relief, that even if a purely carnal experience came at the hands of a stranger, I might know what it feels like to give my body what she craves… something I’ve desired for so long, and yet I’ve never had a clue how, or what, that might even feel like.

Oh, god, if I’m even close to allowing those sorts of deranged thoughts to grow roots, then I am most definitely a sleep-deprived, strung-out head case.

My feet carry me on cautious tiptoes, drawing closer to the location where I can hear my uncle crashing around. He sounds like a wild beast who has been set loose indoors. A fearsome creature escaped from his enclosure.

Wrapping my arms around me, I clutch my wafer-thin robe as if I’m at risk of revealing every exposed inch of my flesh to him all over again.

The lighting in here is soft, warm, forgiving on my heartsore, weary eyes. A couple of bare bulbs are illuminated. One hangs over the tiny kitchen space and basin set beneath a narrow window. The other dangles on a wire above the weathered L-shaped sectional positioned in front of a fire.

In LA, they’d call this look rustic-chic.

Here, I suspect it’s less intentional and just the interior of an old, uncared-for cabin.

Uncle St?rmand crouches in front of the now crackling flames, methodically feeding small pieces of wood in one after another. He doesn’t look my way.

Does he come here often?

I still don’t understand why he’s here.

This week has been a mess, and I’m too tired after a full day of traveling, with that floaty neither-here-nor-there sensation clinging to my limbs. My eyes are scratchy. My head fucking aches.

When I eventually located this address, found the hide-a-key, and let myself in, I’d taken one look at that lifeless, charred fireplace and nearly cried.

I don’t know how to do any of this. I don’t know fires or snow or how to get by without cell phone reception.

This escape plan sounded really cute and perfect, until I arrived, shivering in the dark, and figured out pretty quickly that I was so far out of my depth it wasn’t funny.

Am I a little relieved he’s here to prevent me from drowning in my own inadequacy, or more specifically, freezing to death?

Maybe.

Do I need to stop staring at my uncle’s ass in those jeans?

Absolutely.

I swallow hard and avert my eyes. This is so fucked up.

The man practically forced himself on me without consent ten minutes ago.

He’s my father’s brother.

Adopted, is all my stupid, scrambled brain seems to want to gleefully fixate on.

God. I need a drink. There had better be something to drink in this place.

“Cupboard to the right of the sink. Glasses live beside the stove.” Rich, gritty words drift up from the man intently focused on the fire. It’s the kind of voice I’m so unaccustomed to. Weathered and gruff.

He rests on one knee, with jeans stretched tight over his backside and thighs—a place where my eyes keep wandering back to because I am so much more fucked in the head than I ever realized—while he continues to load kindling into the growing flames.

I turn in place, taking in my surroundings. There’s barely four feet to this entire quaint kitchenette, laughable in comparison to the ostentatious expanse of shiny white marble I ran out of two days ago.

Hooking open the slightly crooked cupboard reveals a few different bottles of liquor with time-worn labels. Whiskey? Yes. Whiskey is the choice my fingers settle on because I am in cowboy country, after all, and I follow that with plucking a glass off the shelf beside the stove.

Do I pour one for him, too?

I’m fucking freezing. I need to dig more clothes out of my suitcase. I need to charge my phone. I need to figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life.

My uncle doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t try to start a conversation or apologize or anything remotely normal for whatever just happened back there. And I don’t exactly know what to say either.

It’s nice of him to light the fire for me, I guess, but I also am entirely confused as to why he’s here in the first place.

This is—was—my dad’s cabin. He left it to me. Before Dad’s death, he hadn’t spoken to his brother in ten years, not since her funeral.

“Do you want one?” I concentrate on pouring myself two fingers, then decide fuck it and slosh more in the glass. Hopefully, it’ll burn away the memories of the piece of shit I left behind and knock me out so I can get some sleep.

My uncle remains silent. Arms folded over one bended knee as he studies the flames.

Over the top of my glass, as I take a sip, I allow my eyes to roam freely for a second. Dancing streaks of orange and gold lick his rugged face, revealing every sinfully attractive line of ink up the side of his neck, the silver ring in the side of his nose, and flickering shadows highlight his dirty blonde hair. Unruly, almost-curls sit tousled, as if he’s been running his hands through those wild strands.

He’s got a long-sleeved top on. Charcoal colored. A little threadbare, worn, rugged, just like the broody energy he emits. It stretches tight around his broad shoulders, and my mind is going bad, bad places, seeing how big this man is. Sleeves pushed up his forearms reveal a leather cuff on his right wrist and two thick concentric rings of ink on his left. As he tosses a slightly bigger piece of wood into the flames, silver flashes on his forefinger and thumb.

That glint drags my focus to those veined, powerful hands. A grip that minutes ago was fixed around my neck, removing all capacity to form words because the feel of him commanding my body like that did things to me it definitely should not have.

Those hands decorated with inked lettering I can’t quite make out from here match his throat, and as the burn descends low in my belly from the whiskey I’ve hastily gulped down, mixed with another sensation that has absolutely no business being there, I wonder just how much of this man’s skin is tattooed below those clothes.

Briar Indigo Lane, you need to pull yourself together right fucking now.

Uncle. Remember?

He’s your uncle .

How pathetic and touch-starved must I be if the sight of any man, especially my own uncle, makes me feel some kind of way?

Fighting back the teeth-chattering shiver, I want some privacy in order to tear open my suitcase and find warmer clothes. Socks are a priority, at the very least. Shifting in place, I sip, or more aptly, gulp down more whiskey.

However, I’m also hyper-aware of the fact my uncle doesn’t appear to be in a hurry to leave, and this silence between us is so awkward that I don’t know where to even begin.

Part of me is hoping he’ll finish building up that fire and then vanish.

Surely he won’t stick around… will he?

An entirely inappropriate spark flares deep in the recesses of my brain. Something dangerously alluring that whispers all too eagerly, hoping this man might remain here with me in the deepening shadows of the night and the lateness of the hour.

I don’t trust that bitch at all. She’s the queen of poor decisions.

As I knock back another sip, feeling the glow of warmth hit my chest and start to spread along my veins, he heaves himself up.

Eyes widening, I watch him stand tall, then cross the room, and his icy blue eyes flick up to connect with mine as I stare over the rim of my glass.

My uncle doesn’t stop his advance on me. Glaring. Menacing. Each stride forward is hypnotic and dangerous, and, oh, sweet Jesus, makes my body react in a way I don’t want to dare acknowledge. All I can do is flatten myself against the cracked Formica counter, allowing him to do whatever the hell it is he desires at this moment.

When he’s so close, his scent of smoke and citrus and spices rushes over me. My fingers tighten around the glass now clutched against my chest.

I’m wholly trapped in the surge of black coming off him. It feels predatory. Thrilling. Wild.

Tattooed fingers reach past me. The front of his shirt brushes up against my knuckles, and the heavily inked rose covering the side of his neck detailed in black and gray, is so close I see the stubble coming through along the underside of his jaw.

Then, as quickly as he invaded my sanity, he straightens up again and steps back. This time, he’s got the whole bottle wrapped in his fist.

“Bedroom’s all yours.” He grunts. Swigging straight from the neck. Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows heavily.

He turns, long strides carrying him across the room in a blink. One of those tattooed hands collects his jacket before he stoops to pick up a set of black combat boots, then slams out the door into the night.

Leaving me breathing hard and wondering what the fuck any of that was about.