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Silver hair flashing in the moonlight the same way the head of the axe did…
That feral snarl of warning…
Scrambling away and racing through the woods.
Holy shit.
Was that Weston Barker? Had I encountered The Beast of Barker Mountain?
I quickly scan the room again, but the only light filters in from a hallway through the cracked door. It casts a narrow beam that falls on the foot of the bed, leaving my surroundings in almost total darkness.
Almost.
My eye catches a slight flutter of movement in the right corner of the room.
I narrow my gaze as it comes into focus, and I stiffen, every cell in my body seizing up with the terror flooding my system.
Oh, God…
The Beast reclines in a leather chair, shirtless in nothing but a pair of worn jeans and heavy boots. His muscular arms drape almost nonchalantly on the armrests, large hands dangling down—one near the handle of the very axe from my memory.
But the vibe emanating from the man says anything but casual.
Icy-cold, hard, steely gray eyes stay locked on me as he reaches over and lifts a glass tumbler from a small table beside him. He brings it slowly to his full lips, surrounded by a silvery-white beard, and takes a sip of the amber liquid in it, then swirls it around slowly.
Almost absently.
Almost.
Something tells me nothing this man does is unplanned.
Every move he makes.
Every word he speaks.
Everything is meticulously calculated.
Including this agonizingly long assessment and drawn-out silence.
He’s making me squirm intentionally, causing as much discomfort as he can without saying a word or moving more than necessary to sip at his drink.
His finger rolls around the rim, but he keeps looking at me, a thousand questions in his penetrating gaze. “Who are you?”
The deep timbre of his voice rolls over me like an ocean wave; only, instead of being calm, and peacefully lapping at the shore, it’s more like a tsunami.
Violent.
Threatening.
Capable of drowning me.
It’s enough to make me scramble back until my shoulders hit the headboard. I wince at the stab of pain in my foot and tug the comforter up over me, as if the material’s going to protect me from the man in the corner who can clearly do whatever the fuck he wants to me in this situation.
And maybe already has…
I’m practically naked.
In a bed.
