Page 38 of Billionaire Lumberjack's Bride

The morning sunlight blazes down on him, creating a sheen of sweat across his tattooed, thickly muscled back and shoulders. Each step closer I take allows me to appreciate him even more—his Adonis-like physique and the raw power his body contains.

That man could snap me like a twig.

I get within a few yards, unable to tear my eyes from him as he works his way through log after log, splitting them easily, the axe almost an extension of his own body. The ink moves across his skin, the scene of two pirate ships battling coming to life across his broad shoulders.

He changes his attack slightly, the sunshine hitting his back at a different angle, and my breath catches. I freeze, coming to a halt as I examine what lies beneath all the ink.

Scars.

Woven into the tattoos.

Everywhere on the vast expanse of visible skin—the shiny, tight texture visible with each movement he makes.

Whatever was done to him left literal reminders.

He places another piece of wood on the stump and raises the axe again, swinging it down with a force that makes me jump back a step. My foot snaps on a twig. Whiskey’s head turns from where he lies inside the door of the barn, and his eyes zero in on me. He leaps to his feet and charges my way.

Silas quickly whirls around to face me, giving me a view of his chiseled chest and abs, every inch covered with similar dark ink and a myriad of scars.

Is that why he has so many tattoos, to conceal them?

That thought makes my stomach roil as Whiskey reaches me.

He rubs his head against my thigh, and I squat and bury my fingers in his fur, scratching at his neck. “Hey, boy, good morning.”

Silas scowls and turns away to set up another log and drive his axe into it without acknowledging me. This man has no intention of letting me distract him from his work.

I push to my feet and slowly approach him, despite all the vibes rolling off him that I should move in the opposite direction. If this thing has to work—and it seems like it does, for both of us—then I can’t let him keep icing me out.

Stopping a few feet from him, I watch him split a few more logs before he finally pauses, resting the axe head on the ground and leaning against the handle. Sweat trickles down his thick neck, over his massive pecs, across a tattoo of a ghostly pirate captain, past the word “Ruthless” covering his perfect abs, and then disappears down into the waistband of his torn jeans.

I swallow against my suddenly parched throat, trying not to stare at his bulge and the way the sunlight makes his tattoos seem almost alive. “Ummm…good morning.”

Christ, you sound like an idiot, Lyla.

He glances up at the sun. “Almost afternoon…”

I scowl at the judgment in his tone. “I have no idea what time it is. My phone can’t connect to the network up here.”

The corner of his lip twitches. “You should get yourself arealwatch, one with hands”—he points up—“or learn to tell by the sun. You don’t want to get stuck out here when it goes down.”

“Why is that?”

He smirks—the first true humor I’ve seen from the man. “A lot of things live in those woods that would enjoy tearing you apart in the dark, and even if you survived their teeth and claws, the temperature drops wicked fast this time of year, enough that hypothermia can set in before you realize it.”

His warning removes any warm and fuzzy feelings I was having about the day. “Oh.” Instinctively, I wrap my arms around myself and rub at them, though I’m not cold in a T-shirt on this bright spring day. “I thought maybe you could show me what I could do to help.”

He raises a brow. “Really?”

I nod and motion toward the cabin. “Like I said last night, I can’t just sit in there, doing nothing the rest of my life. Can I?”

His lips twist down into a scowl. “No, you can’t.”

Though, I doubt any other Bolton wives have ever had to feed animals and muck out stalls.

He slams the axe into the stump, wedging the head in halfway. “Come with me.”

Without waiting to see if I am following, he gives me his back and heads toward the barn. I chase after him, hustling to keep up with his long, sure strides, almost tripping several times on the uneven ground.

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