Page 34 of Billionaire Lumberjack's Bride

Not another living soul around.

This is about as remote as it can get. If I’m going to survive here, I’m going to have to figure out how life works and how that man ticks, but something tells me it’ll be the hardest thing I ever do in my entire life.

* * *

SILAS

The sun disappears behind the treetops, and as the light fades, the temperature begins to drop, instantly chilling the sweat covering my skin. Early spring in the Allegheny Mountains means dramatic shifts in temperature that seem as erratic as my moods around Lyla.

I glance at the cabin from where I stand next to the woodpile, axe in hand. Maybe it was a dick move to walk away from her earlier, to leave my wife—Christ, I can’t believe I have to say that word—alone in an unfamiliar place while I came out here to do chores and avoid having to see her and what I’ve done to her.

She signed up to be a mail-order bride, but she didn’t sign on forthis, forme, for my fucked-up situation that we haven’t even seen the worst of yet. Lyla thought she was getting a husband, a life partner. Someone who would take care of her and ensure her needs were met. Instead, she got me—a damaged, moody, gruff, scarred, broken man who can barely look at her without being overwhelmed by the demons of my past and threats to my future.

And what a fucking sad excuse for a man I am…

Releasing a heavy sigh, I drop my axe into the stump I use to split logs. There’s still a lot to do tomorrow to prepare my next delivery for Jensen’s store, but my shoulders and back ache from pushing myself too hard all day, and my stomach rumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten.

I couldn’t, not when I woke with a crick in my neck from sleeping in the chair to find Lyla asleep in my bed—that traitor, Whiskey, snuggled up against her like he’sherbest friend and not my constant companion.

Something twisted in my chest. Something I don’t want to examine or acknowledge, no matter how badly it wants me to. No matter how intensely it has clawed at me since the moment I laid eyes on her sitting at the table with that damned contract, looking so innocent and desperate.

I took advantage of her when she was in a shitty place.

She needed money, and I needed a wife. It should have been a simple proposition. But it’s far from it. It will never be simple with the Boltons involved.

And things have already gone to shit…on day fucking one.

This morning, with her satiny dark hair fanned out around her head on my pillow like a fucking halo, she looked so peaceful. For those brief few minutes when I stood and watched her—the easy rise and fall of her chest, the soft part of her perfect pink lips, the way she clung to Whiskey—I knew I would shatter that peace the moment we said, “I do.”

Which is precisely what happened.

Now, I can’t seem to say anything to her that doesn’t come out clipped and harsh and full of animosity that really isn’t directed at her at all. I should continue to give her space because Christ knows I won’t be able to form the words to apologize, but I can’t continue to avoid her.

At least, not today—ourweddingday.

Her earlier question about what I expected of her makes me cringe again as I head back toward the cabin. Whiskey trots alongside me, tongue lolling out, seemingly oblivious to what we’re likely to walk into—another argument with the woman I need if I want any chance of taking down the monster who lurks in my nightmares.

I pause outside the door, kick off my boots, and suck in a deep breath to prepare myself for what might come flying at me the moment I walk inside.

A rich, mouthwatering scent hits me, and my stomach rumbles again. Whiskey lifts his head and sniffs, and I turn the handle. He bolts against the worn wood, nudging it open and rushing in front of me toward the best thing I’ve ever smelled in this cabin.

“Oh, hey, boy!” Lyla’s tinkling laughter comes from my right—the small kitchen I use solely to satisfy the most basic caloric needs to maintain the sheer amount of physical work I need to accomplish daily alone up here.

I close the door behind me and follow Whiskey in there, toward whatever’s making the house smell so fucking good and the woman who has rattled me more than I care to admit.

Lyla squats in front of the stove, petting Whiskey, letting him lick her face.

Fucking traitor…

That damn dog hates everyone, but the moment she sets foot into the cabin, he’s her best friend and I’ve become an afterthought. Though it isn’t his affection for her that makes the green monster rear its ugly head—it’s the way she’s looking at him.

Pure, unadulterated joy.

This woman doesn’t look for trouble. She doesn’t enjoy angst and arguments. Her brilliant smile directed at a damn dog says everything I knew the moment I saw her and just didn’t want to admit it.

She’s too good to be stuck on this mountain with the likes of me.

Lyla looks up and jumps to her feet, wiping her hands on the front of her Steelers T-shirt. “Oh, hi.” She scans the kitchen and motions to the pans in front of her. “I hope you don’t mind”—she shrugs slightly—“I was getting hungry, so—”

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