Page 2 of Hunted

I push the cart at almost a jog to keep up with his long-legged gait. We reach a mud-splattered jeep where Aksel stows my bags and equipment in the back. I hurry to the passenger side, anxious to escape the rain, only to find the door won’t open.

A loud crunch of footsteps comes up behind me before a large hand shoves the door open. Aksel’s hulking form looms so close that his chest nearly presses against my back. I flush at the sudden proximity, unnerved by his disregard for personal space.

His voice is low and dark beside my ear as he leans in. “You’ll find things are a bit different rustic out here, Miss Driscoll.”

I swallow hard, chilled not by the rain but by the man I'm due to stay with. A tremor of unease goes through me at the unmistakable darkness in his tone.

What have I gotten myself into by coming here alone to study storms at the edge of nowhere?

In that moment, I realize my greatest danger may not be the storms and blistering winds of this stark, unforgiving land. It may be the brooding, potentially unhinged man I’ve hired to keep me alive.

We drive in tense silence for what feels like an eternity. The jeep’s windshield wipers can barely keep up with the torrential downpour pounding the glass. I clutch the door handle until my knuckles turn white, stealing sidelong glances at my host.

Aksel doesn’t speak a word or even spare me a look. His chiseled profile is rigidly set, biceps flexing as he wrestles with the steering wheel against the punishing gales. His dark eyes stare unblinkingly through the rain-streaked windshield. I can’t shake the feeling that he’s resenting having to play chauffeur or simply resenting my presence here.

The nameless dread that seized me back at the airport steadily grows with every mile the jeep eats across the sodden landscape. We head deeper and deeper into the uninhabited wilderness, putting more distance between myself and any semblance of civilization.

Finally, after what has to be at least an hour, if not more, Aksel kills the engine. I blink in confusion, peering through the pounding deluge. All I can see is the looming shape of fir trees massed around a small clearing. And there, nestled amongst the dripping pines, is a rustic cabin with smoke coiling upwards from the chimney.

Is this where he lives? My research bunker for the next month?

Aksel doesn’t wait for me. In a flash, he’s out of the jeep and headed for the cabin, rain instantly flattening his thick dark hair against his skull. I scramble to follow, the downpour soaking me to the bone by the time we’re stomping up the creaky porch steps.

My host pauses long enough to throw me a look over his shoulder. Those eyes undress me with their stare, burning my shivering skin beneath the drenched clothes. Then he wrenches open the cabin door and ducks inside without a word.

I practically tumble in after Aksel, gripping the wall until my vision adjusts to the dimly lit interior. The air is warm with the piney scent of a smoldering fire in the massive stone hearth. Candles and lanterns glow softly over a modest but comfortable living area with overstuffed chairs and animal skin rugs.

It’s all delightfully rustic, the perfect setting for getting in touch with Mother Nature's raw power. Condensation from my damp clothes begins fogging the windowpanes, overlooking the driving rain and skeletal trees bending against the tempest outside.

The cabin door creaks closed behind me, making me jump. I spin to find Aksel behind me, lips set in a grim line beneath those striking cheekbones and gray eyes. His heavy wool sweater clings in all the right places, outlining the rugged contours of his muscular frame. With his height, the effect is innately intimidating and arousing.

“This will be your home for the duration of your research,” he states flatly.

My unease grows at his choice of words. My home? I’m a professional here for work, not to make myself at home with this strange, uncommunicative loner.

An icy shiver skates down my spine that has nothing to do with my wet clothes. Aksel stares at me with an unsettling intensity, like a coiled predator waiting to pounce.

I get the distinct impression that I may be the prey.

2

AKSEL

The blonde shakes out her drenched hair, glancing around my cabin. Her full lips are parted, those green eyes wide with what? Fear? Excitement? Uncertainty?

I can’t quite read the emotion flickering within, but it doesn’t matter. The second Zara Driscoll stepped across my threshold, she ceased being a person. She became a thing—an object for me to possess and defile.

My cock is achingly hard just from the sight of her in those soaked clothes. The flimsy fabric clings so tantalizingly to the curves of her tits and the flare of her hips that it’s obscene. I have an overwhelming urge to rip those garments from her and fuck her against the wall.

Claim her fully as my own so she can never escape me.

I shouldn’t feel this way—not after weeks of meticulous planning and preparation to hunt her like the helpless prey she is. But something about Zara stokes the raging bonfire of my desires into an inferno.

During the drive, I carefully schooled my expression and body language into that of a cold, indifferent host, trying to seduce her into a false sense of security so she would be too distracted by my manner to detect the steel trap closing around her.

Yet weeks of calculated planning come undone with her standing in my home, droplets from her sopping hair rolling down the soft, pale skin of her neck and disappearing beneath the neckline of her blouse. The hunter’s restraint and patience are shredded by a primal, untamed need to claim her in an utterly different way.

The silence between us is deafening—the void filled only by the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the wail of the storm raging outside. I can feel her uncertainty like a living force between us.

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