Page 190 of Heart of Frost and Scars

“Shh.” She pulls me back to the pillow. “Listen, you brute. I’m surrounded by security guards. Here. There. Every fucking where. Monty took me to the hospital last night to arrange the details for my safety. I’ll be under constant watch with guards and cameras and hospital staff at all times. Kody, I need this.” Her voice wavers, her eyes pleading. “I won’t let this stalker control my life and keep me prisoner.”

“Frankie…” My temples pound.

“And I’m going to the opening for your distillery.” She sets her jaw. “I’m not missing it.”

“Christ, woman.” I bring our foreheads together. “You’re going to take years off my life.”

“You said that in the hills. We’re still alive. Still fighting. This is what we do. We survive.”

“I’m sorry about yesterday.” My pulse thuds, heavy and sluggish. “I didn’t know. I should’ve worked out the date.”

“It’s not a day I wanted to remember. But four days after I was abducted…” She dusts her mouth across mine. “I met three beautiful, feral men.” She bites my lip. “I met you.”

“That’s a day to remember.” I tug her hips against mine, fitting us together.

“Will there come a time when I tire of my compulsion to be touched and kissed by you?”

“Don’t count on it.”

Our tongues collide, and sparks fly across my skin. Our hands roam, each fingertip a brushstroke of electricity, singeing my nerve endings.

We kiss and touch and reconnect for the rest of the night. My cock throbs. My balls ache. But I don’t break her rules. I promised I would wait.

Besides, my desire extends beyond sex. My all-consuming need for her is this. Our connection. The intimacy that exists between us.

I only need her to look at me, see me, and feel the temptation as I feel it with her.

And she does.

With a kiss that lasts hours.

With an embrace that doesn’t break.

With a whisper of love on her lips that no one can take.

42

Frankie

—

Three days later, Coast Guardsmen find a submerged boat in the Sitka Sound. The investigation concludes that a damaged hull caused the vessel to take on water, lose buoyancy, and capsize in rough waters.

The boat belonged to Doyle Whitaker.

No body has been recovered.

Doyle is still missing.

But the fingerprints on the dismembered hand confirm what we already suspected.

He will never touch you again.

Doyle’s hand was hacked off with the fillet knife, messily, passionately, without precision or surgical training.

That doesn’t rule out the medical staff at the hospital, but it makes my colleagues a little less suspect.

Of course, the men in my life don’t agree.

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