Page 174 of Heart of Frost and Scars

They’ll think of nothing else than luring me to be alone, putting their hands and mouths on me, pushing my clothes aside, and slacking their insatiable need.

I want them to feel how wet they make me while they whisper filthy words. Their touch, their growls, their scents, our connection—all of it compounds with mine, sparking like an overloaded electrical circuit.

The problem is they don’t want me to leave the island, and I won’t have sex with them under Monty’s roof.

What kind of person would I be if I gave in and fucked them with Monty in the other room?

Cruel. That’s what I would be. Fucking cruel.

Like it or not, I’m in a complicated love square, and until I figure it out, no one is getting laid.

It’s torture.

So when Leo and Kody return, I’ll continue to resist their advances with a crumbling willpower. It’ll enrage them, and they’ll storm off to Sitka and channel all that frustration into their dreams.

Kody pours his heart into the distillery, and I admire his drive. He’ll be opening his bar to the public soon, and I couldn’t be happier for him. But I miss him. So fucking much.

Leo remains focused on earning advanced pilot certificates. It’s his way of gaining control, of proving to himself and the world that he’ll never be helpless again. I love him for it, but I need him here, with me, to remind me that the present is just as important as the future. I need him to prove our connection is more than just sex.

Then there’s Monty. He tries so hard to fill the gap, but I keep him at arm’s length. Because I’m scared. I’m fucking terrified of my feelings for him. If I nurture those feelings…

It will ruin everything. My relationship with Leo and Kody. Monty’s relationship with them. There’s no scenario where the four of us can be together the way I want. I’ve thought about it. A lot.

“Every decision you make revolves around them,” he says. “It’s not healthy, Frankie.”

“You’re right.” I rub my temples, conflicted and confused. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Maybe you should separate from them for a while. If they love you, they’ll understand your need for independence.”

Horror robs my breath as denial crashes over me, dragging me under where the light of reason cannot reach.

“No. Absolutely not. I love them.”

“All three of them?” His eyes narrow, a flicker of something dark passing through them.

“Yes. I love them and can’t imagine my life without them.”

“We’ve talked about this, Frankie. You can’t have three men. Especially three unstable men with aggression issues who refuse to see a therapist. You need to rewire your nervous system to gravitate toward healthy connections, enriching relationships, and meaningful intimacy. Not the toxic ones you’re clinging to.”

I bite my lip, my thoughts unraveling. He knows everything about me. Sharing my secrets with him and talking through the painful, triggering details has gone a long way in helping me manage the panic attacks. I haven’t had an episode since I started opening up to him.

But something feels off today, like a discordant note in a familiar melody.

His suggestion to separate from the three people who will stop at nothing to keep me safe…that doesn’t sit right. How could he even think I would do that? They’re my lifeline, my family, the mates to my soul.

But he’s right about one thing. I need to reclaim my purpose to feel alive again. Working at the hospital, helping others, it’s not just a job. It’s my calling.

If anyone is controlling me, it’s the stalker. This unknown entity hovers over me like a dark cloud, keeping me trapped on this island. My mental health, my happiness, are worth fighting for. If I need security guards to achieve that, so be it. I won’t be a prisoner in my own life anymore.

“You’ve been through so much.” His expression softens, and he reaches out to gently touch my cheek, his touch warm, lingering, and more intimate than it should be. “Such a strong, magnificent woman. I want to see you heal and be happy again.”

“You know what we haven’t talked about?” I pull back, eyes hard. “Your unprofessional touching. It makes me uncomfortable.”

“I’m sorry.” He drops his hand, looking wounded. “My only intention is to help you.”

Something in his tone sends another shiver through me. I want to believe him, to trust in his care and concern, but a growing part of me feels uneasy.

Maybe Monty was right. Maybe Doyle’s intentions aren’t benevolent.

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