Page 27 of Golden Burn

I jerk beneath Odin, needing to take deeper breaths than what his grip will allow me. He removes his hand, but his body stays right where it is. Even covered in layers meant to keep out the chill, the shape of him is clear enough. His chest cradles my shoulder blades, his height means his chin can rest atop my head. But it’s his scent that really throws my head around.

Deep and woodsy, with the slightest hint of sweat. It muddles my mind and makes me forget I’m stalking a stalker in the freezing cold.

I glare at him over my shoulder. “Did you enjoy that? Scaring the shit out of me?”

“Not nearly enough.” I push back against him and spin around so we are facing each other. Odin matches my glare. “I thought you were smart, Dr. Lewis.”

“And I thought I was going to marry the love of my life and live happily ever after, but here we are. Blind side of the century.” He doesn’t find that funny. Not even a little.

Instead, he steps out of my space bubble and pops it with a few tense words. “Get behind me and keep your head down.” He nods toward another section of trees situated along the side of the property overlooking both the cottage and our place of residence. He pulls me down into a crouch and heads for the trees, finding two close together that provide maximum coverage. He practically shoves me into the snow until we are both sitting beside each other, knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder.

And then we wait. And wait. And wait.

I try hard to keep focused. I really do. I scan the space before us, looking for any sort of movement. It’s almost as if I’m dehydrated inthe desert, how much my eyes play tricks on me, creating illusions that set my heart fluttering, only to realize it was a branch or a boulder or a human-like pile of snow.

My feet soon explode in needles, my knees aching from the position. Odin sits like a marble statue, unblinking, unmoving. His eyepatch is frosted with snow, the leather tough and smooth. I almost ask if he ever takes it off to sleep. But I can’t. No, I need to concentrate.

Focus. Focus. Focus.

It must be twenty minutes before I crack.

“Golden Retrievers were originally from Scotland, you know?” I say softly, my breath coming out in shallow puffs.

Odin raises one brow, as if the fact I blurted out was intriguing enough to not warrant a scalding. “That would explain all the… fur.”

Cold wind lashes my face, stinging my nose. “The first dog I ever had to put down was a golden retriever. His name was Roger. He was hit by a car and the family couldn’t afford to pay for the surgery to fix his injuries. It was… awful.” Odin doesn’t respond. “So, have you done this before?”

He keeps his focus trained on the house. “Done what?”

“Kidnapped people?”

This must stump him because he turns and looks at me like I’ve grown two heads. “I haven’t kidnapped any women, if that answers your question.”

I laugh nervously. “Oh. That’s kind of reassuring.” He raises his brows as if to say ‘please explain’. “Means we both don’t know what we’re doing,” I clarify.

“Mm.” He turns away, but I—for some reason—do not. Even in the dark I can see his smooth skin, the new growth of hair along his cheek, the brown tones of his hair with lighter blonde streaks sticking out along his neck and underneath his beanie. We have to be close in age, surely, oronly a few years apart. He oozes a maturity I don’t think I’ve conquered yet, even in my late twenties. I catalog his features for far too long before I snap out of my daze.

Stop checking him out!

It’s so quiet, so chilly, that I can hear my own pulse pumping warm blood around as fast as possible. Although the night is frightening, the atmosphere is cleansing, and the air is so perfect and pure that it beckons me to take in a deep, long breath. I do it again and again until Odin looks back at me curiously.

We lock gazes. My chest tightens. “The air is sweeter here, don’t you think?” I whisper.

He is quiet for a while. Then, “I don’t pay much attention to the air I breathe.”

This time my voice is serious, but gentle. “You should. It’s what’s keeping you alive.”

His expression is completely unreadable. Why couldn’t he be a dog or something? They’re so much easier to understand. Humans are too smart and too skilled at hiding emotions, and Odin seems to hold a master’s degree in it.

Something beeps in his pocket. He takes out his phone and checks whatever message has come through.

“What is it?” I ask, unconsciously leaning into him.

He puts the phone away before I see the message. “It’s Ford.”

“Oh, where is he?” I search the patch of space before us.

Odin doesn’t even turn his head when he says, “Right next to you.”

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