Page 30 of Forever with the Mountain Man

I dress in silence, trembling as I hear male voices screaming. Fierce’s rumbling tones are among them, furious and authoritative. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad if I knew even half of what they said. But the words come so fast and angrily, I can’t make out a thing except for the word ematzea. It either means girlfriend or wife in Basque. I can’t remember which.

A part of me wants to stay hidden in the room, locked away from the drama unfolding outside. But another part feels a soul-deep need to stand my ground next to Fierce, come what may. After all, everything tells me the current tongue-lashing he’s taking is because of me. I slip into light-wash skinny jeans and a black, long-sleeved silk top with a V-neckline.

Standing in the mirror, it’s sexier than any look that I want to wear right now with the insane drama going on outside the bedroom door. But it’s the tamest outfit I brought for the weekend, thanks to Callie’s urging. Sliding into her leopard-spotted ankle booties, they give me a couple of inches of added height, and I stand nearly six feet tall now. Still dwarfed by Fierce, but ready to embrace any extra confidence boosts I can take advantage of.

I look in the mirror, assessing the red glow of beard burn on my cheeks. I hesitate momentarily, wondering if my presence will make things worse. Instead, I splash cold water on myface, then a cooling aloe facial moisturizer to take off the edge. Opening the door, I gulp air, heading down the hallway into the fray.

When I enter the living room, all voices stop, and all heads turn in my direction. The air feels thicker than a slice of Fierce’s homemade cheese.

In the center of the room stands a young woman with blonde hair parted in the middle and pulled back in a bun. She has large green eyes flooded with tears. When she sees me, her gaze narrows, and she spits in my face, hurling indecipherable insults at me and lunging towards me. She grips the front of my shirt, clearly out for blood, her eyes raging and fiery as voices erupt around me.

Fierce and another of his brothers seize the woman’s upper arms, wresting her off me. She spits again, glaring and hurling what must be vicious insults like everyone else in the room, speaking in a torrent of guttural Basque.

I freeze, shocked and unable to process what’s happening as Fierce hands the woman off to his doppelgänger, though shorter, younger, and smaller of frame. “Julen,” he orders, pointing towards the door and commanding something. The young man nods, wrapping his arm around the woman and leading her outside.

I bring a shaking hand to my face to wipe away the spit. Fortunately, she’s not especially good at hawking saliva, so there’s not much to wipe away.

The room is an angry, incomprehensible chorus, hands flailing with all eyes on me as they rant and curse.

Oh God, Callie was right all along. Fierce has a girlfriend or a wife or something, and the whole family’s outed us to her. I’ve never been the other woman before. Never wanted to be the other woman, and now I feel like shit. Worse than shit. Because I trusted Fierce completely. I shared my heart, my soul, and mybody with him. But we’ve apparently done something very, very wrong.

Looking past Fierce at the ruddy faces of his family members, all gazing at me with disgust-filled eyes, I tremble, an outlaw about to get strung up by vigilantes. My heart pounds, and I honestly fear for my safety because I find no mercy in their eyes.

Fierce turns towards me, palming my cheek and asking, “Are you alright?”

I pull away reflexively, fury gripping me. Pain stings his handsome features. I may not know exactly what’s going on, but I have a clear enough idea to no longer feel comfortable with him touching me.

“No, I’m not okay.” My voice shakes despite my attempts to keep it firm.

More Basque breaks out, and Fierce turns, screaming again. Never have I wanted to understand a language or feared the consequences of that knowledge more. My core trembles, and my legs shake, leaving me unsteady.

“Enough!” he declares. “Felicity has done nothing wrong. It is you who have done wrong by her. And you who have done wrong by me and that woman, too.” His anger is palpable. It floods the room as he points at each of his family members, centering his gaze on his mother, who blanches. Now, I’m even more confused.

“I did not ask for anyone in this room to make arrangements on my behalf to have a bride sent from Euskal Herria. Did I?”

I gasp, covering my mouth with my hands. That blonde is Fierce’s bride? He wasn’t joking when he said arranged marriage. Not that I thought he was, but I never believed it would go this far.

Fierce towers over everyone, his face red with anger. “And it is not my fault or Felicity’s fault that you mistook her for the woman you arranged to bring here. Felicity and I have donenothing wrong. It is you who have done wrong. And for the record, the only woman I plan on marrying is Felicity. So, get used to it.”

“But what kind of woman is she? Coming out of your bedroom this morning?” His mother counters, and I shudder internally, expecting Fierce to turn Mama’s boy and hang me out to dry. My ex-boyfriend, Tim, did this often, in far less dramatic situations.

Instead, the black-haired, bearded giant steps towards his mother, claiming his authority. “You will never say anything of the kind about my woman again. None of you. There will be hell to pay if I hear any tongues wagging, whether it’s to the neighbors, the cousins, or the priest. Do you understand me?”

No one breathes. No one speaks. I don’t even see blinking. The scene reminds me of a wildlife documentary I once saw where the silverback gorilla shows up, and all of the other members of the group go into oh-shit mode.

“You have asked me to be the patriarch of this family. To take over the duties of this ranch, and it starts this moment. Respect me, respect my bride. Never ever will you speak one foul word about either of us again. And by the way, there will be big changes around here. For starters, English or French spoken around Felicity by all.”

“Why doesn’t she speak our language to be in our family?” Someone pipes up in the back.

“And why don’t you speak English to be in America? Eh?”

“You are creating a whirlwind of trouble. You won’t be able to escape,” another male voice calls from the fringes of the crowd.

“The whirlwind of trouble started with bringing a woman here who I do not know, do not love, and will never marry. If anyone has to answer to Euskal Herria for honor, it is you. Not me. Now, out of my cabin before I quit being nice. Go!” He roarslike a single-man tempest, his defense of me downright heroic. But he’s vastly outnumbered.

Eyes shoot daggers at me from every nook and cranny of the house, and he turns toward me, ordering, “You need to go.” He breathes hard, his face flushed. “Now.”

My brows knit, and tears pour down my face.

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