Page 92 of Knotting With A Stranger

I pull on my boxers and slip out of the room, closing the door to not wake her. The house creaks and groans around me as I make my way down the stairs, the old timber frame protesting against the battering wind.

My sleep’s been fucked since prison. Eighteen months of constant control, constant noise, constant vigilance—it rewires your brain, makes you jump at shadows and listen for footsteps that aren’t there. Even here, in Hunter’s fortress of a cabin, I can’t manage more than a few hours before my body jerks me awake, heart racing, senses on high alert.

Maybe with Lily in my bed, that will change. Maybe her scent, her warmth, and her soft breathing will override the alarms that keep screaming in my head. Worth a shot, anyway.

The hallway stretches long and dark ahead of me as I head toward the kitchen, thinking about coffee and maybe some prep work for breakfast. Lily strikes me as the type who’d appreciate fresh pastries when she wakes up, and I’ve been itching to get my hands on Hunter’s commercial-grade oven. It’s been too damn long since I baked anything.

That’s when I hear it—a low, guttural growl coming from the rear of the house, near the back door.

I freeze mid-step, the hairs on my neck rising. My body shifts automatically into a defensive stance, weight centered, muscles tensed.

Thor? Maybe. The malamute’s protective instincts run deep, especially for an animal raised in these mountains. But something about the pitch of that growl seems off.

Fuck. Not a bear again. Last time one of those bastards got in, it tore up half the kitchen before Hunter managed to drive it back out. He reinforced all the doors and windows after that and installed steel-core frames and double-paned glass.

The growl comes again, deeper this time, followed by a hushed voice that’s definitely not Hunter or Archer.

Fuck! Someone’s in the house.

I move silently toward the sound, grabbing a heavy bronze bookend from the hall table as I pass. Not ideal, but it’ll crack a skull if necessary. My mind catalogs what I know about the layout—where Hunter keeps his guns (mostly in the basement gun safe).

“Thor, better be you, buddy,” I call softly, though I already know it isn’t.

As I turn the corner toward the back entrance, my suspicions are confirmed. The door is closed, but melting snow tracksacross the hardwood floor in boot-shaped puddles. Not paw prints. Not bear claws. Human. Big human, based on the size of those tracks.

Motherfucker. Someone broke in.

I move along the wall, breathing controlled, ears straining for any sound. From deeper in the house, Thor’s growls intensify, punctuated by someone hissing at him to shut up.

If they hurt that dog, I’ll rip them apart with my bare hands.

The study door stands ajar, a sliver of light—not electric, but the dancing beam of a flashlight—visible through the crack. I edge closer, pressing my back against the wall, and peer inside.

The room is mostly dark, but I can make out a tall figure bent over the desk where Hunter keeps the treasure map. The intruder’s back is to me, one gloved hand aiming a flashlight at the framed document while the other traces across the glass edging like he’s about to lift it up. Thor stands a few feet away, hackles raised, teeth bared, ready to lunge.

I calculate the distance, grip the bookend tighter, and prepare to strike?—

Pain explodes across my back, a vicious blow that catches me completely off guard. “Fuck!” I arch away, turning just in time to take a fist to the face.

I stumble backward, dropping down to my knees, vision blurring, the bookend tumbling free from my grip. Another figure stands in the hallway, dressed all in black, face obscured by a ski mask. He’s nearly my height, broad through the shoulders, stance suggesting he knows how to handle himself in a fight.

The man from the study emerges, also masked, but the moment he speaks, recognition hits me like another blow.

“What the fuck are you doing out here?” he hisses at his partner, then spots me groaning on the floor in the dark hallway.

Travis. Hunter’s goddamn cousin. I’d know that voice anywhere—the same one that used to come to the cabin when we were young and start fights with Hunter, physical punch-ups.

Thor launches himself at Travis with a ferocious snarl, and chaos erupts. Travis cries out as eighty pounds of infuriated malamute slams into his chest. I let out a piercing whistle—a signal that will bring Hunter and Archer running—then throw myself to my feet and turn my attention to the second intruder as he lunges at me.

We collide with bone-jarring force, hitting the floor hard enough to knock the wind from my lungs. His fist connects with my jaw, pain bursting like fireworks behind my eyes. I taste blood and feel the split in my lip, but the pain just feeds the rage building inside me.

I roll sideways, driving my knee up into his ribs, then follow with a kick that sends him sprawling. Before he can recover, I’m on my feet, snatching the bookend off the floor.

He comes at me again, leading with his shoulder like a linebacker. I pivot at the last second, bringing the heavy bronze down on his upper back as he passes. He crashes into the wall with a satisfying crunch, drywall cracking under the impact.

A yelp of pain pulls my attention back to Thor and Travis. My blood runs cold as I see Travis grabbing a decorative fireplace poker from the hall table, raising it like a spear.

“Don’t you fucking touch him!” I roar, abandoning my opponent to charge at Travis.

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