Page 70 of Knotting With A Stranger

As the door closes behind him, I curl onto my side, my body still humming with satisfaction and a rising hunger. Whatever this is between us—dark and twisted and needy—it’s only just beginning.

17

HUNTER

Something rips me from sleep at 6:07 a.m. with the subtlety of a chainsaw.

Not a sound. Not a dream. Just that gut-level instinct I’ve learned never to ignore—the same one that’s kept me alive on mountain rescues when avalanches were imminent. Something in the cabin is wrong.

I lie still, listening to the storm rage. Fucking blizzard hasn’t let up—if anything, it’s angrier than last night, like nature’s having a tantrum. The wind screams against the windows, the glass frosted over with ice crystals that distort the pre-dawn darkness. No one’s getting out today. We’re sealed in, trapped together.

That thought drags my mind to Lily. Images from last night pulse through my consciousness—her thighs straddling my lap, her lips soft against mine, that little whimper she made when I deepened our kiss. The memory alone stiffens my cock uncomfortably against the mattress.

“Shit,” I mutter, shoving myself upright and pulling on sweatpants. Thor raises his massive head from his bed in the corner, those ice-blue eyes too damn intelligent for comfort.

“Just checking the place,” I tell him, as if I owe the animal an explanation. “Go back to sleep.”

He yawns, unimpressed, but rises to follow me, anyway. Loyal bastard.

The hallway stretches dark and quiet as I pad down it, but that nagging wrongness deepens with each step. I pause outside Lily’s door, listening. Nothing.

I should keep walking. It’s none of my fucking business if she’s still sleeping.

“Lily?” I call softly, rapping my knuckles against the wood. No response.

I push the door open, peering inside. The bed is made. The bathroom door stands open, dark inside. Her phone sits on the nightstand, still charging. Her slippers remain neatly placed beside the bed as if awaiting feet that never arrived.

Thor glides past me, nose to the floor, circling the room once before looking up with a soft whine.

“Yeah, I don’t like it either,” I mutter.

That twist of concern in my gut tightens like a corkscrew. The rational part of my brain says she’s fine—just somewhere else in this oversized cabin. But fifteen years of search and rescue work has taught me that unusual patterns mean trouble. People don’t vanish from their rooms without cause. She must be with one of the guys.

I stride down the hall to James’s room, finding him asleep and on his own. Next I move to Archer’s room to check if she’s with him and knock on his door.

After what feels like an eternity, the door swings open. Archer stands there looking like hell warmed over—hair stickingup like he’s been electrocuted, eyes narrowed to slits, wearing only boxer briefs. But he’s alone.

“Someone fucking better be dead, Hunt,” he growls, voice sandpaper-rough with sleep.

“Lily’s gone,” I say without preamble.

His eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “Gone as in...”

“Room’s empty.”

Something shifts in his expression—surprise giving way to a sharper focus. “Since when do you keep tabs on when houseguests go to take a piss?”

I ignore the jab. “We need to wake James.”

“Jesus Christ,” Archer mutters, but he grabs a shirt from the floor, sniffing it before dragging it over his head. “Fine. But if she’s just raiding the pantry, I’m going to kick your paranoid ass.”

James hasn’t moved from where he’s sprawled across his king-sized bed, one arm flung over his head, the other disappearing beneath the sheets. The room reeks of whiskey and socks.

“Rise and shine, asshole,” Archer calls out, flicking on the lights with unnecessary enthusiasm.

James doesn’t move. Typical. He could sleep through the apocalypse.

I cross the room and give his shoulder a hard shove. “James. Up. Now.”

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