Page 5 of Braving the Storm
“Do you want one?” I concentrate on pouring myself twofingers, then decide fuck it and slosh more in the glass. Hopefully, it’ll burn away the memories of the piece of shit I left behind and knock me out so I can get some sleep.
My uncle remains silent. Arms folded over one bended knee as he studies the flames.
Over the top of my glass, as I take a sip, I allow my eyes to roam freely for a second. Dancing streaks of orange and gold lick his rugged face, revealing every sinfully attractive line of ink up the side of his neck, the silver ring in the side of his nose, and flickering shadows highlight his dirty blonde hair. Unruly, almost-curls sit tousled, as if he’s been running his hands through those wild strands.
He’s got a long-sleeved top on. Charcoal colored. A little threadbare, worn, rugged, just like the broody energy he emits. It stretches tight around his broad shoulders, and my mind is going bad, bad places, seeing how big this man is. Sleeves pushed up his forearms reveal a leather cuff on his right wrist and two thick concentric rings of ink on his left. As he tosses a slightly bigger piece of wood into the flames, silver flashes on his forefinger and thumb.
That glint drags my focus to those veined, powerful hands. A grip that minutes ago was fixed around my neck, removing all capacity to form words because the feel of him commanding my body like that did things to me it definitely should not have.
Those hands decorated with inked lettering I can’t quite make out from here match his throat, and as the burn descends low in my belly from the whiskey I’ve hastily gulped down, mixed with another sensation that has absolutely no business being there, I wonder just how much of this man’s skin is tattooed below those clothes.
Briar Indigo Lane, you need to pull yourself together right fucking now.
Uncle. Remember?
He’s your uncle.
How pathetic and touch-starved must I be if the sight of any man, especially my own uncle, makes me feel some kind of way?
Fighting back the teeth-chattering shiver, I want some privacy in order to tear open my suitcase and find warmer clothes. Socks are a priority, at the very least. Shifting in place, I sip, or more aptly, gulp down more whiskey.
However, I’m also hyper-aware of the fact my uncle doesn’t appear to be in a hurry to leave, and this silence between us is so awkward that I don’t know where to even begin.
Part of me is hoping he’ll finish building up that fire and then vanish.
Surely he won’t stick around… will he?
An entirely inappropriate spark flares deep in the recesses of my brain. Something dangerously alluring that whispers all too eagerly, hoping this man might remain here with me in the deepening shadows of the night and the lateness of the hour.
I don’t trust that bitch at all. She’s the queen of poor decisions.
As I knock back another sip, feeling the glow of warmth hit my chest and start to spread along my veins, he heaves himself up.
Eyes widening, I watch him stand tall, then cross the room, and his icy blue eyes flick up to connect with mine as I stare over the rim of my glass.
My uncle doesn’t stop his advance on me. Glaring. Menacing. Each stride forward is hypnotic and dangerous, and, oh, sweet Jesus, makes my body react in a way I don’t want to dare acknowledge. All I can do is flatten myself against the cracked Formica counter, allowing him to do whatever the hell it is he desires at this moment.
When he’s so close, his scent of smoke and citrus and spices rushes over me. My fingers tighten around the glass now clutched against my chest.
I’m wholly trapped in the surge of black coming off him. It feels predatory. Thrilling.Wild.
Tattooed fingers reach past me. The front of his shirt brushes up against my knuckles, and the heavily inked rose covering theside of his neck detailed in black and gray, is so close I see the stubble coming through along the underside of his jaw.
Then, as quickly as he invaded my sanity, he straightens up again and steps back. This time, he’s got the whole bottle wrapped in his fist.
“Bedroom’s all yours.” He grunts. Swigging straight from the neck. Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows heavily.
He turns, long strides carrying him across the room in a blink. One of those tattooed hands collects his jacket before he stoops to pick up a set of black combat boots, then slams out the door into the night.
Leaving me breathing hard and wondering what the fuck any of that was about.
Chapter 3
Icrack one eye open. My nose feels like it’s about to fall off. This place is like moving to Alaska, not Montana. I had to get up three times during the night to keep adding more clothes.
Feeling a lot like a marshmallow of a woman, I’ve got the covers tucked firmly under my chin and have no desire to drag myself out of this warm cocoon.
Dread fills me at the thought I’ll have to try and figure out how to light that stupid fireplace on my own. I’m also going to have to get myself back down the mountain to Crimson Ridge without managing to plunge over the edge of the ravine and die in a fiery crash in the process.
