Page 7 of Gilded Locks
Their island was the furthest north, protected by fierce weather and bitter climates that devoured the unprepared. No way she made it here on that piece of shit boat.
Soaked to the bone, he wondered why she kept the wet clothes on. Perhaps she was sick in the head. Who knew how much time she’d been out there and how much she had left? He should help her, but instead, he merely watched her stagger from one room to the next, curious what she was looking for.
Maybe she was a decoy. A distraction.
His gaze quickly flicked to the other cameras, searching again for incoming threats.
Nothing.
Just her. She was either running from something or towards something. Maybe both.
He pulled his vodka closer and sipped, watching her discover the great hall with great satisfaction. “Ah, that’s what you were looking for.”
He reclined slightly, his mouth kicking up in a half smirk as he watched her search the hearth and nose around their private cabinets for kindling.
He chuckled. “Good girl. You’re resourceful when you need to be.” But despite finding the matches, her body shook so violently she couldn’t seem to get the kindling lit.
He read her frustration through the grainy screen, grinning at her determination. When she flung off the expensive coat, his eyes widened. Definitely not a child. Her wet clothes clung to her like threadbare rags, translucent enough that he could see every vertebra of her spine as she kneeled before the hearth, hunched over the scraps of bark, fighting with matches to get them lit.
She drew back and stilled as a tiny flame flickered to life, then she blew delicate breath over the bark, spreading her creation, and her face came alive with hope.
“Poor little lamb,” he said in a thick Russian accent as he studied her over the rim of his glass. “You nearly froze to death in the wild.”
He should have called Hunter and Ash by now, but he liked having a chance to observe her in her unhindered state, before she realized she’d stumbled into the bear’s den, before she understood she’d escaped death only to run into danger. And he liked having her all to himself.
“You should take off those wet clothes, little rabbit, before you freeze to death.”
She confronted the mammoth fireplace like David faced down Goliath. Something tender stirred in his chest at her unbreakable resolve. Even when her body betrayed her with evident exhaustion and hypothermic shuddering, she refused to give up until she had the fire lit.
But she didn’t last long once flames filled the enormous hearth. Stone found himself oddly proud of her resourcefulness, so he decided to give her a moment to bask in her small victory.
She lay down on the cold stone, visibly shivering as she curled onto her side, but she’d never get warm as long as she stayed in those wet clothes.
“Come on, little rabbit, you’re smarter than that, aren’t you?”
Her body stilled for a long moment, and he leaned forward in concern. Then she snapped out of her trance and forced herself up.
Looking back longingly at the raging fire, she staggered out of the great room into the hall. Her instability might be more than just the effects of the cold. A dry trickle of blood curled down the side of her face, but her hair covered the source of the injury. Perhaps she was concussed.
As she hobbled through the house, she moved with a rheumatoid gait, likely from the stiffness in her bones, but she also held her left shoulder as if it ached. She followed the corridors, scurrying like a mouse locked in the shadows as she tested door after door, seeking something specific, and moving on when she didn’t find it.
When she reached Hunter’s room, she rushed inside. She was damn lucky he wasn’t there, or her little exploration would have ended abruptly.
Stone switched monitors and brought up the image as she ripped open the wardrobe and pilfered the armoire shelves. Arms full, she carried the stack of stolen clothes to the bed and stripped away her soaked clothes.
He should have been prepared, but there was no warning for what he would see. Long, delicate limbs leading to a pert little ass so ripe he wanted to sink his teeth into it. The feminine flare of her hips spoke of hardiness, but there was something utterly fragile about her tapered waist. He bet he could hold her captive in the span of his bare hands.
Her breasts, pale and full, hung like inviting fruit, fresh for the picking. Stone’s mouth watered, and he swallowed just before her beautiful body was engulfed in wool. The sweater draped her like an ill-fitting dress. She pulled thick hunting socks up past her knees, further emphasizing her petite size.
She was… voskhititelny. “Exquisite,” he whispered, letting his thick Russian accent savor the taste of the word as if he were tasting her. “Sit on the bed, little one. Show me more.”
Unfortunately, that was the end of the show as she shrouded herself in an old fur coat he hadn’t seen in years. It engulfed her from shoulder to shin.
Enchanted, he watched her bring the fur to her cheek so she could nestle in its softness. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply of the silk lining, and his jaw locked. His fingers curled against the desk, his nails scraping into the polished surface.
She looked around the room and, for a moment, her desperation disappeared. The start of a smile danced across her lips, then she doubled over in pain.
His brow knit with concern, but he saw nothing with her buried in fur and wool. Perhaps an injury he’d missed.
