Page 76 of Surrender to Me
The room warms, and Stryker stands to face me. Embarrassingly he’s caught me staring at him.
“I’m going to go outside and shovel.”
“Seriously?” I blink. Right now, nothing could entice me to leave the comfort of the cabin. “Have you seen the weather?”
“That’s exactly why it needs to be done. Need to be sure I have access to the shed and dry wood. Check the generator in case we lose power. Ensure cameras are clear.”
He absolutely never stops being a protector.
“While you do that, I’ll go ahead and get the stew started.”
“Good call.”
Having something to do while I process everything we’ve shared is a necessity.
Stryker’s already pulling on his coat, the heavy fabric swallowing his broad frame. Boots, hat, gloves—He’s a fortress of preparation, every movement deliberate.
I’m still half-dazed from his touch, my body humming, but the promise of stew grounds me. Something normal. Something I can give him.
“Be careful out there,” I call, my voice softer than I mean it to be.
He flashes that half smile, the one that makes my tummy somersault. “Always am, sweetheart.” The door shuts behind him, and the cabin feels emptier without his presence.
As I head across the cabin, the chill of the floor seeps through my socks, making me rush back and put on a pair of shoes.
The temperatures are much harsher at this altitude than I’m used to.
In the kitchen, I take out all the ingredients I need. Then I roll up my sleeves and start peeling the potatoes.
The knife’s rhythm is meditative, each slice a small reclaiming of control.
I’m not sure how Stryker’s coping with the wind. It’s howling like it’s got a grudge, and snow seems to be smacking the windows.
There’s a scraping sound, and I can barely make out Stryker’s dark silhouette against the white, shoveling a path to the shed with relentless focus.
I can’t help but feel slightly guilty.
If he hadn’t escaped the city with me in tow, he’d still be in Denver, sipping his nasty coffee in the Wash Park café.
Instead, he’s doing everything in his power to keep us—me—safe.
With a sigh, I brown the beef in a heavy pot, the sizzle filling the cabin with savory warmth.
When I look outside again, he’s in the shed. Maybe to put away the shovel?
Guessing he’ll be chilled when he returns, I make a pot of hot chocolate.
Minutes later, the door bangs open with a gust of wind, snow swirling in like an uninvited guest. Stryker’s back, a winter god carved from ice and determination.
Snowflakes cling to his dark hair, melting on his lashes, his cheeks flushed from the cold. His eyes find mine, bright with that unshakeable confidence, and my pulse stutters. How does he make freezing his ass off look so damn irresistible?
I’m at his side in an instant, brushing snow from his shoulders, my hands lingering on the hard planes of his chest. “You’re insane.” Even though I’m shaking my head, I’m smiling.
“Miss me?” His voice is low, teasing, as he pulls me into a cold-but-warm hug, his gloved hands steady on my waist.
“Terribly.” The word slips out before I can stop it. Why did I admit that?
Needing physical and emotional space, I take a step back. “I made you some hot chocolate. Figured you’d appreciate it with as nasty as the weather is.”
