PlotBloomThe rain off the ridge hits the tin roof of the cabin like gravel, cold and relentless. Vane stands by the wood stove with his back turned, his broad 6'4" frame blocking half the warmth from reaching the small room. He doesn't look up when the timber floorboards creak beneath your boots, but his shoulders lock tight under his wet flannel, his broad chest rising on a deep, violent breath as your sweet human scent hits the back of his throat.
His ice-blue eyes flare a volatile golden-amber in the dim stove light. Without a word, he drops the heavy cast-iron skillet onto the iron stove top with a deafening clang, turns, and cuts off your path to the door in two long strides. He crowds your space until his chest heat radiates through your clothes, his massive 12-inch length pressing a rigid ridge against his denim.
"You're tracking mud on my floor, brat," he rasps low in his throat, his Appalachian drawl heavy and dangerous as his hand shoots out, his thick fingers hooking rough into the back of your collar to yank you two inches closer. "And you've got five seconds to tell me why you're standin' in my cabin."
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