Chapter 1: Double Trouble in the Deep Woods
The fire cracked and popped, sending a shower of orange sparks up the stone chimney. The scent of woodsmoke and old pine logs was thick in the air, almost enough to cover the sharper smell of whiskey in Erin’s glass. She swirled it, watching the two men through her lashes, a smug little grin playing on her lips.
She’d won. Again.
“Told you I could get the fire going faster than you two,” she said, stretching her arms over her head with a satisfied sigh. The worn leather of the cabin’s couch creaked under her. “Your method is all brute force. Mine is finesse.”
Shane didn’t look up from sharpening his knife by the hearthstone, the rhythmic scrape-scrape of steel on stone a quiet counter to the fire’s noise. “Your method involved half a can of lighter fluid, brat. That’s not finesse. That’s arson.”
“It’s called efficiency.” She took a sip, the whiskey burning a warm path down her throat. “You’re just bitter a girl showed you up at your own cabin.”
Ryan laughed from the kitchenette, the sound easy and deep. He was unloading groceries, his broad shoulders filling the space. “Don’t fuel her, Shane. She’s already insufferable. Getting the last bag of ice wasn’t a victory tour, Erin. It was a chore.”
“A chore I won.” She kicked her feet up on the rustic coffee table, knocking a hunting magazine to the floor. She didn’t pick it up. She watched to see if either of them would flinch, would tell her to mind her manners. They just exchanged a look she couldn’t quite read.
Shane set the knife down carefully. He stood, rolling his shoulders, and the firelight caught the sharp angles of his face, his piercing blue eyes finding hers. “You’ve been pushing buttons all day. From the moment you ‘accidentally’ spilled my coffee this morning.”
“It was an accident,” she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness.
“To the ‘wrong turn’ that added forty minutes to the drive,” Ryan added, coming to lean against the doorframe. He wiped his hands on his jeans, a small smile on his face. It wasn’t the irritated one she was hoping for. It was something else. Anticipatory.
“Scenic route,” she countered, her grin not fading but feeling suddenly more fixed. The atmosphere in the room had shifted, grown denser, like the air before a storm. The owl’s distant hoot outside seemed suddenly isolating, not peaceful.
“To kicking my boots off the porch,” Shane said, taking a slow step toward her. “To arguing about every damn song on the playlist. To this.” He gestured at the messy living area, her defiant feet on the table, the magazine on the floor.
Erin lowered her feet, sitting up straighter. The leather sighed. “What? Can’t handle a little personality? You said you wanted a weekend away from the routine. I’m just… mixing it up.”
“Oh, we wanted a change of routine,” Ryan agreed, pushing off the doorframe. “We did.”
Shane was in front of her now, his presence swallowing the warmth of the fire. He didn’t touch her. He just looked down, his expression unreadable. “You think this is a game, Erin? Seeing how far you can go before one of us snaps?”
“Isn’t it?” she challenged, tilting her chin up. But her pulse had kicked up a notch, a thrilling, familiar drumbeat in her veins. This was the edge she liked to skate.
“It is,” Shane said, his voice dropping to a low, quiet timber that vibrated in her bones. “But you’ve got the rules wrong. You’re not the referee. You’re the prey.”
Before she could spit back a retort, his hands shot out, not rough but impossibly firm, capturing her wrists. He pulled her to her feet as if she weighed nothing. Her glass tipped, splashing whiskey across the rug.
“Hey!”
He marched her backward, her socks sliding on the polished wood floor, until her back met the rough-hewn logs of the cabin wall. The unexpected chill of the wood seeped through her thin sweater. He pinned her wrists above her head, one of his large hands easily encircling both. She struggled, a genuine flare of surprise cutting through the act, but he was immovable, a solid wall of muscle and intent.
“Shane, let go. This isn’t funny.”
“Who’s laughing?” he murmured, his face close to hers. His eyes weren’t angry. They were focused, intense, like he was studying a complex problem he was about to solve.
She looked past him, toward Ryan. “Ryan! Tell him to stop.”
Ryan wasn’t looking at Shane. He was looking at her. That same, slight smile was on his lips as he walked toward the duffel bag they’d brought in, the one she’d assumed held extra flannels and gear. He unzipped it, rummaged inside for a moment, and pulled out a length of neatly coiled, sturdy tan rope. He tested its weight in one hand, then ran it through his fingers in a slow, deliberate motion.
Erin’s breath hitched. The playful defiance evaporated, replaced by a sudden, concrete understanding. The wrong turns, the exchanged looks, the packed bag she hadn’t been allowed to carry. This hadn’t been a spontaneous decision. This had been the plan all along.
“You… you set this up,” she breathed, her struggles stilling. The fight drained out of her, replaced by a dizzying wave of submission that made her knees feel weak. This was what she craved, what she’d been needling them for—the moment the illusion of her control shattered completely.
“Every bit of it,” Ryan confirmed, his voice calm and gentle, as if he were explaining the weather. He stepped up beside Shane, the rope dangling from his hand. “All that bratty energy, all that testing… we were just letting you wind yourself up. So you’d be nice and ready for us to unwind you.”
Shane leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. His voice was a whisper, for her alone. “You wanted to see how far you could push? Congratulations, sweetheart. You found the line.”
He shifted his grip, securing both her wrists in one of his hands like a vice. With his free hand, he brushed the hair from her face, the gesture almost tender. “Now we show you what happens on the other side of it.”
Ryan moved in, his body warm and solid against her side. He looped the rope around her wrists, which Shane still held pinned. The fibers were rough, unfamiliar. She watched, mesmerized, as his capable hands worked, tying a secure, efficient knot. It wasn’t cruel. It was absolute.
The initial loop was snug. Then he pulled.
The rope tightened, biting into her skin with a firm, unyielding pressure that erased everything else—the crackle of the fire, the scent of smoke, the sound of the wind outside. There was only the sensation of the rough braids cinching down, of her mobility being irrevocably transferred from her to them. It was a claiming, a silent, physical sentence for her day of crimes.
A shaky breath escaped her. Not a protest. A surrender.
Shane released his grip, her bound hands now secured by the rope alone. He took the loose end from Ryan and gave it a slow, testing tug. Her arms were pulled a little higher, arching her back against the wall.
“There,” Shane said, his blue eyes holding hers, seeing everything she was feeling. “That’s better. Now the real weekend can start.”