Chapter 1: The Cabin’s First Night: Three Hungry Wolves
The mountain road had been a slick, black serpent in the downpour, and by the time the car crunched to a halt on the gravel drive, Eve’s knuckles were white from clutching the door handle. The cabin wasn’t a cabin, not like she’d imagined. It was a dark slab of timber and glass, hunched against the weeping pines, a single square of amber light bleeding through the storm.
She grabbed her small duffel, the one containing everything she thought she’d need for the weekend, and made a dash for the covered porch. The air was sharp with pine and wet earth, a clean scent that did nothing to calm the frantic birdbeat of her heart. She was here. This was it.
Before she could knock, the heavy door swung inward.
Warmth, thick and drowsy with the scent of woodsmoke and fine whiskey, rolled over her. The light from within was low, thrown by a massive fireplace where embers pulsed like a heartbeat. And in front of that light, backlit so their faces were initially in shadow, stood three figures.
They were still, having ceased some conversation mid-flow. The silence was immediate and total, save for the crackle of the fire and the wind’s moan outside. Eve felt her duffel strap slip from her shoulder; she caught it with a fumble.
“You’re late,” a voice said. It was flat, not angry, just a statement of fact. The tallest of the silhouettes stepped forward, into the softer light of a lamp. Jule Devereux. She knew from the file. But the file was a photocopied sheet of paper. It didn’t convey the sheer physicality of the man—the broad shoulders under a cashmere sweater, the severe cut of his jaw, the eyes that scanned her from damp hair to scuffed boots in one dismissive sweep.
“The roads were bad,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper.
“She’s smaller than I pictured,” another voice said, lighter, almost melodic. This man uncurled himself from a deep armchair. Rhys Moreau. He was lean where Jule was solid, all sharp angles and restless fingers. An artist, the file said. He looked like he was already deciding how he might sketch her.
“She’ll do.” The third emerged from near the spiraling staircase that led to a shadowy loft. Damien Blackwood—Dun, his friends called him, the file noted. He was younger, with a restless energy that seemed to crackle in the air around him. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. It was an appraisal, a quick mental calculation.
Eve stood frozen on the threshold, the cold from outside still clinging to her back. “I’m Eve,” she said, forcing the words out.
“We know,” Jule said. He didn’t offer his name. He simply watched her, a predator assessing the first twitch of prey. “Come in. Shut the door. You’re letting the weather in.”
She stepped across the threshold, and the heavy door thudded shut behind her, sealing her in. The warmth was suddenly oppressive. She set her bag down on the polished hardwood floor, the sound absurdly loud.
“Drink?” Dun offered, already moving to a crystal decanter.
“No, thank you.” Her hands were trembling. She clasped them together.
“Nervous?” Rhys asked, tilting his head. He hadn’t moved from his spot, but his gaze felt like a physical touch.
“A little.”
“Don’t be.” Jule finally moved, taking a few slow steps until he was standing directly before her, looking down. He was so close she could smell his cologne, something dark and expensive. “This is a simple transaction. You understand the terms.”
She nodded, her throat tight.
“Good.” His lips quirked, not quite a smile. “So. First question. Which of us do you want?”
Eve blinked. “I… I’m sorry?”
“The surrogate agreement. Which man’s child do you intend to carry?” Jule’s voice was cool, logical. “It’s a pertinent starting point.”
Before she could stutter a reply, Dun spoke from behind the bar, glass in hand. “Maybe she should see what she’s choosing first.” His tone was casual, almost joking, but there was an edge beneath it.
In a series of movements so fluid and coordinated it felt rehearsed, they began to undress. No fanfare, no ceremony. Jule pulled his sweater over his head, revealing a torso of hard, defined muscle. Rhys stood and unbuckled his belt, the leather sighing as it slid free. Dun set his glass down and unbuttoned his shirt, his eyes locked on Eve.
She took an involuntary step back, her shoulders meeting the cold wood of the door. She had nowhere to go.
They stood there, three statues of perfect, formidable masculinity, completely naked. The firelight danced over the planes of their bodies, and Eve’s mind, terrified and naive, could only fixate on one overwhelming, shocking detail. They were all… large. Monstrously so. Different from each other, but each a blatant, aggressive display of potency. This wasn’t in the brochures. This wasn’t in any of the vague, clinical conversations she’d had with the agency.
Her face flushed with a heat that had nothing to do with the fire. Her mouth was desert-dry.
Rhys took a step closer, his movement a lazy prowl. “Based on this initial viewing,” he murmured, his artist’s eye clearly analyzing her reaction, “which do you think you’d prefer? Which one do you think would feel best inside that tight little pussy of yours?”
The crude word, spoken in his melodic voice, shattered the last of her clinical illusions. This wasn’t a medical procedure. This was something else entirely. A low whimper escaped her. She shook her head frantically, tears of panic and shame blurring the terrifying image before her.
“I… I don’t know,” she choked out.
“Clearly,” Jule said, his voice a low rumble. He seemed amused by her distress.
“I don’t… I can’t…” She squeezed her eyes shut, wanting to disappear. The words tumbled out, a desperate, pathetic shield. “I’ve never… I don’t know. I’m a virgin.”
The silence that followed was different from before. It was heavy, charged, like the air before a lightning strike. The crackling fire was the only sound.
Eve dared to open her eyes.
The three men were looking at each other. A silent communication passed between them—a raised brow from Dun, a slight, almost imperceptible nod from Jule, a dark, interested spark in Rhys’s gaze. The dynamic in the room shifted, tightening, focusing. The prey had just revealed it was even more vulnerable than they had assumed.
Jule turned his gaze back to her. The possessive, calculating look in his eyes was now absolute. He smiled, a real one this time, and it was the most terrifying thing she had seen all night.
“Well, Eve,” he said softly, taking a final step that eradicated her personal space. “That changes the nature of the transaction entirely. Doesn’t it?”