Jeanie London - Her Last Protector

“Drew boy, you never know what to expect. Life’s always throwing surprises at you, so be prepared,” his great-grandfather had told him back in his other life.

That early training had come in handy in the Marines Special Forces and as an agent stationed in a mountainous region, and Drew didn’t take long to shave the branches into kindling he could light with the fire striker he kept on his key ring. The sap from the spruce would burn despite the wet wood.

He returned to find Mirie sitting with her back against the wall. She had removed only her hat and cloak and was fumbling with her boots. Even in the dark, he could see that her pants were wet all the way to midthigh. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, her efforts sluggish. Her body temperature was dropping, and he had to get this fire going fast.

“Get those clothes off,” he barked more harshly than he’d intended. “Unless you want my help.”

She growled impatiently in reply and tugged off a boot with what appeared to be monumental effort.

Drew set down the kindling, ditched his outerwear and fished out the remaining weather cloak.

“Wrap this around you. I’ll have the fire going soon.”

They were deep enough into the gorge that the smoke should dissipate before reaching the top of the ridge. The storm should be grounding any aircraft. Even that transport copter. He was risking a fire regardless. If he didn’t get Mirie thawed out, he wouldn’t have a princess to keep safe until the NRPG came after them.

The fire took some coaxing, repeated efforts with wet branches that would only burn because of the sap.

“You doing okay?” he asked, prompting Mirie while he willed the flames to ignite. They needed heat and light fast.

Only when he had coaxed a small blaze to steady life did he dare turn his attention away. “Come on. Get warm.”

“Okay,” Mirie said, but made no move to get up. So Drew went to her and found her fists still wrapped around the heat packets. Her boots were off, but she hadn’t even removed the cloak from the packaging.

“Let me help.” He made quick work of the poncho, then began the exquisite torture of helping her undress.

“I can do it.” She resisted as he peeled a sock away.

“I know,” he said mildly, massaging her slim foot between his fire-warmed hands, feeling the smooth skin, watching her reaction. “But humor me. How does that feel? Any pain?”

She shook her head, but he didn’t believe her and shifted to view her foot in the firelight. Her skin was red and icy.

“We can handle frostnip, Your Royal Highness. Let’s get these wet pants off. Trust me, you’ll feel better.”

She struggled to keep her eyes open, and made a few fumbling efforts to unfasten her waistband.

Drew couldn’t wait. He moved in to help, and she didn’t resist this time, which told him everything he needed to know about her condition. He unfastened the hook, then worked the pants over her hips, dragging her thermals along for the ride. She made several halfhearted attempts to assist by lifting her hips, but Drew barely noticed. Not when his fingers brushed her sleek skin as he peeled away the fabric, revealing a barely there thong and never-ending pale legs.

His breath galvanized in his chest at the sight of her nearly naked from the waist down, and ended that particular torture fast by draping the cloak over her middle.

With a hand behind her shoulder, he urged her to lean forward. “The coat now.”

“Okay, okay.” She swatted at his hands.

Her impatience should have been a good sign, but he knew Mirie. She would have to be unconscious to accept help without resistance. And sure enough, she leaned forward and practically melted into his arms, boneless. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed by her, the feel of her body against him, the scent of her with his every sharp breath, the awareness of her bare legs so pale in the firelight.

Only knowledge of her weakness helped him focus on survival right now. Her collar was as wet as his own, so he tortured himself by dragging the shirt over her head, exposing the swell of her breasts and the sleek terrain of bare skin, her hair falling around her shoulders.

“Come on. Let’s get you closer to the fire. You’ll warm up. I promise.”

She only nodded, her teeth chattering audibly, so he sat back on his haunches and lifted her against him. Dragging the cloak around her, he carried her to the fire. She curled up in the warm glow, and he watched her, unsure how much of her sleepiness was exposure or shock.

He made quick work of his own wet clothes. Everything had to go. Thermals. Shirt. Pants. The lining of his coat was in fairly decent shape, so he kept that on. Mirie might not care now, but she would come back to life when she warmed up. He didn’t want their relationship to get weird. He counted on the professionalism between them. A lot.

After setting up a blockade of stripped branches at the cave’s entrance, he was content that they would be alerted to any disturbance. Then he went back to the fire.

Mirie was still curled in a pathetic ball, her teeth rattling louder than the crackling fire.

No, he hadn’t been adequately prepared, no matter what she thought. Not when all he had to protect her was a poncho and a small fire and himself. Not when all he could do was sit down beside her and say, “Let me in.”

He pulled her into his arms and curled his body around hers. She sighed, nestling against the meager warmth he offered, resting her head against his shoulder, burying her face in his throat. He dragged the cloak around them, tucked her fingers into his armpits and willed himself with every fiber of his considerable self-control not to react to the feel of this near-naked woman in his arms. No other woman would test him this way, only this woman. But he would not react.

Even if it killed him.

And with the feel of her soft curves against him, the scent of her hair filtering through him with every breath he took, Drew thought it probably would.

They had come to Alba Luncă for a funeral.

* * *

SUFFOCATING DARKNESS, THE KIND with the blackest shadows, was where fear liked to hide.

The soft voice that sang such sweet songs, the voice that brought love to life during those scary, drowsy moments before sleep, was suddenly ragged and hysterical, almost unrecognizable through the fear.

Even in Mirie’s worst nightmares, all the terrors Stefan and Petre said hid in the shadowy places under her bed had never hinted at this sort of fear that made her want to bury her head beneath the blankets and never come out. Not ever.

This was fear like she had never imagined.

How could she have? Her life was filled with laughter. The soft voice of her mama tinkled with laughter and scattered worries like the courtyard fountain splashed water on the tiles.

She had never, ever heard anyone scream with such fear.

That fear paralyzed Mirie, made her eyes squeeze shut and her hands shake. Choked her. No, that was Nanny, smothering her with knotted old fingers and a bony chest. Nanny’s hissing voice shushed Mirie in the darkness, demanded silence, but Mirie was sure she would never make a sound again, not with Mama’s hysterical pleas in her ears. Desperate, agonized screams.

“Not my babies. Not my babies.”

Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

Then silence.

* * *

MIRIE AWOKE. FOR A stunning moment, all she could see was red. Red so violently bright, swelling and dripping, as if the world had erupted in a geyser of blood.

With the breath locked tight in her chest, reality receded, and no matter how hard she tried to grasp it, there was distance between the scene before her eyes and the awareness in her head. She could only feel the rapid-fire thudding of her heart, ready to erupt in another geyser of blood.