Chapter 2

Genevieve POV:

My back hit the freezing wooden wall of the deck as rainwater poured down my face, washing away two years of playing the obedient hockey wife.

I did not answer Crawford. I shoved his chest with both hands, spun around, and bolted down the deck stairs into the blinding rain.

Mud sucked at my heels as I ran down the dark resort path. Every time I blinked, I saw Dedric's mouth on Kamryn's skin, the betrayal cut through me like a blade.

Heavy footsteps splashed behind me. Crawford caught up in three long strides, though he did not grab me again. He stayed half a step to my left, using his forearm to sweep low-hanging pine branches out of my path.

When I reached a dim streetlamp near the edge of the resort grounds, my lungs gave out. My knees hit a deep puddle, splashing icy water over my coat, and I stood in the rain, chest heaving, and pressed my palms against my thighs until the shaking turned into something steady.

A heavy waterproof jacket landed over my head and shoulders, wrapping me in the warm scent of cedarwood and men's aftershave.

Crawford dropped to one knee in the mud in front of me. He gripped my chin with his rough fingers and forced my head up.

"Done crying? If you're done, get up."

I stared at the wet black hair plastered to his forehead and the hard set of his jaw. The hysteria choking my chest slowly receded, leaving a cold, hollow calm in its wake.

I met his eyes. "I'm not crying.This is just rainwater.I never cry for people who don't deserve it."

For a moment, something flickered in his ice-blue stare—surprise, maybe, or pleasure. Then he stood and held out his hand. I gripped his forearm and let him pull me to my feet.

He turned his hand over, locked his warm fingers around my freezing ones, and led me off the main road toward the service entrance of the resort's West Wing.

We slipped past two patrolling security guards near the loading dock. Crawford moved like he owned the place, pulling a matte-black, unmarked keycard from his pocket to unlock a hidden side door.

We stepped into a heated hallway lined with thick carpet that led straight to the VIP suites. Crawford stopped in front of a pair of double walnut doors, tapped the black card against the sensor, and pushed the door open.

I followed him inside. Real logs crackled in a massive stone fireplace, lighting up a living room that cost more per night than my monthly lab budget. Looking down at my mud-caked heels, I took half a step back toward the door.

Crawford tossed his wet shirt onto a leather bench, walked to the wall panel to turn up the heat, and rolled up the sleeves of his thermal undershirt.

"Get in the shower. Don't make me repeat myself."

He turned around, his gaze dropping to where my soaked blouse clung to my collarbone. His jaw tightened for half a second before he looked away and walked toward the wet bar.

Pulling his oversized jacket tighter around myself, I walked into the marble bathroom and locked the door. I stood under the scalding spray until my fingers stopped trembling and the mud washed down the drain.

When I turned off the water, I realized I had nothing dry to put on. I wrapped a thick white bath sheet around my chest, tucked the corner in tight, and opened the door.

Out in the living room, Crawford sat in an armchair facing the fire with a glass of neat whiskey in his hand. At the sound of the door, he looked over.

His eyes tracked from my wet hair down to my bare calves below the towel. The air in the room grew thick and heavy.

Setting his glass on the table, he stood up, pulled a crisp black dress shirt from the closet, and tossed it onto the sofa.

"Put that on. I had room service bring it up."

I picked up the shirt, turned my back to him right there by the sofa, and slipped it on over the towel before dropping the terrycloth to the floor. The hem hung down to mid-thigh.

Crawford walked over to the hearth and handed me a mug of steaming black tea. His knuckles brushed the back of my hand, sending a sharp jolt straight up my arm.

I sat on the edge of the sofa, holding the hot ceramic between my palms as I stared into the flames. Two years of swallowing Dedric's insults and shrinking my career for his ego crashed over me all at once.

Crawford did not say a word. He walked over and sat down on the thick rug right beside my knees, leaning his broad back against the sofa frame like a solid wall between me and the door.

His silence steadied my breathing. Ten minutes passed before I set the mug down and looked at him.

"Why are you helping me?"

Crawford tilted his head back, the firelight cutting sharp shadows across his cheekbones.

"Because the woman inside that cabin is my wife. On paper, at least.They took us for fools. I don't plan on letting them walk away clean."

He stood up, towering over me with his hands in his pockets, looking less like a benched hockey player and more like an executioner.

"Anyone could see how brilliant you were before you married him," he said quietly, his eyes on the flames. "Top of your class. Publishable research. Then you married Dedric Waller and your career went downhill from there."

His fingers tightened around the glass. "He's like a vampire. He drained the best years of your life and the best work you'll ever do."

I turned to stare at him. There was a fire burning in his ice-blue eyes—real, raw anger.

"Why does my miserable life make you so angry?"