The Edge of Hell: The Mitchell Brothers Series Book One

17

A few hours passed before Wolstan stirred where he lay on the sofa with Mae cuddled against his chest. Her body was wedged between him and the back cushion.

He blinked against the pitch-black darkness and strained his ears for the sound that had pulled him from a restful nap.

The lantern had sputtered out a while ago, and a heavy, damp chill hung in the air. Another storm? He grimaced and wrapped his arms and the quilt more snuggly around him and Mae.

"Did I wake you?" She whispered, attempting to sit up.

But Wolstan tightened his hold on her, urging her to return to her former position to maintain their shared warmth—or so he told himself. "No, I thought I heard someone walking upstairs."

"Oh, you did? Do you think—"

"It was just my imagination," he quietly interrupted, relaxing against the cushion and smoothing his hands up and down her spine. "Or possibly the wind... it smells like there's another storm brewing if it hasn't unleashed itself already."

"How bad do you think it is up there?" She asked, laying her head on his chest.

"Honestly?" Wolstan murmured, blowing out a defeated breath as his imagination took hold. "I fear when we finally get out of here, the only thing left standing will be the chimney and maybe a wall or two."

"It can't be that bad," she gasped, raising onto her elbows, putting her face only inches away, and mingling her breath with his. "Surely we would have felt it if the whole house had tumbled down on top of us."

She had a point, Wolstan inwardly admitted with a grunt. "I suppose there's a chance everything could be scattered around us or swept away. It happened once when I was younger—not to us, the Stanway's farm on the other side of the river—one minute, their house was standing there pretty as a painting. And the next, a tornado came and wiped it off the face of the earth. Only the foundation and part of their chimney remained."

"Are you always so pessimistic?"

A grin tugged at his lips at her exasperated tone, and he lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "Is there any other way to be when talking of tornadoes?"

Mae chuckled and shook her head. "I suppose it would be rather foolish to harbor optimism when they're such a destructive force of nature."

Wolstan caressed his right hand up her arm to her neck, then the left side of her face, smiling when she shivered from the contact. "Shall I try a less pessimistic answer?"

She nodded.

"Maybe the only damage done will be losing the front door and windows," he murmured, kissing her forehead and nose and nudging her chin with his bent knuckle so he could kiss her right cheek.

But as he gently turned her face to brush a kiss at the left corner of her mouth, he paused when she whispered, "Just a little further to the left."

"What is?" he teased, pulling slightly away.

"My lips," she softly chuckled, threading her fingers through his hair and tugging his mouth closer. "It's so dark; I thought you were getting a bit lost."

"Oh, you did?" He grinned, cradling her face in both hands and drawing her near so that his lips brushed hers as he spoke the last two words.

The breath caught in Mae's throat, and in the next heartbeat, Wolstan's mouth captured hers in a deep, hungry kiss born of shared secrets and darkened rooms.

A soft moan escaped her throat, and their hearts thundered the same chaotic beat. Mae buried her fingers in Wolstan's hair and kissed him with uninhibited enthusiasm. And all Wolstan could think right then was thank goodness for sofas because if he'd been standing, his knees would have buckled.