He groans. I grin.
We lie there until the light changes and the sky turns the color of lavender milk. Later, we’ll text Tom and Micah and Hale and talk about plans and patrols and the very real man who still needs to be found and ended. Later, we’ll train and eat and wash dishes shoulder-to-shoulder and watch a dumb movie that makes him roll his eyes but secretly enjoy it.
Right now, it’s just us. The snow. The quiet. The soft, steady truth we keep saying with our hands and our mouths and our careful, reckless promise:
We’re choosing this.
We’re choosing each other.
10
Nate
The swing of the axe is steady. Meditative. The kind of movement that doesn’t need thinking—just force, form, and follow-through. Wood splits with a satisfying crack, the sound echoing off the snow-draped trees like a heartbeat. Stack. Swing. Split. Repeat.
The snow has started again, quiet and unassuming. Fat flakes drift from the sky, melting on my skin, clinging to the cuffs of my flannel shirt. I should be cold, but I’m not. The burn in my shoulders keeps me warm.
Behind me, the cabin glows soft through the windows. Inside, Greta’s barefoot in the kitchen, humming to some old Christmas song on the radio. The smell of cinnamon rolls drifts through the air, mingling with the scent of pine smoke from the chimney. She’s safe. She’s smiling. And for a rare moment, everything feels right.
Then it happens.
A sharp sting at the side of my neck.
Fast. Precise.
It takes me a second to process what it is. My hand flies to my neck, fingers grazing the dart sticking out from under my collar. There’s a hiss in my ears. My legs start to wobble. The axe slips from my hand and thuds into the snow.
I spin—try to see where it came from—but everything blurs. My knees buckle. My muscles go slack.
And then the darkness swallows me whole.
I wake up cold.
Snow seeps into my flannel. My vision’s still hazy, but my brain kicks into gear. I lurch upright, coughing, every muscle screaming in protest.
"Greta," I rasp.
I stumble to my feet. The cabin door is wide open, swinging in the wind. The warmth inside bleeds into the cold around me. My boots crunch across the snow as I limp to the porch and burst through the doorway.
Inside is chaos.
The kitchen table’s overturned. A chair lies broken near the fireplace. There’s shattered glass across the counter, and the cinnamon rolls she was baking are cooling, untouched. Her coat is gone. Her boots. Her bag.
Panic hits me square in the chest. I race down the hallway.
"Greta!"
Nothing.
The bathroom door is ajar. Her clothes are still in the hamper. Her toothbrush. Everything she brought with her, except what she had on her.
I clench my fists, heart pounding. My vision sharpens, narrowing to a single, burning thought.
They took her.
I grab my phone from the counter and call Tom first. He picks up on the second ring.
"Talk to me," he says.
