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EMMA
"I'm going to die out here, and nobody will know. They won't find my body until days or weeks later ... if they ever find a body. For all I know, the bears and mountain lions will ravage me and leave nothing but bones. Wait, are there bears here? God, I should have Googled more about Thorne Range. It's my fault for seeing the beautiful photos and immediately thinking I can easily navigate it with zero experience."
My voice echoes pathetically against the trees. No one answers back.
"Death by stupidity. They need to put that on my tombstone."
The setting sun paints the trail I lost hours ago in deepening darkness. My legs tremble, threatening to give out. I have never hiked this much in my entire life. Never. And now it freaking shows. Here I am, physically not ready to do this at all.
Like I said, death by stupidity.
The water bottle in my pack ran dry two hours ago. My head pounds with each heartbeat, vision blurring at the edges. God,my last meal was breakfast, and I only had that stupid bagel with cream cheese. It did not even taste good.
I clutch my camera—the expensive one I bought with three summers of waitressing tips because I refused to ask help from my parents—and sink down against a tree trunk. The bark scratches through my thin jacket. I'm shaking now, not just from fear but the rapidly dropping temperature.
What was I thinking? Thorne Range isn't some tourist trap with clearly marked paths and rangers on standby. It's wild. Dangerous. Beautiful but utterly unforgiving.
Which I would have known had I done some proper research.
In my defense, none of those things seemed to matter while I tearfully packed my bag and drove all the way here.
I, Emma Carter, soon-to-be college graduate with a business administration degree I never wanted, am going to die here because I needed to escape the crushing weight of expectations long enough to take some damn photos.
Dark spots swim in my vision. My breathing comes in short gasps. I recognize the panic building, but can't stop it—not here, not now. Logically, I know it's not a heart attack, but my mind thinks it anyway.
A rustle from the trees ahead makes me freeze. Something large moves in the shadows. A bear? Mountain lion? Cult members about to sacrifice me? My death approaching with claws and teeth?
Oh my God. No. Please no. If I die, let me die in one piece, not chunks. I mean, beggars can't be choosers, but I hope it's swift and?—
The figure that emerges is neither animal nor rescue ranger.
It's a man. Massive. Towering.
He stops when he sees me, standing so still he might be part of the forest. His frame blocks what's left of the sunlight. Six and a half feet at least, broad-shouldered, with black hair pulled back and a full beard framing his face. His eyes lock onto mine—piercing blue against tanned skin.
A strangled sound escapes my throat. I press back against the tree, nowhere to run, too weak to stand, and honestly too exhausted to put up a fight. This is worse than bears. A man like this, out here alone—every horror movie I've ever seen flashes through my mind.
He doesn't even need an axe or a machete. He can rip me apart with his bare hands.
The man clears his throat. "You're lost."
I manage a weak nod, clutching my camera to my chest like a shield. If I'm desperate enough, I can hit his face with it, but no, my camera doesn't deserve that fate.
He approaches haltingly, movements super slow, like he's trying not to spook a wild animal. Ironic, since I'm the intruder here.
Up close, I can see a scar cutting across his left cheek, the weathered lines around his eyes, hands hanging at his sides.
"You need water. Your eyes are dry, your skin looks rough, and your lips are cracked."
Normally, I'd be offended by such assessment of my looks, but fair enough. I definitely look like shit. He didn't have to be so blunt about it, though.
Rude.
He unslings a canteen from his shoulder and holds it out. When I don't move, he uncaps it himself and takes a drink before offering it again. My mental faculties are still working enough to know he's basically showing me it's not poisoned.
Something shifts in my panicked brain. If he wanted to hurt me, why would he share his water? Or why would he bother talking to me? Unless … he doesn't want his next meal dry and chewy.
