And I keep watch. Not because it’s the only thing that makes sense in a world I no longer recognize.
Because it’s the only thing I want to do.
Chapter 5
Mara
I wake up to the smell of something that definitely isn’t room service.
My brain claws its way toward consciousness, thoughts sluggish and heavy. But this time… this time I’m actually awake. Properly awake. Not the half-there state from before.
The cave. Right. Still in the cave.
I flex my fingers. They cooperate. My toes wiggle under wool that’s definitely not my Costco blanket. I do a mental inventory: sore, bruised, probably concussed, but alive.
Alive is winning.
The fire crackles nearby. The guy—K, or whatever his name is—is there, crouched beside it, doing something with a pot that looks hand-forged. His movements are economical, measured. Like he’s conserving energy or counting each gesture.
He hasn’t noticed I’m awake yet, so I take the opportunity to actually look at him.
Tall—I knew that. But consciousness gives me better perspective. He’s built like someone who splits wood and climbs mountains for fun, all lean muscle and controlled strength. The firelight plays across his profile, sharpening the angle of his jaw, catching in eyes that shift between gold and amber depending on how the flames move.
The tattoos on his forearms twist as he stirs whatever’s in the pot—intricate patterns that look Celtic or Norse or some combination of ancient things I’d need Wikipedia to identify. His hair’s longer than I realized, pulled back in a way that should look ridiculous but somehow doesn’t.
He’s wearing the same outfit from before—leather pants that look handmade, linen shirt, fitted vest. The whole ensemble should scream Renaissance Faire, but instead reads as functional. Authentic.
I’m staring. I need to stop staring.
“Smells interesting,” I say, because apparently my mouth works before my brain catches up.
K turns, and there’s that gold in his eyes again. Definitely not a trick of the light. Also definitely not contacts, because who wears decorative contacts while living in a cave?
“You are awake.” Not a question. A statement delivered in that careful, measured way he has.
“Yeah. Go Team Me.” I push myself up on my elbows, slower this time. The world stays mostly steady. “How long was I out?”
“Hours.” He sets the pot aside and moves closer, kneeling beside me with silent grace. Up close, he’s even more… more. The space he takes up, the heat radiating from him, the way he holds himself like someone trained to be dangerous but choosing restraint.
My pulse kicks up, and I tell myself it’s because I’m still recovering.
“You should eat,” he says.
“Is that what that is?” I eye the pot. “Food?”
Something that might be amusement flickers across his face. “Broth. Mountain herbs. Fowl.”
“Fowl. So… chicken? Turkey? Please tell me it’s not an endangered eagle.”
“Grouse.”
He ladles the broth into a wooden bowl—hand-carved, of course—and hands it to me. Steam rises, carrying scents of rosemary and earth and something faintly gamey.
I take it, our fingers brushing. Still unnaturally warm. I file that in the growing list of Things About K That Don’t Add Up.
The broth is… not terrible? Actually kind of good, in a “this would fuel a lumberjack through winter” way. Savory and rich, with undertones of more herbs I can’t identify, but my body seems desperate for.
“Wow,” I say around a mouthful. “Tastes good, for dirt.”
