“You are safe.” The voice is deep, resonant. Each word precisely formed.
My brain scrambles to make sense of anything. The helicopter. The crash. The fire consuming everything.
“Ember? Luke?” I manage.
“Your companions?”
I nod. “Yes. My companions.”
“They escaped,” he says simply.
Relief floods me, followed immediately by confusion. If they escaped, why aren’t they here?
Where is here?
I try to push myself up, and pain rips through my abdomen—sharp at first, then oddly dull, fading faster than it should. My vision swims, reality slipping sideways.
“Do not move yet.” His hand hovers near my shoulder, not touching, but ready to steady me.
I blink hard, forcing the world into focus. He’s crouched beside me, firelight casting his features into sharp relief. Broad shoulders, rolled sleeves revealing forearms dusted with dark hair, and twisting tattoos. His movements are fluid yet restrained, like someone accustomed to measuring their own strength.
I realize I’m wrapped in something rough but warm—a wool cloak? Who even owns cloaks anymore?
“Who are you?” I whisper, because that seems like crucial information when you wake up in strange clothes with a strange man in a strange place.
His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes—gold or amber, I can’t tell in this light. He stares at me for so long I wonder if he speaks English.
“K…” he starts, then stops, like he’s reaching for something just beyond grasp.
“Yes…?” I press when he doesn’t finish.
His brow furrows. “K.”
“K?” I supply, raising my brows. “K for Kevin? Karl?” He doesn’t look like either. “Kade?”
He doesn’t respond.
“Alright, K it is.” I would shrug if I could get my body to cooperate. “I’m Mara,” I add, since it seems appropriate to introduce yourself to the person who saved your life. “Mara Jones.”
He inclines his head in a small, formal nod. Like I’ve given him something he needed. “It is an honor to meet you, Mara Jones.”
I scan him more carefully now. He’s wearing supple dark leather pants that look handmade, a weather-worn belt with odd metal fixtures, and a linen shirt under a fitted vest. Nothing like modern outdoor gear. More like something from a historical reenactment, except it looks worn in all the right places. Authentic.
I try to sit up again, slower this time. The room spins, but I fight through it. As I do, the cloak slips down, and I see I’m wearing a thick shirt that hangs past my hips and drawstring pants rolled several times at the ankles. Both obviously his.
The fog in my brain clears enough for me to piece together what this means. Heat crawls up my neck. This stranger undressed me while I was unconscious. But he also saved mefrom a helicopter crash and burning to death, so maybe I’ll postpone my feminist outrage for, like, five minutes.
Because I should be dead. The memory of twisted metal, crushing pain, and advancing flames is too vivid to be a nightmare.
Don’t think about it, girl.
“So… um… thanks,” I say, tugging at the oversized shirt as I shove those images out of my head. “For keeping ‘indecent exposure’ off my obituary.”
He frowns at the word “obituary” but doesn’t say anything.
I glance around the small space—definitely a cave, with a fire pit dug into the floor. My own clothes hang nearby… or what’s left of them. The blue hoodie is more charred fabric than clothing, with holes burned through in multiple places. My jeans aren’t much better.
“How bad was I hurt?” I ask, my voice steadier now.
