Maybe he didn’t know either.
He walked to the door and tested the bolt again, as if safety depended on reassurance every few minutes.The cabin shook under a violent gust, and something heavy crashed outside—maybe a branch, maybe part of the roof.He froze, hand halfway to his holster.Every muscle locked, coiled for threat.When nothing followed, his posture lowered a fraction.He added more wood to the fire.
I slumped back, exhausted beyond anything I’d ever felt.I couldn’t afford sleep, but my body didn’t care.The heat from the fire softened every line of defense I had left.My limbs felt weighted, my head throbbing, vision hazy.Fear kept me awake—barely.
Gabriel dropped into the second chair near the hearth.He leaned back, long legs stretched toward the flames, hands loose on his thighs.He stared into the fire like it held answers instead of questions.I stared at him because every second counted, because knowing him might eventually save me.
The storm raged.The fire cracked.The ropes dug into my wrists.And Gabriel sat across from me—my captor, my family’s murderer, the only person who’d kept me alive instead of ending the job.
Fury burned under my skin, but something colder rooted deeper.
Survival.
I stayed awake because I had to.Because if he made a decision tonight, I needed to know before the next breath left my lungs.Because understanding him might be the only weapon I still possessed.
I didn’t look away first.
Neither did he.
I don’t know how long we sat like that—two bodies held in the same room by firelight, fear, and consequences.Time stretched thin until it stopped feeling like minutes or hours and became something heavier, something that pressed against my ribs.The fire snapped and muttered in the hearth, each pop a reminder that warmth existed only because Gabriel fed it.Outside, the storm battered the cabin harder with every passing breath.My head kept falling forward, sleep threatening to drag me under, and each time I forced my eyes open.I couldn’t risk unconsciousness—not while he watched me, not while I still didn’t understand why I was alive.
Another gust slammed into the walls hard enough to make the cabin groan.Wood splintered somewhere—maybe ice breaking loose from the roof, maybe the porch surrendering under weight.Snow scratched the shutters like thrown gravel, piling fast.Buried alive didn’t feel metaphorical anymore.
Gabriel’s head tilted, listening.His hand rested loosely on his knee, but every muscle in his body saidready.I wondered if he even knew how to exist without vigilance.Maybe the alertness wasn’t a choice anymore.Maybe he’d lived like this long enough that peace would feel like danger.
The light above us flickered.
Only once, barely noticeable.But Gabriel saw it.His shoulders tightened and his eyes snapped toward the single bulb hanging from the ceiling.The glow steadied and he eased back—but not fully.His body stayed coiled.
The second flicker lasted longer.The bulb dimmed to a weak ember.The fire became the only dependable light.
Then the third flicker stretched into silence.
The bulb died.
Darkness took the room in one sweep, thick enough to feel like a closing hand.The fire had burned down to glowing coals during our long quiet, giving off heat but only the faintest light.All I could see of Gabriel was the hint of movement—his outline barely darker than the shadows.
“Fuck.”
He didn’t raise his voice, but the word landed solid—unexpected, frustrated, human.The first real emotion he’d let slip.
I heard him stand, the floorboards shifting under his boots.I couldn’t see him, but I could follow him by sound.He moved toward the hearth, sure-footed even in pitch black.He knew this place by muscle memory, each step placed with mechanical confidence.
“Stay still,” he said into the dark.The tone wasn’t a command this time.Closer to caution.Maybe even concern.
Where did he think I was going to go?
Wood shifted.Metal scraped—fire poker moved aside.Coals brightened briefly from being disturbed, casting just enough red glow to sketch his silhouette.He pulled kindling from the stack and arranged it deliberately.
The match struck with a sharp hiss.
The flare felt blinding after total darkness.It illuminated his face from below, harsh shadows sharpening every plane.The man the fire revealed wasn’t the blank executioner from my house.He looked worn.Focused.Running on discipline instead of energy.
His hand trembled as he maneuvered the match toward the wood.
A small tremor—barely there, but real.
He steadied his own hand with the other and guided the flame into the nest of kindling.Fire licked upward greedily, catching and spreading.He added small sticks, then larger ones, building the blaze with practiced precision.The light expanded in waves, pushing back the shadows until the cabin returned to view—rough walls, stacked supplies, a bolted door, a prisoner tied to a chair.
