And those eyes.
I shook my head and grabbed my phone anyway but found no bars, as expected. I set it down and laughed under my breath.
“Get it together, Lena.”
The cabin wasn’t haunted. Wolves weren’t psychic. And I wasn’t the girl I used to be.
I carefully arranged the kindling and logs in the wood stove, just like my aunt had shown me years ago, striking a match to ignite the small fire. The crackling warmth began to fill the room as I set a kettle on the stove to boil water for tea. With the steam rising softly, I wrapped a cozy, worn blanket around myself and nestled into the couch. I opened my long-neglected sketchbook, its pages still crisp and inviting, ready to capture new inspirations after months of neglect.
But before I could begin drawing even a single line, I hesitated. A flicker of movement caught my eye just beyond the windowpane. My heart pounded louder with each step as I rose from my chair and approached the glass, feeling a tightness in my chest. I pressed my face close to the cool surface, scanning the scene outside. There was nothing but the dense cluster of trees, their branches swaying slightly in the breeze. A thick blanket of fog curled around the trunks, giving the woods an eerie presence, as if they were staring back at me with silent intent.
Taking a deep breath, I pressed my eyes closed. There was nothing there.
“You’re tired,” I whispered softly to myself.
Drawing would have to wait.
I needed some rest, the drive had been long and a bed was calling my name. I had to be up at the crack of dawn to head into town and meet the gallery owner and start my internship.
Turning away from the window, I pushed everything out of my mind and made my way into the bedroom. Pulling back the covers, I collapsed into the bed and closed my eyes before falling into a deep slumber. Where yellow eyes and gray fur seemed to wait for me…
Chapter 2
Lena
The shrill sound of my phone’s alarm pierced through the early morning silence, jolting me into awareness. I’d left it downstairs but somehow it’d cut through my dreams like a knife sliding through butter.
Instead of moving to get it immediately, I stared at the ceiling of the cabin, trying to make myself get up.
“Ugh,” I groaned as I finally sat up, throwing my legs over the edge of the bed and stumbling downstairs.
Snatching the phone off the table, I silenced it. The screen glowed, letting me know it was already five minutes past 6 o’clock.
Digging around in my luggage I found my toiletries and made my way to the bathroom. My stomach gave a slight rumble and I made the decision to get some food in town. Turning on the water I let it warm up and then I pulled out a shower cap and scarf to keep my hair as silky straight as possible, I didn’t think I’d have a lot of time to straighten it if my leave out got wet.
“I could use some coffee too,” I whispered once I was under the hot water that was jetting out of the shower head.
After I scrubbed myself clean I stepped out and dried off quickly easing out of the bathroom and returning to my luggage.
As I rummaged through my wardrobe, I carefully pulled out a crisp, white blouse that shimmered under the soft glow of the morning light, its fabric smooth and inviting to the touch. Pairing it with sleek, tailored black pants that hugged my figure just right, I felt a surge of excitement mixed with nerves. The outfit spoke of professionalism and elegance, perfectly suited for my first day at the gallery.
It wasn’t much of a drive, a little over twenty minutes down the winding mountain road to the edge of Roanoke’s historic district. The buildings were charming in that old Southern way: brick facades, iron balconies, antique stores with peeling gold lettering. Touristy, but not in a bad way.
TheGivens Gallerywas tucked between a bakery and a vintage bookshop. It looked clean and modern from the outside lots of glass, clean lines, big open windows. Classy, if a little sterile.
I pulled open the door and was greeted with a chime, followed by the faint smell of lemon cleaner and old oil paint. A tall man with slicked-back dark hair turned from the reception desk and gave me a wide, too-white smile.
“You must be Lena Mercer,” he said, striding toward me with his hand already outstretched. “Randall Givens. Call me Randy.”
His handshake lingered one second too long.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, tugging my hand back and glancing around the space. It was a single open floor with white walls, polished wood floors, and spotlights highlighting five or six larger-than-life oil paintings. Some were beautiful, even haunting. Others were clearly there to sell.
“I’ve heard a lot about you from your professors,” Randy said, motioning for me to follow him deeper into the gallery as he spoke about my art history professors. “Miranda and Daniel, they’re both old friends of mine.”
“Yes, both are amazing. ” I said lightly.
Randy chuckled like I’d told a joke. “Well, I’m glad you’re here. We needed someone with taste. These locals don’t know art from a hole in the ground.”
