When I woke up a few hours after drifting off, she was peaceful and warm beside me, so much for the ample space I intentionally placed between us. I couldn’t fall back asleep right away. I just lay there like a fucking creep, watching the rise and fall of her steady breath, memorizing the curve of her cheek in the dim firelight.
I want her so bad it hurts, and I shouldn’t. I’m the last thing she needs in her life. An old man who’s basically retired and ready to live the easy life out in the country. She’s got her whole life ahead of her with parties and graduations. Not to mention first jobs and a second one that comes when you’re fed up with the first sucking the life out of you. She’ll meet her future husband and have a couple of kids. I can’t take that from her. It’s illogical and complicated. Plus, her father would kill me as soon as he found out, and then it’d all be for naught anyway.
I haul another armful of firewood from the stack and head toward the front porch, dropping the load under the overhang to keep it out of the elements. The wind howls through the trees like it’s got teeth and they’re ready to sink into my skin. It rattles the eaves and sets the shutters groaning. I pause, glancing out at the woods. Something about the silence beyond the cabin feels... loaded. Like, even the forest holds its breath, waiting for something to sneak out from its depths.
By now, it’s well past midday. Ava offered lunch hours ago, but I waved her off with some poor excuse about digging out my rig. It was total bullshit. I’d need a damn snowplow to clear the winding driveway back to the county road, and even then, I’d be lucky to make it half a mile. The Jeep’s buried past the wheel wells, and the drifts keep building. We're stuck.
I shovel along the edge of the drive, widening the path. My gaze gets sidetracked from my project at hand, catching a wisp of her hair crossing by the window. A gust of wind brings a delicious scent drifting from the kitchen window, which she still has propped open.
She’s baking something. Bread maybe. The cinnamon smells like the bakery I used to frequent near my office downtown when they’d have fresh cinnamon rolls in the afternoon.
I work backward, rounding the side of the shop to dump my last load of snow, and pause. There, half-buried in a drift near the base of a fir tree, something dark pokes through the snow.
At first, I assume it’s a broken limb, too weak to keep hold under the pressure of the mounting snowfall. But as I move closer, a sick feeling curls in my stomach. It’s not wood at all. The cloth, faded and fraying at the edges, is a jagged scrap of red plaid. It’s too thick for a hunting flag. Too soft for a tarp.
I crouch down, heart pounding, and brush the snow away with gloved fingers. More fabric emerges from the hidden depths, revealing a full sleeve ripped straight off a jacket. Something dark stains the underside as I pull it free.
Blood?
But, no. How is that possible? There can’t be anyone around for miles, and this was only partially hidden under the snow. The closest property is located another twenty miles down the country road, off to the other side, near the river. If they’d somehow made their way all the way out here in this weather, they’d surely have made it known.
The air in my lungs freezes. The inkiness beneath the trees stretches on just a little too far. It whispers a warning in an ancient language I don’t understand, but one I heed regardless.
I straighten slowly, eyes scanning the property, but nothing looks amiss. To the unsuspecting, it’d look like a winter wonderland. A perfect snowglobe come to life. But after Ava’s reactions and a bloody sleeve buried not twenty feet from the cabin, I’m on edge. I swear, for a moment, I feel like I’m being watched. The hair on the back of my neck rises.
I don’t think it’s an animal moseying out of its den.
“Fuck!” I jump out of my skin when something lands on my shoulder.
Spinning and nearly toppling Ava to the ground, I jolt my hand out to steady us.
“Shit, sorry. I thought you heard me. I wasn’t exactly being quiet on my way out here. What were you looking at anyway?”
I should let her go, but having a hand on her solid form helps my racing heart settle. I look behind me at the snow where the soiled fabric lies like a sacrificial offering.
“It’s nothing, we should get back to the cabin. The sun’s starting to set.” The last thing we need is to be out here when the light dies, and the night swallows everything in its path.
She ignores my words and shoves me out of the way, reaching down to take the fabric into her hands. I want to snatch it from her before she sees the stain on the other side, but I’m stuck in place watching the area around us, half expecting whoever lost it to come running out from somewhere.
“Is this blood?” She asks, her voice full of concern.
“Yeah, I think so.” I snatch the soiled fabric from her hands and throw it to the ground, turning her back toward the cabin. “As I said, let’s head inside.”
NINE
AVA
The fire blazes in the grate, built up to last until we’re ready to call it a night. Its golden glow casts over the living room, extinguishing the dimness from the log walls.
Curling up in the armchair closest to the warmth, I draw a thick blanket from the basket on my side over my lap. I’ve been trying to lose myself in a paperback that’s been mocking me from my nightstand back home for the last six months, but I’m distracted.
I make it another three pages, and the sexy tattooed biker takes the heroine—someone he just met at a roadside bar—into the dingy bathroom where he fucks her senseless. My thighs clench beneath the blanket, instinctively pressing together to dull the throbbing pulse between them. I shift in my seat, hoping the friction will ease the ache.
But fifteen minutes later, my cheeks burn hot, and the ache hasn’t dulled in the least. When I press my fingers against my face, it’s warm to the touch, but it’s not the roaring fire’s fault.
Across from me, Scott looks completely unaware, settledinto the deep cushions of the leather couch. The firelight dances over his face as he reads, making the silver in his beard shimmer. His dark hair flops forward over his brow, and he keeps pushing it back with the hand not holding the book. The reading glasses perched low on his nose should make him look more fatherly. Instead, they have me delving into old fantasies of professors making excuses to lean a little too close, ethics board be damned.
I force myself to look away from his mouth, from the way his jaw flexes as his eyes scan the page, and clear my throat as I jolt up from my seat.
