"Okay," I wheeze. "Pain confirmed. Not a dream."
I throw the heavy furs off. My clothes are gone. I’m wearing a t-shirt that is three sizes too big for me, smelling of that same cedar-musk, and a pair of grey sweatpants rolled up at the waist.
I look at my right ankle. It’s propped up on a pillow, slightly swollen with a faint violet bruising forming along the bone. Grade one sprain. I rotate it gingerly. It’s stiff, but the structural integrity is intact. No fractures. The suspension is shot, and it’s going to grind like a rusted bearing if I put weight on it, but it’s still functional. I can walk but it will hurt.
Status Report: Injured. Disoriented. Location unknown. Hostile territory.
I force myself to sit up again, ignoring the throbbing in my leg. The room is small, built of rough-hewn logs. It’s functional, sparse. A wood stove in the corner radiates heat. A table with one chair. No porcelain dolls. No velvet.
I look toward the light source. A single window, framed by mosquito netting, overlooks a porch. Beyond that, a wall of white fog.
Movement catches my eye.
I lean forward, the mainspring of my anxiety winding tighter with every second.
There is a man outside.
He’s standing in the mud, waist-deep in the fog, splitting wood.
My breath hitches. Not from fear—though I should be terrified—but from the sheer, kinetic impact of looking at him.
He is massive. Not gym-rat bulky, but functional, labor-built massive. He’s shirtless despite the damp chill, his skin slick with sweat that gleams in the diffuse morning light. Every time he swings the axe, the muscles in his back shift like tectonic plates, sliding under bronze skin marked by old, silver-white scars.
He raises the axe. His deltoids bunch, corded and hard. He brings it down.Thwack.The log splits with terrifying ease.
He turns to grab another piece of timber, and I get a look at his face.
It’s a face that doesn't belong in a civilized society. It belongs on a warning label. A heavy, square jaw buried under dark scruff that looks like he trims it with a knife. A nose that’s been broken at least once, slightly crooked. His hair is dark, shaggy, falling into eyes I can't quite see from this distance, but I can feel the intensity of them even through the glass.
He looks violent. He looks capable. And god help me, my traitorous, illogical brain registersattractivebefore it registerskidnapper.
"Focus, Miranda," I hiss, slapping my own cheek. "The chassis is pretty, but the engine might be homicidal."
I need a weapon.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The room spins—vertigo from the crash, likely a mild concussion—but I grit my teeth and force the world to stabilize. I stand on my good leg, using the wall for support.
I scan the room. No phone. No keys.
On a shelf near the door, sitting next to a jar of nails, is a heavy pipe wrench. Cast iron. eighteen inches. Perfect leverage.
I hop-limp toward it. My ankle’s a bit painful if I put pressure on, but I ignore it. Survival overrides maintenance.
I grab the wrench. The cold metal is grounding. It feels real.
I hear a heavy thud on the porch steps. Then another. The wood groans under significant weight.
He’s coming.
I back into the corner, putting the bed between me and the door. I raise the wrench, my grip white-knuckled.
The doorknob turns. It doesn't rattle; it just turns with a heavy, decisive click.
The door swings open.
He has to duck to get through the frame.
If he looked big from the window, he looks like a geological event in the room. He sucks all the oxygen out of the space. He’s carrying an armful of firewood, his chest heaving slightly from the exertion. Up close, the scent is overwhelming—ozone, rain, and the copper tang of something wild.
