"I'll get you a blanket."
He nods and moves toward a cupboard near the back of the cabin, pulling out a thick wool blanket and a pillow. He brings them to me, setting them on the arm of the couch.
Our hands brush briefly as I take them, and I feel the warmth of his skin.
"Get some rest," he says.
I nod, and he steps back, moving toward the hallway.
"Ezra?"
He stops and looks back.
"Thank you," I say again. "For all of it."
He holds my gaze for a moment, something unreadable passing across his face.
"You're safe here," he says quietly.
Then he turns and disappears down the hallway, his footsteps fading into silence.
I sit on the couch, the blanket draped across my lap, and stare into the fire.
Chapter 4 – Ezra
The wind hits the cabin hard.
I stop mid-step, one hand braced against the doorframe, and listen. The whole structure groans enough to remind me that even solid logs and stone can only take so much. Snow presses against the north-facing windows, white and dense, blocking out what little moonlight might have filtered through the storm.
I move to the nearest window and check the latch. Secure. I test the frame anyway, feeling for give, for cold air seeping through gaps. Nothing.
Behind me, the fire crackles softly, and I hear the faint rustle of fabric—Wendy shifting on the couch.
But I don't turn around.
I make my way around the perimeter, checking the other windows, the door, the chimney flue. Everything is as it should be. We're sealed in tight.
But the storm isn't letting up. If anything, it's getting worse.
I glance toward Kinsley's room. The door is cracked open, the way she likes it, and I can see the faint outline of her shape beneath the blankets. Her breathing is slow and even.
I move back into the main room, my boots quiet on the floorboards, and finally let myself look at Wendy.
She's sitting on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, the blanket I gave her draped over her lap. Her hair is loose now, falling in soft waves around her face, and she's holding one of Kinsley's wildflower guides. She's not reading it, though. Just holding it, her thumb tracing the edge of the cover absently.
Bolt is sprawled on the floor at her feet, his head resting on his paws, eyes half-closed.
She looks up when I cross the room, and her expression changes, like she's been waiting to see if I'd come back.
"Everything alright?" she asks quietly.
"Storm's worse," I say. "But we're fine. The cabin's solid."
She nods, her gaze flicking toward the window. "It sounds angry out there."
"It is."
I move to the stove, then check the kettle. I pour myself a mug and lean against the counter, cradling it in both hands.
