When the hell did this happen?
I squint at it, struggling to reconcile the sheer openness of the clearing. The rest of Fallamhain territory has been built with intention and respect for the mountain range. Every structure designed to follow the natural flow of the terrain rather than override it.
This addition doesn’t follow that careful rule.
The land has been stripped bare, more trees missing than I can count. It leaves the surrounding space feeling hollow. Too exposed and suffocatingly quiet. It’s like a horrible scar carved into the land.
I hate it.
My gaze drifts to the supply shack next, and I register the changes there too. New siding. A newer roof. The footprint remains the same, though. The same squat shape that sits in the shadow of what remains of the surrounding forest.
Just as it is in my dreams, that’s what captures my attention and beckons me forward.
My boots crunch softly on the packed earth as I walk toward the building. During the dreams, when I’ve tried to approach this building, something had always kept me from getting too close.
There’s no wall of magic or unseen force to stop me now.
I reach the metal door and hesitate with my hand on the handle. A niggling fear that when I open this door I’ll find something on the other side staring back has my heart kicking against my ribs. Holding my breath, because depriving your brain of oxygen during a tense moment like this has never once backfired, I turn the knob slowly.
On creaky, rust-covered hinges, the door swings inward with a squeal but without protest. I don’t know why I’m surprised to find it unlocked, but I am.
When nothing immediately jumps out at me, I breathe again.
It’s silent inside, the kind of quiet that’s oppressive and amplifies my own movements. When I step over the threshold, there’s nothing here to shove me back like it did in my dream. I step inside and take it in. It’s a single open room, practical to the point of being utilitarian.Shelves line the walls and hold exactly what you’d expect. Equipment for maintaining the strip. A first aid kit. A satellite phone. Rope. Jugs of gasoline. Snow shovels are stacked neatly in a corner. And a snowblower is parked close by, ready for the harsh winters.
Not a single thing is remarkable or seemingly worth a closer look. Which almost makes it worse, because my nerves are humming and there’s no obvious threat for them to latch on to.
That is until my gaze lands on the back wall and the other door that sits there.
Metal and heavy, its gray color nearly blends in with the wall made of cement blocks. I move toward it, reaching up to pull the cord attached to the lone light fixture on the ceiling. The fluorescents hum to life but flicker every few seconds like an erratic heartbeat. It’s only when my hand is lifting for the door handle that I notice the padlocks. Two of them. They’re not the kind used on a school locker or bike lock. These are heavy-duty, bordering on industrial.
Why keep this door locked?
The question echoes uncomfortably as I continue to test the strength of the locks. The unease sliding down my spine in a frigid lick has nothing to do with what I know from my dreams and everything to do with what my body is trying to warn me about. I was raised around witches—most days, my mom wasmore one than a wolf—and I learned early on to trust the hum that blooms under my skin when something is wrong.
That hum is loud and unsettled here—the vibes wrong in a way I can’t put my finger on.
I’m examining the keyhole on the lock when I hear it. Footsteps outside.
My heart lodges itself in my throat. Adrenaline surging, I turn slowly back toward the entrance and instantly curse myself for waltzing into an enclosed space with only one exit. Regret eats at me and I look out the open door at the clearing. At first, I don’t see anyone. Just sunlight and open space.
But then there’s his voice.
“Noa!”
Rennick’s voice cuts through the tense quiet, sharp enough to make me flinch. I can’t decide what I hear most woven through it. Fear or frustration. I settle on somewhere in between them, even as relief floods my system in a way that has my knees threatening to buckle.
Releasing the padlock, I step outside.
He stands at the hood of the Jeep, pulling on the jeans and boots I brought and then left on the car hood for him. The worn and faded denim hangs low on his hips and his broad golden tan chest rises and falls like he’s still trying to catch his breath from his sprint here. When he looks up, his gunmetal gray eyes lock with mine.
I give him a sheepish smile and a little wave, because, apparently, I’m five.
His eyes narrow, jaw twitching as he moves toward me with long, deliberate strides, boots grinding into the loose rocks. I brace for him to start yelling, for him to unload the tension I can sense pouring off him in thick waves, but he doesn’t.
He reaches me and pulls me into his arms, drawing me in so tight my toes threaten to leave the ground.
His warmth presses into me, solid and unmistakably him.His scent wraps around my senses and steadies me. It chases away the achy shadow that crept in and the punishment of our distance fades fast. Relief has me sagging against him, giving him my weight because I know he can handle it, and I rest my forehead on his chest. My palms press against the smooth planes of muscle at his back as I sigh.
