Charcoal lines. Confident. Sure. Not the shaky kind of drawing you do when you’re guessing.
Me.
My jaw. My nose. The angle of my eyes. Even the ink on my arms, simplified but unmistakable. She drew me like she knows me. Like her hand decided before her brain had a say.
For a second, something in my chest squeezes tight.
Then reality shoves back in.
This is still a setup. Wolves still have their hooks in her. Nothing about this is safe.
I close the sketchbook gently, the way you close a wound, and step back before she wakes.
Coffee first. Something normal. Something I can control.
I make it the way I always do, strong enough to bite. The smell fills the cabin, warm and blunt. A minute later, she stirs.
Her eyes blink open, wide and disoriented.
Panic flashes across her face, fast and raw.
Then she sees me by the stove, and the panic eases into something else. Relief. Small, unwilling.
That shift, fear to relief when her eyes land on me, hits like a sucker punch.
I shouldn’t be the thing she’s relieved to see.
I could hurt her, too. I’m big enough. Strong enough.
But I won’t.
I’d cut off my own hand first.
She sits up slowly, wincing like her ribs remember things she’s trying to forget. I hand her a mug.
“Coffee?” I ask.
“Thanks,” she whispers. Her fingers brush mine as she takes it.
Sparks crawl up my arm.
I ignore them.
She sips. Her eyes close for a second, savoring the warmth. The tight lines on her forehead smooth out like the cup is doing what I can’t.
My gaze drops without permission.
The shirt she’s wearing, one of mine, rides up at the collar when she moves. The bruises I noticed last night peek out. Dark purple and sick green. Finger marks.
My teeth grind.
“You okay?” I ask.
It’s a question I’ve asked my brothers more times than I can count. It’s a question you don’t ask unless you know what it means.
She freezes, mug halfway to her mouth.
Tears flash in her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. She nods once.
