"I didn't run because I don't want him," Maren said quietly, the admission pulled from somewhere deep. "I ran because I want him too much. Because wanting things has never ended well for me."
"Or maybe it's never ended well because you've never let yourself actually have them." Freya squeezed her shoulder. "Stay, Maren. Fight. Let yourself want something without apologizing for it."
Maren looked at her packed bag, at the door leading to exile and isolation and the safety that came from being alone.
Then she looked at Freya, at the stairs where Sage had disappeared, at the window showing Hollow Oak waking up to another day.
There was still time. Maybe she could prove herself innocent after all and finally just stop surviving. For herself. And maybe even for Tristan.
27
TRISTAN
Cold air hit Tristan’s back before he opened his eyes.
The fire had burned down to embers. The cabin smelled like smoke, pine, and the faint trace of Maren’s skin. Her side of the bed was empty. Sheets cool.
He lay still for a beat, listening.
Wind scraped against the shutters. Rafters creaked. The storm had quieted to a steady hiss, more ice than snow now.
No soft breathing beside him. No shadows curling along his arm the way they had when she’d finally fallen asleep.
He pushed up on one elbow.
Her clothes were gone from the chair. Boots gone from the mat. The place where her cloak had hung was bare.
Tristan sat up fully, jaw flexing once. He looked at the door. The bar was set, but at an angle that said careful, not panicked. She’d lifted it quietly. Thought about the sound it would make.
The tiger in him bristled.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. The floorboards were cold under his feet. He grabbed his pants, shirt, and thermal, dressing fast and efficient. Movements drilled into muscle years before Hollow Oak.
When he stepped to the door, he saw it: the faint smear of wet where snow had melted off her boots before she’d gone. Already drying. She’d left before dawn.
He lifted the bar and opened the door a crack. Pale light edged the horizon. Gray. Flat. The kind of morning that made the forest look like a sketch, all charcoal lines and blank space.
Fresh tracks led away from the cabin, already softening under a dusting of new snow. Her stride was steady. Straight. No sign of a stumble.
He could follow. Shift, close the distance in minutes instead of the hour she’d taken.
His hand tightened on the doorframe.
The part of him trained to read patterns supplied the simplest answer: she’d regretted it. Regretted him. One night was enough to prove that getting close ended in distance.
He stepped out onto the porch anyway, bare feet hitting cold wood. The air bit, sharp enough to make his lungs sting. The tiger pressed forward, wanting to track, to find.
Tristan forced him back.
He wasn’t going to chase her through the woods like a feral thing after a frightened deer. She’d made a choice. Careful. Quiet. Alone.
He let the door swing shut behind him and stood in the thin light, snow blowing sideways across the clearing.
His comm crackled at his hip.
“Ash, report,” Mills’ voice came through, tinny and too loud in the morning quiet. “You at the safe house?”
He clicked the comm. “Negative. Laid low in an old hunting cabin.”
