And together, we are going to burn the world down.
CHAPTER 21
THE BLADE AND THE BONE
POV: IVY
The cold is a physical weight.
It presses down on the tin roof of the cabin, seeps through the chinking in the log walls, and settles in the marrow of my bones. It is a primitive, relentless cold that makes the air inside the single room sparkle with frost when the fire dies down.
I am not cold, though.
I am encased in heat.
The bunk bed is narrow—a cot meant for a hunter, not a couple. We are forced to tangle our limbs together just to fit. I am lying on my side, my back pressed against the rough log wall, and Silas is plastered against my front. His heavy arm is thrown over my waist, pinning me to the mattress, his hand resting flat on my stomach.
Even in sleep, he holds me like I might evaporate.
I stare at the zipper of his thermal shirt, mere inches from my nose. I can feel the slow, steady thud of his heart against my own chest. It’s a rhythmic drumbeat that drowns out the wind howling outside.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
It’s the sound of the wall. The sound of the monster who ate my father and then curled up around me to keep me warm.
I shift slightly, trying to alleviate the cramp in my hip.
Silas’s grip tightens instantly. His eyes don't open, but his hand slides down, splaying possessively over my hip bone.
"Still here," he rumbles, his voice thick with sleep and gravel.
"I know," I whisper. "I’m not running."
"You couldn't run if you tried."
He opens his eyes. In the gray pre-dawn light filtering through the dirty window, his irises are the color of the frozen lake we passed yesterday. Blue ice.
"Up," he commands.
The transition from lover to commander is instantaneous. He rolls away from me, swinging his legs off the bed. The loss of his body heat is a shock that makes me gasp.
"It’s dark out," I complain, pulling the thin, scratchy wool blanket up to my chin.
"Darkness is cover," he says, standing up. He stretches, his spine cracking. He is wearing the tactical pants and the tight black shirt from yesterday. He looks rougher here. The stubble on his jaw is darker, thicker. The perfectly tailored CEO is dead; the warlord has taken his place.
He walks to the wood stove and kicks the door open, throwing in a fresh log. Sparks fly up, illuminating the room for a second.
"Get your boots on," he says over his shoulder. "Training starts in five minutes."
"Training?" I groan, sitting up. "Silas, I shot a man yesterday. I think I graduated."
He turns to look at me. The firelight casts half his face in shadow.
"You pulled a trigger," he says dismissively. "A gun is a coward’s weapon. It’s distance. It’s impersonal. If you run out of bullets, Ivy, what are you?"
He walks over to the table where he dumped the duffel bag. He pulls out two knives.
They are identical to the one strapped to my belt. Seven inches of black, serrated steel.
