Pulling my sleeve over my hand to protect it, I grab the handle of the front door and try to open it. The heat from the metal singes my fingers, even through the fabric.
The damn door doesn’t open.
“Damn it!” I curse. “Damn it!”
Because of course she put on the deadbolt, as any woman staying in a cabin by herself would.
But she didn’t unlock it from the inside. Which means… Fuck. She couldn’t reach it. Or she was already unconscious from the?—
Barely heard above the sound of the flames, glass shatters.
From the heat? Or something else?
The windows in the front of the cabin are intact. There are more in the back, but no door to get insidethat way.
What do I do?
Go around the back to see if Vienna’s trying to climb out a window? Or go in through the front, since I’m already here?
For a moment, my brain stalls. I can’t decide. The repercussions if I’m wrong are too overwhelming.
Then I shake myself out of it. I was a Marine Raider, for fuck’s sake. I faced things just as dangerous as this. And if I don’t get my ass moving right now, it won’t matter which decision I make, because it’ll be too late.
And what’s a critical element whenever heading into battle? Always have an escape route.
Since opening the door the traditional way is out, I kick it with all my strength instead. The door is made of sturdy wood, and it’s unlikely I can break it. But the hinges…
I keep kicking, slamming the heel of my boot into the door as hard as I can.
With each blow, I beg silently,Please. Please. Please.
And on the fourth blow, the door crashes open.
The front of the cabin is nearly engulfed in flames. I can’t see anything past them.
But still, I shout, “Vienna! V! Can you hear me?”
For a terrifying second, there’s nothing.
Then I hear, “Caleb!”
Ah, fuck. She’s alive. For now, at least.
Glancing to my left and right, I spot the wooden chest I pulled a blanket from last night. Flames are climbing all around it, but it hasn’t been destroyed yet.So I yank the lid open and snatch up one of the thick blankets inside.
Wool blankets, I remember my dad telling me. Better for wicking moisture. Better for conserving heat. And I know from my own training, more resistant to fire.
So I pull the blanket around me like a cloak with a hood. Then I hold my breath, hunch over, and race through the flames.
The other side of the cabin—where the kitchen is—hasn’t been impacted by the fire quite as much. But flames are spreading up the walls and stretching across the floor. In only minutes, this part of the cabin will be just as bad as the front.
And over by the small window near the dining room table is Vienna.
Fuck, Vienna.
She’s ash-covered and coughing as she tries to clear the glass from the broken window. A window I’m assuming she broke with the pan she’s holding.
Realization makes my heart stall.
