“You don’t ever have to go back there,” I say. The certainty in my voice surprises even me. There’s no room for doubt in it. No hesitation.
Her head snaps up. Her eyes search my face like she’s trying to find the catch. “You don’t even know me,” she says softly.
“I know enough,” I reply.
I see the moment she wants to believe me. It flickers across her expression, fragile and bright. Fear wars with hope. Hope is winning. She nods once, like she’s making a decision inside herself. “Thank you,” she whispers.
I turn back to the stove before she can see the anger burning in my eyes. Not at her. Never at her. At the man who put that fear there. At the world that taught her to expect the worst.
The stew bubbles gently, filling the kitchen with warmth and the promise of something solid and nourishing. Behind me, Wren resumes chopping, her movements slower now. Lighter.
The storm can rage all it wants outside these walls. In here, she’s safe and I intend to keep it that way.
Chapter Seven
WREN
The stew tasteslike something out of a memory I forgot I had.
Rich and warm and thick with beef and vegetables that melt on my tongue. Calder sets a loaf of fresh bread on the table, the crust still crackling faintly when he tears it open. Steam curls up from the soft center. I recognize the paper it came wrapped in. The little bakery in town with the chalkboard sign and the woman who always slips me an extra cookie when Mae sends me to pick up orders.
The normalcy of it hits me in a strange, sideways way.
I sit at his kitchen table wrapped in his blanket, Bear stretched across my feet, and eat like I haven’t eaten a real meal in weeks. Maybe I haven’t. Every bite sinks heavy and comforting into my stomach, chasing away the last sharp edges of fear that have been riding me all day.
Calder doesn’t talk much while we eat. He doesn’t need to. The quiet isn’t awkward. It’s… peaceful. The storm rattles the windows, the fire pops in the other room, and the steady scrape of his spoon against the bowl is grounding in a way I can’t explain.
Halfway through my second slice of bread, a wave of exhaustion crashes over me.
It’s sudden and absolute. My eyelids feel weighted. My muscles go loose, the tension draining out of them all at once. The adrenaline that’s been keeping me upright since this morning finally gives up.
I blink hard and try to focus on my bowl. The edges of my vision blur.
“You’re about to fall over,” Calder says.
I look up. He’s watching me with a knowing expression, one corner of his mouth tilted slightly.
“I’m fine,” I murmur automatically, even as a yawn stretches my jaw.
He huffs a quiet breath. “You’re exhausted. Come on.”
I start to protest, then stop. What’s the point? My body is already leaning toward sleep like a plant toward sunlight.
He takes our bowls to the sink and gestures for me to follow. Bear lifts his head, considers staying put, then decides I’m more interesting and lumbers after us.
The hallway is warm and softly lit. Calder opens a door halfway down and flicks on the light. The guest room is simple and clean. A big bed with a thick quilt. A wooden dresser. A window looking out onto a blur of white storm.
“You can sleep in here,” he says.
I step inside slowly. The bed looks like heaven.
He crosses to the closet and pulls out extra blankets, layering them over the quilt with efficient movements. The mattress dips when he presses a hand into it, testing it like he’s making sure it’s good enough.
“The bathroom’s right there,” he adds, pointing to a door across the hall. “Towels are under the sink.”
“Thank you,” I say softly.
He studies me for a second, his gaze flicking over my clothes. I suddenly become aware of how grimy I feel. Sweat and fear and the lingering scent of my car cling to me.
