Because something doesn’t add up here.
The old cabin I used to stay in has a spacious interior with rustic furniture, a stone fireplace, and a kitchenette along one wall. Still the same. Dakota moves past me to run her fingers along the back of the worn leather couch.
I secure the door behind us, checking locks and windows before setting my pack down. “Looks like the main generator’s off, but there’s a wood stove. Should be enough for heat and cooking.”
She nods, wandering toward the large windows overlooking the lake. “It’s beautiful.”
The water shimmers in the late afternoon sun, but it feels hollow compared to her. Or the light in her eyes when she held that stupid flower. Even when she’s angry at me, she fucking glows with something I can’t name. Something I haven’t earned the right to touch.
The fading daylight catches her profile, softening the bruises, highlighting the stubborn tilt of her chin.
“Yes,” I agree. “It is.”
Fuck. Focus, Mora. Not on her.
I turn away and check the other rooms, finding a queen-bed, lines in a closet, a bathroom with no running water, and a small loft space with a desk and books. The kitchen cabinets hold nothing. In another linen closet, I discover clean towels and soap. I toss one to Dakota, who catches it with a surprised blink.
“Let’s wash up.” I nod toward the lake visible through the windows. “Before it gets dark.”
She clutches the towel against her chest. “Is it safe?”
“I’ll go first.” I grab my knife and the soap. “Keep watch from the porch. If you see anything, anyone, get back inside and bolt the door.”
The path from the cabin to the shore takes less than twenty seconds to navigate. The late afternoon sun warms the clearing, but the air carries the first hint of evening chill.
I scan the treeline one more time before setting my weapons and towel on a flat rock near the water’s edge.
Dakota watches from the porch. She looks almost comically serious, her brow furrowed in concentration. It shouldn’t be endearing. It shouldn’t make my chest tighten.
But it does.
I strip down to my boxers and wade into the lake, the cold water lapping at my thighs. I glance back toward the cabin, checking Dakota’s position. She’s still watching, her posture alert, but I catch the way her gaze travels down my body, before snapping back up. The flush on her cheeks is visible even from this distance.
Not mad anymore?
I dive under, the shock of cold water clearing my head. When I surface, I scrub quickly with the soap—face, hair, body—keeping an eye on the shore and the cabin between dunks.
When I finish, I wade back toward shore, water streaming from my skin. Dakota’s still on the porch, but her stance hasrelaxed. I reach the shallows and can’t resist. I cup my hands through the water and send a perfect arc splashing in her direction. Not close enough to hit, but enough to startle.
“What the hell?” She jumps back.
“All clear.” I grin, shaking water from my hair like a dog. “Your turn.”
She narrows her eyes, but her mouth twitches. Half scowl, half smile—the latter the expression I’m starting to look for, to want to cause and crave. She marches down to the shoreline, towel clutched in one hand, knife in the other.
“You’re such an asshole,” she says.
“So I’ve been told.”
She sets her supplies down and works the buttons of her flannel shirt, one by one. My breath catches as the fabric parts, revealing the borrowed tank top beneath, then skin as she shrugs it off her shoulders.
The tank top follows, leaving her in the same white bra I saw at the church. My brain short-circuits. Her fingers hesitate at her waistband, and I should look away, should give her the decency of privacy, but I can’t, as I catch those fading yellow-purple bruises on her ribcage.
“Turn around.” Her voice wavers slightly.
“Afraid I’ll peek?”
“You already are.”
