Wrong.
I walk into the living room and sink onto the couch, pulling the blanket tight. The fire burns bright. Defiant against the storm.
Last night, his touch held reverence. Desperation. A man starving, not a man broken.
He thinks he can push me away to save me. Thinks once the snow melts, he can return to being the ghost on the mountain.
I look at the heavy door he walked out of.
I’m not afraid of his ghosts.
Outside, the rhythmicthwackof an ax splits the wind. He fights his demons the only way he knows how. With work. With sweat. With brute force.
Let him chop wood. Let him brood.
I curl my legs under me. The radio in his office crackles to life, a muffled voice cutting through the quiet. Logan. A reminder that the world waits to crash back in.
I close my eyes and listen to the axe fall.
Until the snow melts.
I pull the blanket tighter. I’m not going anywhere.
8
OLIVER
The rhythmicthwackof the axe against the splitting stump isn’t enough.
My breath plumes in the freezing air, white ghosts escaping my lungs only to be snatched away by the wind. Two in the morning, and the silence of the broken storm screams in my ears. I didn't come out here for the wood. An hour ago, I reached for a rifle that wasn't there, the taste of dry dust and cordite clogging my throat.
The ghost of the blonde veteran stared at me from the shadows of the bedroom again.
Then I heard Avery shift. The sound of her breath anchored me to the present.
I don't need a medic. I need to ensure the ghosts don't get her too.
I grab the heavy tool bag. If I can't fix the past, I'll armor-plate her future.
I’ve been out here for a while. Shoulders burn. Hands are raw inside my gloves. But the noise in my head hasn't stopped.
Until the snow melts.
That’s what I told her. I looked Avery in the eye, saw her flinch as if I'd slapped her, and told her to leave. Told her I was too much. Too broken. Too dangerous.
Now, standing knee-deep in snow with an axe in my hand, I feel like a coward.
I’m the Vanguard. I hold the line. I protect the pack. But I can’t figure out how to protect the one thing that’s made me feel human in a decade without pushing her away.
I bury the axe head deep into the stump with a grunt. I leave it there, the handle vibrating.
I need her to stay. And I know exactly what kind of target that paints on her back. The Outsiders I dealt with yesterday were mapping, not hiking. They look for weaknesses in the Gunnar line. They found a rotting cabin with a flimsy door and a girl who thinks a vintage toolkit can fix the world.
Sending her back there leaves her vulnerable.
The thought hits harder than rifle recoil. It twists in my gut, hot and acidic.
I can’t keep her prisoner. I can’t let her go back to a ruin either.
