A storm’s breath held captive.
The walls seem to breathe, cradling memories of their own. I’ve been here before, though so long ago it feels like a dream.
My breath puffs white in the air. I don’t know why. It isn’t nearly that cold.
To one side, bunks line the wall. In the center, a long table.
The hearth glows low, more embers than flame.
He’s here. Close.
Maps and sketches sprawl across the table. I brush my fingers across them, then freeze at the sight of a small box wrapped in strange fabric. Silver and supple like mercury.
My hand trembles as I pull the cloth aside, remove the lid. Metal and stone fuse together inside, humming faintly—a heart made of earth and sky.
I should turn away, but curiosity has gravity, and I’m already falling. I stretch a shaking hand, touch it. A whisper sears my mind—Josephine—on the cowboy’s lips.
Cold floods my hand. Not pain. Recognition. Fingers bloom with blue fire, bioluminescent like Ash’s tattoos.
I gasp, stumbling back as visions pour through me: spirals stippled in rock, restraint carved in flesh, and glyphs that glow like skin. The air smells of metal and burnt honey.
My pulse staggers. The world reassembles one breath at a time.
“Ash.” His name breaks from my throat before I know I’ve said it.
He fills the doorway, rain steaming off his bare chest, tattoos alive, glowing like molten silver.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he rasps, the hum of the range in his voice. His eyes drop to the coat, dwarfing my frame, his expression unreadable.
I open my mouth, excuses clamoring in my mind. Instead, I whisper, “I couldn’t stay away.”
“No?” His brows furrow, voice thick with conviction. “You have to go. Now. Before we draw more attention.”
“Attention?” I look around, puzzled. He and I are the only two people in this solitary valley.
“What happened at the petroglyphs—” he braces his hands on his hips, legs set apart like he’s holding the world still “—canneverhappen again. It was wrong.”
Outside, thunder murmurs low. Even the storm disagrees.
His words cut, but his eyes—feral, turquoise, burning—cut deeper. Each searing glance makes his tattoos pulse brighter, the faint vibration rising until it fills the cabin.
He steps forward, his hand closing around my wrist. I feel him like a trail of fire. “You have to go,” he orders gruffly.
He turns his hand slightly, and I register the raw, blackened flesh on his palm. I gasp, eyes bobbing from his wound to his face. “What did you do?”
He stills, tries to wrap his mouth around words. Bows his head instead.
I rise, heat thrumming through my core, light-headed, locating a first aid kit down the hallway. I make him sit, examining his hand.
The smell of antiseptic burns my nostrils, but he never grimaces as I clean and bandage the injury.
The tattoos on his arms pulse and shimmer like quicksilver at my touch. I try not to notice, but I can’t deny the heat behind his eyes.
He reaches for me with one hand, rubbing circles into my wrist, an unreadable expression meeting mine.
"Now you know why I can't keep touching you,” he says.
My eyes lift to his. “Too late.”
