“Most monsters look perfectly normal.”
The words are so quiet, if I hadn’t been holding my breath, I wouldn’t have heard them.
“I’ve never hit a woman, and I’m sure as fuck not going to start now.” After a heavy sigh, I hold out my hand. “Will you let me help you? Please?”
Hope tries one more time to lift her arm, then nods and pins her gaze to the edge of the mattress. Gently, I wrap my fingers around her wrist. Her skin is soft, and still a little too warm, but the antibiotics are helping. Another day and she’ll be out of danger. At least from the infection.
“Keep your arm as still as you can. Just like this. I’ll slide the sleeve onto your shoulder.” She doesn’t move—I’m not even sure she breathes—as I tug the robe around her and secure the belt. “Get up slow. You lost—”
“A lot of blood. I know,” she says, twin notes of fear and anger in her tone.
Holding up my hands, I retreat far enough some of the tension leaves her body, but not so far I can’t catch her when her legs wobble and she pitches forward.
“Shit. I didn’t think it’d still be this bad…”
“The dizziness?” She feels like heaven in my arms. Too thin. Too weak. But I can see the woman underneath the bruises and a whole heap of PTSD. That Hope stares up at me like I hold the answers to life itself. Until she blinks, and all that emotion shutters so fast, I can almost hear it. “You need more food. And rest. Murphy will take care of you today.”
I scoop her up and carry her out into the main room. A fire roars in the wood stove, and she stares out the big picture window. The porch running all around the cabin provides a buffer from the storm, but beyond the weathered wood, tall drifts obscure everything but the tops of the trees.
Her breath quickens, and her body, which was soft and loose in my arms, tenses. “Oh, God. We really are…trapped here.”
“Trapped is a harsh way of putting it,” I say, easing her onto the sofa and draping a blanket over her legs. “I have a snowmobile in the shed. I can get us to the General Store a few miles away if I have to. But it’d be slow as fuck and twice as dangerous. At least for the next day or two. You have somewhere you need to be?”
I’ll settle for anything from her at this point. Any small bit of information she’s willing to share.
But she shakes her head and shrinks before my eyes, burrowing into the robe and under the blanket like they can protect her from everything bad in this world.
“Hope?” I brush a wavy lock of hair away from her forehead. “One good thing about all that snow? We might not be able to get out, but no one’s getting in either. Try to relax. Rest. I need to take care of a few things outside—clear off the solar panels, move a few stacks of wood onto the porch to dry. But I’ll be close. You need anything, you tell Murphy.”
She nods but doesn’t meet my gaze, staring into the flickering flames like I’m not even here. I’m shit at small talk unless I’m on mission, and even then...I mostly left that up to the rest of the team. If she wants her secrets, she can have them.
For now.
Hope
I’m not sure how long I doze on the couch in front of the fire. Or what time it was when I first woke up this morning. I haven’t seen a clock since I got here. Or a phone.
Wyatt comes in and out a handful of times to refill his thermos, check my temperature, and offer me jerky, water, and instant coffee—the only type he has, apparently. I’m not used to being fussed over. Though his version of fussing mostly involves grunting short, terse sentences. “Are you comfortable? Do you need anything? You should eat more.”
Murphy lies at my feet the whole day, but he doesn’t sleep. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Wyatt ordered him to keep watch over me. I haven’t spent much time around dogs, but intelligence shines in his big brown eyes, and having him close by makes me feel like I’m not so alone in the middle of nowhere.
An eerie silence holds sway over the cabin, broken only by the sounds of Wyatt working outside. Rhythmic chopping, the scrape of the shovel, and the occasional heavy footsteps crisscrossing the roof. More than once, the sudden noise causes me to jerk awake.
Darkness covers the windows by the time I feel strong enough to make it more than the few steps from the couch to Wyatt’s bookcase. His collection of reading material baffles me. Biographies, history books, a handful of volumes in languages I don’t recognize, science fiction, fantasy, thrillers—even a couple of romance novels.
As much as I’d like to just sit and read a book for pleasure—something I haven’t done in three years—I have to find my bra. And the memory card hidden in the lining of the cup.
Murphy stays close as I shuffle into the bedroom, check around the bed and in the bathroom, but find nothing.
“Any ideas?” I ask him. He cocks his head and his ears perk up, but all he does is grab the sleeve of the robe gently between his teeth and try to tug me out of the bedroom. “You’re probably hungry, aren’t you? I’ll see if I can find you something to eat.”
We don’t make it to the kitchen, though. Because before we reach the couch, the front door opens, and Wyatt stomps inside. The image of him in full flannel, a fleece-lined hat on his head—red and black plaid no less—with a rifle slung over his shoulder is equal parts sexy, hilarious, and terrifying.
“Feelin’ better?”
“Where are my clothes?” I demand, forcing my voice to remain steady, despite how scared I am.
“In the cellar.” He peels off his hat and hangs it on a hook by the door, then sets the rifle in the corner. “Clearing the solar panels took a hell of a lot longer than I’d planned. I’ll get to ‘em after dinner.”
