For a long time, there’s just the sound of our breathing, tangled together in the wreckage of the bed.
He kisses my forehead, then my cheek, then my mouth, softer this time.
“You alive?” he asks.
I nod, throat tight.
He holds me, his heart hammering against my ribs.
His eyes are closed. He looks peaceful, almost. I wonder if he dreams, or if the years of being a hunter killed the soft parts of his brain. Maybe that’s what draws me in—I can’t help but poke the raw places in people, see what’s left.
I follow the line of the scar with my finger. He opens his eyes, watches me. There’s something different in the way he looks at me now. Less like a possession, more like an accomplice.
I meet his gaze. “What are you thinking?”
He shrugs, but the movement is careful. “That you’re the only person who ever looked at me and didn’t see a monster.”
“Not true,” I say. “I see it. I just don’t care.”
He grins, then pulls me tighter to him, like he wants to hide me from the rest of the world. The gesture is possessive, but there’s a tenderness in it, too.
We lie like that, not speaking, for a long time. My skin cools, but his hands are warm. Every time I think he’s asleep, he does something—tugs my hair, nips my ear, runs a finger down my arm—just to remind me that he’s still there, still in control.
I should feel trapped. I should be trying to leave. Any sane person would. Instead, I trace another scar, this one on his shoulder. I let myself think about nothing but the shape of him under my hand.
Something’s different.
It takes me a minute to realize what it is. For the first time since the world went to hell, I’m not afraid. Not of him, not of myself, not of what comes next.
I look at his face, the lines around his eyes, the slight furrow in his brow. “What do you want?” I ask, needing to hear the answer out loud.
He doesn’t speak right away. Instead, he studies me, like he’s weighing every part of me before deciding.
“I want you,” he sighs. “And I want you to want it, too.”
I take a breath. “I choose this,” I say. “I choose you. And whatever comes with that.”
He tenses, just for a second, like the words cut him. Then he relaxes, lets out a long, shuddering breath, and pulls me up so we’re inches apart.
He kisses me, slow and deep, and in that kiss is everything he can’t say: the danger, the risk, the possibility of a future.
When we break apart, I rest my forehead against his. I let my eyes close. I don’t need to see the mountains. I don’t need to see anything but him.
He cups my face in his hands, thumbs gentle on my cheeks.
“Good,” he whispers.
He holds me there, just breathing me in, until the world outside stops mattering.
Chapter Fourteen: Briar
Thefirstweekismuscle memory.
Every morning, I wake before sunrise. I scan the perimeter, listen to recorded audio, check the cams and the glass sensors on the doors. Even in this fortress, it’s habit. The moment I open my eyes, I test for the faintest drift of air—a vent tampered, a window unlatched, a trick of pressure that means someone is inside the walls.
It always comes back clean.
The mountains do their job. Brooks’s chalet is an exoskeleton, nothing but steel, glass, and dense old wood. Three miles from the next neighbor, nine from a town with more goats than people. All the supply roads are unplowed. In the dead of winter, the only way up is by foot, snowmobile, or chopper.
