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Losing her.

It’s a very real fear, especially now that Pandora’s box has been opened and there is nothing stopping me from marking every inch of her. And worse, knowing I won’t be able to stop now that I’ve started.

Chapter Three

London

Day unknown

Sometime in December

This is my first entry since Maison died. I haven’t been able to write about it because that makes it real. Nigel killed him in cold blood, and now Micah has lost his twin. And I’ve lost a piece of Micah.

Micah took me away to an abandoned hunting cabin a few days ago. It’s small, quaint, and it’s been here for a long time. It’s half-broken, weather-beaten, and weary… kind of like us. The front door creaks and shutters in the wind, almost as if the place is alive and telling us to go away. Like we are disturbing its peace. I still don’t know exactly where we are, only that it’s a frozen wooded landscape and we are hidden within a denser part of it.

Almost like I’m a prisoner within it…

I understand why we left the others, why he can’t take care of them like he did before. I can see his guilt, shame, and grief, and it consumes him, even if he won’t admit it. I can only imagine how much worse it is for him than it is for me. He’s turning off his emotions. He’s so cold and distant about Maison dying, even if he’s warm with me. He will never understand how much I love him, yet it’s Maison who still brings me to the calmer part of my mind.

I’m scared… I’m scared to be alone out here—of who else is lurking out there, still alive, waiting in the shadows. And most of all, I’m terrified of who Micah is transforming into. I have to do everything I can to keep him with me, even if that means giving in to him entirely.

Life is a collection of moments, many of which are so mundane that you forget them. Like daily commuting, walking the dog, or in our case, fishing. It’s funny to me, looking back on my life, how little I actually remember. It’s the extreme moments that really etch themselves into my brain—my parents divorcing, fucking my teacher, and the plane crashing.

None of them I care to remember.

Now it’s the tiny moments I cling to because they are simply easier.

“London, focus on what I’m telling you. Quit gazing at the sky.”

My head whips up, and I wrap my arms around Micah’s waist. Leaning my head against his muscular back, I shove my hands into his pockets to warm myself as he stands near the edge of the water, over the tiny hole he dug through the ice with the knife.

There is only a minute during a sunset when you can catch a glimpse of the true beauty of the sky. The clouds are the pinkest, the sky is still a shade of blue, and the trees are silky black against it. I learned to take in these moments from Maison, so when I see the sunset at the peak of its beauty, I stop to take it in, no matter what I’m doing.

Sunrises and sunsets will always belong to Maison.

“I’m watching.” I stare at my icy breath, mesmerized by the sky and the memories the sunsets bring. I repeat his instructions back to him, “Loop the wire twice, hook the bait, and jig the wire while in the water to attract the fish.”

His body stills as if not believing me and knowing I was just repeating his words back to him like a parrot. I was listening, just not paying attention. And I am focusing… just not on what he wants me to.

He drops the wire and turns to face me. He frowns as he cups my cheeks in his hands. “We’re done; you’re freezing. Let’s go back.”

I blow out a breath and stare at his amazing dark eyes blazing into me. “Micah, why? I’m listening.”

“No, you’re not, London. I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to figure out where we are. And I told you; I’m not telling you. It’s better if you don’t know.”

Better for who?

North. He brought me north. I can tell by the position of the sun as it seems to sit farther away when I stare at the sunset. I want to ask him why he won’t tell me, but I don’t dare. His temperament is so fragile—just as fragile as my physical state. Earlier, we walked for about five minutes till we hit the stream… I suspect that if I follow the stream south, I will find our camp. From there, it’s twenty minutes to the lake site where Maison died, a place I never want to set foot in again.

It warmed up today. And by warming up, I mean it went from unbearable to slightly bearable, almost balmy, and Micah wanted to teach me how to ice fish. The sun came out after days of dreary gray, and now the frozen landscape is blinding white. So I bundled up with four layers and followed him outside. It’s the first time I’ve left the hunting cabin in the eight days we’ve been here, but if he hadn’t allowed it, I was going to go crazy.

I’ve been keeping track of the number of days—even in my state. I’ve etched a mark on the wall by our bed every day. This morning, I carved my eighth line. Micah got sick of my huffing and moaning, and I kept reading my book out loud, forcing him to listen. He busied himself with his wood carving, but he was listening, even if he was pretending that he wasn’t.

The line pulls, which distracts him, and my body relaxes as he jumps into action. I love watching him work, watching him move, watching him exist.

He’s been waiting patiently for an hour, pulling on the line in various ways, trying to attract the fish with the bit of bait we have hooked on the end of it. “Come on, London. We’re doing this so you can learn, then we can go warm up. We need food, baby. And you need to learn to do these things in case I’m not with you one day.”

I break into a cold sweat and close my eyes, refusing to respond. He grabs my chin and forces me to look at him, raising his eyebrows and jerking his head toward the line in his hand. “Grab this and tug like I showed you.”