Page 5

AURELIA

I ’m not hallucinating. It’s really there.

A cabin.

The smoking chimney promises warmth, salvation…shelter.

A whimper pushes past my dried and cracked lips. It’s the only thing I can manage after three days in the wild. It’s been more than one since I had food or water. It’s a Herculean feat that I make it to the edge of the snow-covered clearing. The hike up the mountain had taken the last of my strength, but I kept my eyes on the black smoke rising through the trees and curling in the air as I climbed.

Food. Shelter. Warmth.

I’d told myself the whole way up that if I could just make it, maybe Tyler had, too.

My soul shudders at the thought of my faithful bodyguard.

We’d found each other despite the scattered wreckage, wolves, and brutal storms, only to be ripped apart again in the only lasting way there is. Tyler had pushed us both to survive and for what? Nothing. His plan to find the transmitter never came to fruition.

We never even found the damn tail.

The log cabin is bigger and better kept than the one-room shack I’d expected to find. It even has solar panels on the roof, which means electricity. It means heat and maybe a phone or radio. There are two sheds, too, one with piles of chopped wood stored inside to keep them dry. I can’t see what’s inside the other.

The promise of warmth eventually convinces me to approach the cabin. It’s modest and unassuming compared to the garish castle I live in, yet I’m intimidated. Enough to hesitate when I reach the heavy wooden door, my bruised and frostbitten fist poised to knock.

My instincts shut that shit down.

Blowing out a breath that I can see clearly in the cold, I bang on the door with a sense of urgency that can’t be ignored—at least not by anyone kind enough to help a stranger.

Please.

Please be home.

I knock and knock and knock, and then I scream for help.

No one answers.

Shivering uncontrollably, I shuffle to the window and peer inside. I can see a living room with a high, vaulted ceiling and exposed wood beams.

There’s no fireplace like I expected. Instead, I see a small stove tucked inside a bricked alcove made of stone. The dark metal beam on top extends to the top of the alcove like a chimney, which explains the smoke I’d seen.

The bearskin rug in front of it looks so soft, plush, and inviting. It’s practically begging me to come inside and wrap myself in it. I’ve got tunnel vision staring at the fire and rug—so much so the rest of the house fades and the voice screaming at me to keep the fuck out fades.

My body succumbs to another violent quake, and I know that’s not an option.

I risk precious life-suspending moments waiting for someone to appear. It’s pretty early in the morning, so maybe the owners are still asleep.

After five more minutes of knocking, I decide that asking forgiveness is better than asking permission.

Limping over to the door again, I try the doorknob, dumbly blinking when it twists without resistance, and the door opens. It creaks open slowly like it does in horror movies, but that feeling I had a moment ago doesn’t return. All I feel is the cabin’s warmth beckoning me inside.

“Hello?” I call into the dark space from the safety of the porch.

The threshold feels like a point of no return. Crossing it feels more dire than the death exposure promises. Especially when I spot three sets of boots lined by the door, all dirty and worn, and my stomach flips when I notice their sizes—easily three or four bigger than my own.

“Hello.” My throat strangles the word until it’s little more than a croak. “I…um…is anyone home?”

I wait for a breath, but no one answers.

Letting my arms fall, I decide I’m being ridiculous and step inside. If they have a phone, I can probably be gone before they return. Maybe we’ll never have to cross paths.

The different scents in the house converge all at once—cardamom, mint, leather, juniper, and something a little smoky yet lighter and more sensual than tobacco.

Amber.

The cabin smells like a bachelor pad for cavemen.

Oh, God.

“My name is Aurelia,” I explain, even though it’s clear no one is home. Shutting the door, I gratefully leave the cold behind as I move deeper into the cabin. “I was in a plane crash and got lost. I…” I stop when I nearly reveal that I’m alone and instead say, “I need help.”

If it weren’t completely insane, I’d swear I was speaking to the house—begging it to be good to me.

When the cabin shudders as if in answer, I exhale my relief and rush toward the fireplace…thing. The bear rug is even softer than it looked through the window. I drop to my knees and sink into the lush fur. The fire is barely more than embers, but it’s better than the sparks I’d been able to conjure.

I stand and shed Cassie’s scarf and my dead bodyguard Harrison’s heavy coat.

My boots and socks are next, though it takes me some time to free my swollen feet from them. When I do, my revulsion is a gnarled thing in my stomach.

They’re grotesque.

I have painful blisters on the bottom, sides, and heels of my feet, thanks to my designer boots that were made for style, not comfort. The one on my right heel is the worst. The top layer of skin has already peeled away, and it’s bleeding, while the nail on one of my big toes is black and blue.

I hesitate a moment—debating the prudence of stripping naked in a stranger’s home—before shedding my peasant dress. It’s ridiculously impractical for this climate, but it’s not as if my stylist knew I’d be heading for Canada when she dressed me or that my plane would crash onto a snowy mountain.

Standing with my arms wrapped around my half-naked body, I spot a blanket thrown over the back of the leather sofa, so I take it and wrap it around me.

Looking around the cavernous space, I soak up as many details as I can. The small loft. The antler chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The crude workmanship tells me it’s homemade. There aren’t any picture frames to give me a clue about the occupants, but there are enough odds and ends to tell me someone had made this place home.

I look for a woman’s touch, and my stomach twists with discomfort when I see none.

Maybe a kindly old widower lives here with his sons.

Yeah, I like that better than whatever scary version my mind can conjure. Why else would three grown men hole up in a cabin all the way out in the middle of nowhere? Nothing good, that’s for sure.

Three tin cups rest among scattered bullets and oil-stained cloths on the low table, and a gasp escapes me when I see steam curling over the rim.

They were just here.

The men who lived in this cabin must have left mere moments before I appeared, and judging by the abandoned food, they’d left in a hurry.

Why?

The memory of snow—a huge fucking mass of it—rushing downhill toward Tyler and me flashes in my mind before I block it out.

Had the men who lived here felt the avalanche? Seen it?

Tyler and I hadn’t been far away when it happened, but I don’t know if it’s possible.

Reaching for the closest cup, I lift it from the table and tentatively sip the fresh coffee. Warmth instantly floods my veins and thaws my bones, but I make a face when my taste buds register the sugar.

Too sweet.

Setting it down, I reach for the next.

The cinnamon aroma soothes my sore nose before I take a sip, only to realize it’s weaker than I like and a little colder than the first.

Grabbing the last cup, I drink from it and hum happily at my first taste of the hot—nearly scalding—brew.

It’s not too sweet, tepid, or light.

It’s just right.

Before I know it, the cup is empty, and I don’t feel so close to death. My stomach rumbles, and I don’t bother counting the hours since I last ate. I fall to my knees again and devour the half-eaten sandwich. I don’t allow myself to wonder what the gamey-tasting meat is as it fills my belly.

The cabin quakes again as if telling me to hurry. I don’t have much time before I’m caught trespassing.

I’m not ready to leave, so I chalk it up to paranoia and move closer to the fire once I’ve eaten all three sandwiches. I only need a few minutes, but as I sit and stare into the flames with the blanket around my shoulders, the minutes tick by without my realizing.

I don’t even feel my eyes growing heavy until I nod off.

When it happens a third time, I accept that I’m safe for now and stand.

No one is going to walk through that door and find me anytime soon. My dress, still damp in places, is mostly dry and warm now from lying in front of the fire, so I put it back on. Harrison’s coat, however, is thicker, so I leave it and Cassie’s scarf in a pile on the floor.

I walk to the bank of windows below the loft, and the view I’m greeted with is…I hate it.

The cabin is built on the edge of a cliff. I know instantly why the mountain men chose this cliff. I can see all of the wilds from here, every terrifying inch and endless angles. From this vantage, it looks deceptively small, but I know all too well how easy it is to get lost in it. The valley and most of the foothills below are mostly hidden by thick, white mist, but I can see the tallest of the trees that rise above it and the outline of the smaller mountains in the distance.

I was in that.

I survived that.

It was terrifying at the time, but all I can think now is how much I want to burn it all down.

Forcing myself away from the windows before the thought can take root, I explore the rest of the house.

The kitchen is tucked away behind the dining room, but I find it easy enough. As I pass the dining table, I run my index finger over the unfinished wood. There’s a deep gouge in the sanded oak that makes me pause.

Had someone stabbed the table?

The edges of the groove are rough and splintering, but when my curious gaze passes over the rest of the table, I don’t see any more gouges.

“What…?” I rasp, but I don’t finish.

My throat feels like I’ve been gargling gravel, so I continue my exploration into the kitchen, where I search the fridge and cabinets for water before realizing these people must drink water from the tap .

I shudder.

But I’m too thirsty to care for long.

I grab the only tin cup remaining in one of the cupboards and fill it with water from the faucet.

My first sip is tentative, and while it’s not artesian, I’m surprised by how refreshing it tastes. Cool, crisp, and refreshing, like it was sourced straight from a spring. And most importantly, no weird aftertaste. A solid seven out of ten.

I gulp down several more cups since it’s a small one before I’m finally convinced I won’t die of thirst. Leaving the cup on the counter, I continue my self-guided and unsanctioned tour of the cabin.

There’s a set of stairs by the front door that I missed when I broke in, but I ignore them for now as I finish exploring the first level.

The house is smaller than I’m used to, so I find the bedroom easy enough. I’m scratching my head over why anyone would ever choose this.

It’s so ugly and sad.

Not the house—though it is hideous—but the drafty room I find myself standing in. There’s a neatly made bed with four posters and a simple metal railing for a headboard, two nightstands, a trunk at the foot of the bed, and a chair shoved in the corner.

I hear prison cells are nicer than this, I muse. Begrudgingly, I make my way over to the bed and sit on the edge.

I give it a testing bounce, but the mattress refuses to yield. It’s hard, rigid, and completely devoid of comfort—just like this god-awful room.

Maybe there’s another.

I give the room one last disapproving sniff before I leave. Heading for the stairs, I cautiously descend them into a finished basement, and my eyes widen in alarm. A den of sorts takes up most of the space. There’s a sofa, several punching bags, an array of weapons and a large map mounted on the wall, a metal locker, and some gym equipment.

Fighting the urge to run and take my chances with the wolves, I peek behind door number one and find a room with a farmhouse sink, floating shelves with folded linen on them, and a jute rope hanging taut between walls. I think it’s a laundry room, but where are the washer and dryer? I back out of the room with a wrinkled nose.

Door number two has a full bath behind it.

My third try reveals another bedroom.

While the first bedroom barely looked lived in, this one looks like a wild animal had been let loose inside. The closet door is hanging on a single hinge, the bed is flipped over, the frame bent and twisted, the bedding shredded, and there’s writing on the walls—in blood . The first two are alarming, but the last one I stare at and wonder about the person who wrote it.

Death to the immortals.

Bless the Savior.

The promise that it ends is what makes life beautiful.

The hair on my arms rise as I back out. I find a third bedroom on the other side of the den. Steeling myself for whatever I’ll find, I poke my head inside the open door.

My shoulders slump in relief when I find a normal-looking bedroom.

I don’t bother to take in the details this time as I rush inside and belly-flop onto the four-poster bed with a groan. It’s bigger than the others. A king, I think. Maybe larger. Whoever sleeps here must really like their space.

The mattress isn’t too soft or hard, and it’s in one piece.

It’s just right.

Sighing, I flip over onto my back, and my eyes widen. “Oh, wow.”

I hadn’t noticed it before.

The canopy.

Short, twisted branches, no more than four or five inches thick, are nailed together in a random pattern and strewn with small lights that glow with warm light. I follow the branches to the posts and gasp at the images carved into the wood—bears, wolves, rabbits, birds, fish, foxes, and frogs. There are trees, rivers, snowflakes, leaves, Sunshine, and wind.

Wow, just wow.

It’s fanciful, like a fairy tale.

I’m still admiring the carvings when my eyelids start to drift shut. I know I can’t fight the exhaustion, pain, and trauma from my ordeal much longer.

Rest. Reset.

Rest.

Reset.

I’m not sure how people pass their time in the wilds, but the cabin dwellers could be gone for hours.

Twenty minutes is all I need.

Just as it had the last three nights, I see the faces of those who died because of me—Cassie’s, Susan’s, Harrison’s, the two bodyguards whose names I still don’t know, and…Tyler’s.

His is the last I see before I succumb to sleep.