Page 3 of Just Right (The Beasts of Blackmoor #3)

With two floors, I’m hoping the answer is yes, though I have to swallow an annoyed curse when I knock at the door—repeatedly—and there’s no answer.

Someone might live here, but if they do, they’re not home; that, or they’re ignoring the stranger at their door.

Which, fair, I would do the same thing, but I live in an apartment complex in Central New Jersey, not a cabin hidden in a mythical forest.

That thought gives me pause. Do I really want to find out who lives in there after all?

Just as I’m about to back up and resume the search for another shelter, a loud, baying howl tears through the night sky. It has the little hairs on the back of my neck standing on end, every instinct inside of me screaming at me to get the hell out of here.

There’s only one place to go.

Figuring it’s better to beg forgiveness than ask for permission, I grab the doorknob. A quick twist reveals that the door is unlocked. I shove it in, rushing inside, then slam the door closed behind me, separating me from whatever howls like that.

No one is home.

At least, no one answers me when I call out a cautious greeting.

The room I entered is clearly empty, too.

Well, of people, at least. On the wall, I see a pair of sharp-seeming axes, with an empty pair of hooks beneath it that suggest that someone—or someones—are currently using them.

There’s a massive wood-hewn couch with large, fluffy cushions and piles of furs on one side, a cozy-looking armchair opposite of it, and a large yet spartan stool with a carved, wooden back that’s probably hard as a rock standing somewhere in the middle, facing a massive fireplace.

There are dying embers in there, the source of the gentle smoke I saw. That tells me that the fire was roaring at some point, but before the people who lived here left, they put it out.

It smells like burnt wood and lingering heat in this large front living area, but after a few careful sniffs, I notice I catch the scent of something else.

It’s semi sweet, though not as sweet as the aroma I noticed earlier as I approached the cabin, but my rumbling belly tells me something even more important: it’s food .

Those two apples, plus my simple breakfast back in the village, are a distant memory. I’m hungry, and before I give my feet the command to move, I’m heading into a small room that has to be a kitchen. A handful of small lamps illuminate the space, focusing on the three bowls placed on the table.

They haven’t been touched. Three spoons are tossed on top of the table, the chairs angled in a way that suggests that their occupants had sat down to eat, then hurriedly jumped up before they had the chance.

Well… if they ’re not going to eat them…

I grab a spoon, dipping it into the first bowl at the head of the rectangular wooden table. It’s gloppy, like oatmeal, but I’m hungry enough not to care. Scooping up the mushy meal, I take a bite.

For the first two seconds, it’s pleasant. Room temperature because it’s obviously been sitting out here for a while, but while the texture isn’t the greatest, it’s not that bad.

But that’s for the first two seconds.

After that?

Holy fucking shit, my mouth is on fire .

It’s hot. Super hot. Like, throw in a couple of habaneros without taking out the seeds, and now the heat from the pepper is burning up the back of my throat.

Desperate, and not knowing what else to do, I grab some from the next bowl.

On the plus side, it cools my mouth. You know why?

It’s ice-freaking-cold.

Is there a freezer in here? I can’t tell, but for this bowl of mush to be this cold, it had to have been frozen overnight and only recently thawed.

What the hell? I can’t eat that.

Still clutching my spoon, I side-eye the third bowl. My stomach insists that I give the final one a try, but my mouth… it’s not so sure. I lean over it. I sniff. Sniff again. Is that cinnamon? I love cinnamon.

Dropping down into the chair, I taste-test the third bowl. Still room temperature like the first one, but it’s savory, yet it’s sweet, and there’s even some diced apple and a hint of honey added to the cinnamon and the oatmeal. Surprisingly, it’s delicious.

Next thing I know, I’ve devoured every drop in the bowl. I feel a little bad that I gobbled it up like that, but it was such a relief to find something to eat that I can’t really work up the ability to feel that bad.

Once I sat down, I realized just how tired I am. My feet are killing me. My legs are tender. I barely got more than a couple of hours down last night because I was so worried about entering the forest this morning that my body is crying out for some sleep.

Maybe I’m being reckless. Or maybe I’m being a little too naive. Either way, I push myself back up so that I’m standing and, when I notice the stairs leading away from the kitchen, I grab one of the oil lamps and start climbing.

The stairs lead to a hall with at least three closed doors: one on the right side, two on the left. I reach for the doorknob on the one nearest to me, the one on the right, and let myself in.

The room itself is fairly empty, though it has a delectable masculine aroma that leaves no doubt in my mind that it belongs to a man.

Using the oil lamp, I see a window across from me, a simply wooden dresser next to it, and a king-sized bed taking up most of the space in the middle.

It has a high headboard carved from wood, and a single sheet covering the mattress.

It doesn’t look very comfortable, and after a few seconds sitting on the edge, I had to admit that I’m right. The mattress has a little give to it when I poke it with my finger, but it still feels like sleeping on a slab of rock.

No, thanks.

Slipping out of that room, I go to the next.

Like the first, the room is empty of its occupant.

A smaller space, it’s more crowded than the other.

It has another unique aroma—something darker and richer than the clean pine scent from the first room—and I sigh in relief when I notice that this bed is piled up with blankets, pillows, and rumpled sheets beneath it.

You ever hear of there being too much of a good thing? Unfortunately, that’s what happens here. It takes a little effort to climb up and into the bed, but once I do? I sink right into the mattress, nearly suffocating myself with the blankets.

Soft. It’s just too damn soft. Like there’s no structure or bed frame supporting it, leaving me to feel as though I’ll keep dropping until I’m on the floor.

Yeah. That’s not going to work for me, either.

And while I know beggars can’t be choosers—and this is suspiciously starting to sound pretty familiar, a lost Goldie hopping from bed to bed, and not just because she’s looking to get laid—I just can’t stay in this room.

Here’s hoping the third one works, otherwise I’ll kip out on their couch and hope that when the cabin’s owners return, they don’t mind…

Luckily, I don’t have to do that. Letting myself into the third room, I’m immediately more at ease.

There’s that richly sweet scent again, like fresh honey, and it’s all over this smallest, yet undeniably organized room.

The bed itself is also not as large as the others, though since I have a full in my apartment, this queen-sized mattress is more than I’m used to.

It has a thick quilt stretched out over the impressively made bed. It doesn’t take much for me to wiggle my way beneath it after knocking a few stray blades of glass from my feet, and once I’m under? I shudder out a sigh of relief.

This bed? It’s just right.