Page 13

THIRTEEN

EMILY

My dreams are filled with the sounds of violence. I toss and turn for hours, waking up in a cold sweat in between nightmares of Dr.Sharp crying out in pain or Killian firing his gun. In my current dream, a haunting howl rings through the air, and then another, until I open my eyes to find that I’ve somehow become the little spoon. Whether Ryder moved toward me during the night or I moved toward him, I don’t know, but I wake up to find his arm slung over me, my back pressed against his torso, and his hand resting dangerously close to my chest. Deliciously close, actually. So close that if I just shifted slightly, wiggling sideways an inch, his fingertips would brush against my nipple, and maybe he’d wake up and respond with his hands and his mouth and—

Howl .

The sound sends a jolt through me, and I wonder how the creepy noise from my dream crossed over into reality. And then I realize that the sound isn’t coming from inside my head; it’s coming from outside.

“Ryder!” I whisper-shout, panicked.

When he doesn’t respond immediately, I reach over to smack his chest.

“Ow,” he mutters, not opening his eyes. “Rude. I was having a dream that we had electricity.”

Hooooooowl.

Fully alert now, Ryder sits up so quickly that he knocks over the lantern, and I shiver at the sudden absence of his warm body pressed against mine.

“What the hell was that?” he asks.

“I don’t know!” I say, my heart pounding. “You tell me.”

“It sounds like a goddamn werewolf,” he mutters as another howl pierces the air.

He really needs to stop saying stuff like that, because I’m freaked out enough already.

“Werewolves aren’t real, Ryder!”

“Yeah, well,” he says, reaching past me to grab a flashlight, “neither are archaeologists.”

I’m about to point out that now is not the time for snarky commentary, but I don’t get the chance. He scrambles out of his sleeping bag, and I can’t help but notice that his sweatpants aren’t quite thick enough to conceal the rigid outline of his—

Hooooowl.

“Oh my God,” I cry, goose bumps sprouting up on my skin.

“Get back,” Ryder orders, striding past me with flashlight in hand.

I scramble out of my sleeping bag and take a step backward, almost tripping over my canteen. Regaining my balance, I suck in my breath as he reaches the opening of the cave and raises his flashlight, transforming the darkness to light. And then, unable to control myself, I scream.

Because there, lurking just outside our shelter with glowing yellow eyes and sharp, snapping teeth, are wolves. Five, to be exact. Their heads lowered and their ears perked, they howl in near unison, the sound so haunting I have to press my hands over my ears.

“Fuuuuck me,” Ryder says, backing up quickly. “It’s wolves.”

“I noticed,” I say tightly, every muscle in my body shaking as I press my back against the rock wall.

“Don’t wolves avoid people?” he asks, his voice tinged with fear. “The guidebook said they were skittish!”

“I think they generally do avoid people,” I hiss. “Except the ones stupid enough to set up camp in their den!”

“Oh, shit,” Ryder says, realization hitting him. “Yeah, this is really bad.”

He swings the flashlight back and forth like it’s a lightsaber, trying to scare the wolf pack away. But the blinding light only serves to piss them off, and the biggest animal snaps and growls.

“Okay,” he says quickly, lowering the light. “What do you know about fighting off wolves?”

“Uh, very little!” I screech, my terrified voice almost as piercing as the wolves’ howls. “What do you know about it?”

Ryder pauses, thinking. “Well, do you remember the scene from Beauty and the Beast where the beast saves Belle from the wolves by flinging them off her and into the snow?”

My heart pounds. “Vaguely.”

“Well, that’s it,” he concludes. “That’s what I know about fighting off wolves.”

“Fuck,” I whisper, my blood curdling as I realize that our entire combined library of wolf attack knowledge comes from an animated Disney movie.

“I have an idea,” Ryder says as I swallow down the bile rising in my throat. “Hand me some food, quick. I’ll throw it as far as I can, and maybe they’ll chase after it.”

My teeth chatter. “Seriously? They’re wolves, Ryder, not Australian shepherds!”

“You have a better idea?”

I don’t, and so I grab some protein bars with shaking hands and fling them toward Ryder.

“Here you go, guys,” he says, his voice trembling as he launches one bar and then another into the forest. “Birthday cake flavored! Go get ’em!”

But the wolves do not go get ’em. Instead, the largest one bares his teeth, and it’s all I can do not to pee my pants in terror.

“Ryder,” I say, tugging on the back of his shirt, “this isn’t working!”

“I can see that it’s not working!” He holds the flashlight up as one of the wolves takes a step toward the den. “Quick, hit me with the bear spray!”

Of course, the bear spray. I knew it would come in handy. I hurry to dig through my pack, rifling through my belongings frantically.

“The bear spray!” Ryder repeats, adopting a wide defensive stance. “Now!”

“I can’t find it,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Well, find something, Edwards! Otherwise I’m gonna have to Beauty and the Beast it!”

Feeling so dizzy that I’m convinced the rock walls are spinning, I reach past a water bottle and the stupid glow-in-the-dark toilet paper until my hand lands, finally, on the bear spray.

“Got it!” I yell, grabbing the canister and swiftly removing the safety clip. “Here!”

“Yippee-ki-yay, motherfuckers,” Ryder grumbles. “Here we go.”

I intend to hand him the canister, but I don’t get the chance. Because the lead wolf lets out an ear-piercing howl and lunges toward the den, and I know I have to act. Letting out the same terrified screech I did the time my sister Brooke convinced me to go on a Ferris wheel, I close my eyes and pull the trigger. There’s a split second of deafening silence, and the next thing I know, Ryder lets out an anguished wail that muffles the howls of the wolves, who flatten their ears and turn away to run off into the dawn.

“Hoooooly fucking fuck,” he hisses, writhing on the ground like I blasted him with bear spray.

Because…oh my God.

Because I blasted him with bear spray.

—

“To be clear,” Ryder says an hour later, his breathing ragged as we trudge up a rocky hill, “when I told you to hit me with the bear spray, that is not what I meant.”

Terrified that his pained scream had drawn the attention of the henchmen, we grabbed our gear and sprinted away from the den as fast as my tour guide’s burning eyes permitted. Now, my quads aching as we hightail it to safety, I’m relieved that Ryder is at least feeling well enough to speak.

“Once again,” I say, biting my lip, “I am very, very sorry. But in a way, if you think about it, everything kind of turned out for the best, right?”

I’m working hard to stay positive here, but when Ryder looks at me with eyes so red and swollen that I can’t help but gasp, I realize that’s a fruitless effort.

“Oh really, Edwards? It all worked out for the best?”

“Scratch that,” I say, grunting as the trail steepens. “I just meant that we got away without being eaten, and the wolves got away unharmed. Who knew that all you had to do to scare them off was scream bloody murder?”

Ryder blinks.

“I really am very sorry,” I repeat, cringing when I look at his alarmingly puffy eyes. “And just so you know, I plan to add a bonus onto your service fees to cover any therapy you might need after this trip is said and done. Which, at least in my case, is a lot.”

He only grunts in response, and I can’t say that I blame him. After all, getting pelted in the face with a blast of capsaicin isn’t known for boosting one’s mood.

“Maybe it would help to think of something that makes you happy,” I suggest, trying to ease his discomfort. “Happiness can help reduce pain, you know.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” I pause, remembering the comic strip he showed me on the boat. “Maybe you can think about Hobbes and his little tiger friend.”

“For the love of God, Edwards, Hobbes is the tiger ,” Ryder says in a clipped tone. “ Calvin is the boy . It’s like a crime against literature that you don’t know that.”

I’m not convinced that he’s qualified to determine what counts as a crime against literature, but this isn’t the time or place for that discussion, so I steer the conversation toward logistics instead.

“So,” I say, pausing to catch my breath and examine my compass once we reach the top of the hill, “if we read the map right—which, let’s be honest, is a big if—we’ll want to head southeast from here. And then we’ll…”

I trail off as Ryder, with absolutely no warning, shrugs off his pack and lets it land on the ground with a thud.

“What are you doing?” I ask, watching as he unties his muddy hiking boots and peels off his socks.

He grunts as he yanks his T-shirt over his head in one smooth motion, revealing a bare torso so taut and sweaty that I drop my compass in response.

“Going for a swim,” he says, nodding to something behind me.

I turn around to see that our steep uphill climb landed us at the base of a serene pond, the waning rays of the sunrise streaking the water pink.

“There’s no time for swimming!” I protest, trying to avert my gaze from Ryder’s broad chest. It’s difficult, considering that he’s positively glistening with sweat, and my cheeks burn when he runs a hand through his tousled hair.

“It’s not for fun. My eyeballs are melting, in case you forgot, and I’m covered in two days’ worth of dirt and grime.”

My eyeballs are melting, too, but not because of the bear spray. I swallow audibly as Ryder strides toward me, bending down to grab my compass off the ground.

“You dropped this,” he says, placing it in my hand and closing my fingers around it. And then, a playful smirk crossing his face, he actually winks at me.

“You dropped your jaw, too,” he adds, his smirk widening. “But I can’t help you with that one.”

I huff as he struts past me, his broad back and toned triceps on full, uninhibited display.

“My jaw is perfectly intact, thank you very much!” I protest, but he only laughs.

“I’m going in au naturel , so unless you want to be further scandalized, I suggest you close your eyes.”

“I’m a doctor, Ryder,” I say, blushing. “I’m perfectly comfortable with the naked human form.”

“You’re a doctor ?” he teases, unzipping his tan hiking pants. “I had no idea. Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

I roll my eyes and force myself to look away from him, paying extremely close attention to a duck waddling farther down the bank. Against my better judgment, though, I can’t help but open one eye as Ryder slips off his pants and then a pair of dark gray boxers. My heart thumps as he steps into the pond, his firm ass visible until he slips under the water.

“You can look now, Edwards,” he calls to me, wading in up to his chest. “I’m decent.”

My skin flushes at his teasing. “You are the opposite of decent.”

I watch as he takes a deep breath and disappears underwater, and then I nervously scan the area for any sign of Killian or his men. The only visible danger is a bee buzzing unnervingly close to my head, but still. It would be just my luck to run into the baddies while my tour guide floats around like a mermaid.

I suck in my breath when Ryder’s head pops above the surface.

“God, this feels good,” he moans, which does not at all help the fierce battle I’m fighting with my hormones. “I can finally see again.”

He rubs his eyes, apparently relishing the fact that they’re no longer on fire, and nods at me.

“You coming in?”

I shake my head. “I don’t swim in nonchlorinated water.”

“Too much fun?”

“Quite the opposite, actually,” I say, studying the mallard duck like it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen. “Too many bacteria, too many amoebas, too much risk of drowning thanks to uncertain depths. I’ll hold out for the pool at the Ritz.”

“We were nearly mauled by wolves today, and you’re worried about amoebas?” he asks, shifting to float on his back. “Seriously?”

“They cause encephalitis,” I say tightly. “It’s a very serious issue.”

Ryder shrugs and pushes his wet hair out of his eyes. “Sounds like it.”

“Anyway,” I say, tightening my ponytail and trying very hard not to think about Ryder’s bare ass, “don’t come crying to me if you get swimmer’s itch.”

“You know, I don’t mean this in a rude way, but you’re being very valedictorian right now. Which is fine. We can’t all live on the edge.” He shrugs, the sun glinting off his broad shoulders. “The world needs dare people, but it needs truth people, too.”

He’s egging me on, I know it, and yet I can’t help but take the bait. Maybe because all the adrenaline coursing through my veins over the last few days has altered my brain chemistry. Or maybe because I don’t want Ryder to see me as the cautious, boring Emily who works too much and feels exceedingly naughty whenever she drinks a diet soda.

Maybe I don’t want to see myself that way anymore, either.

“I’ve picked ‘dare’ in truth or dare before,” I tell him, jutting my chin out. “Sixth grade, for example. Becky Cartwright knew I had a huge crush on Tony Teeman, so she dared me to call him on the phone. I did it.”

“How’d it go?”

“It didn’t,” I admit glumly. “Tony’s mom answered. He wasn’t home. He’d gone to see an Air Bud sequel with his dad.”

Ryder laughs, and the sound of it makes my stomach flip-flop. “His loss, then.”

His gaze meets mine, and something tightly wound uncoils in my chest. “Come swim with me. Just for a minute. I dare you.”

I start to shake my head, to remind him about bacteria and encephalitis and the fact that Killian could be lurking anywhere, but I stop myself. Because as scary as all those risks are, the way he’s looking at me right now tempts me to throw caution to the wind. Besides, I, too, am covered in several days’ worth of sweat and grime, and the prospect of washing it off sounds amazing.

“I triple dog dare you,” Ryder says, water dripping down his chest. “C’mon, Edwards. The water’s fine.”

“You skipped double dare,” I tell him, my heart thumping.

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Like I said, I live on the edge.”

I suck in my breath, knowing I have a million good reasons to reject his silly dare. But there’s one compelling reason not to, and that reason is watching me from the water, waiting to see if I’ll accept the challenge.

And despite my better judgment, I do.

I shrug off my pack, savoring the absence of its heavy weight, and then I remove my gross boots and socks. Ryder watches me as I unbutton my long-sleeved hiking shirt, my skin flushing as I drop it to the ground. I slide my pants off, too, my heart pounding in my chest, and then I walk toward the pond, shivering in the cool morning air.

“Turn around,” I tell him when I reach the rocky bank.

I might be living on the edge today, but that doesn’t mean I’m prepared to do a total striptease for my tour guide. When Ryder nods and turns his back toward me, I peel off my bra and underwear and step into the water.

“Ahh!” I cry, the cold shocking me as I sink into the pond. “Ryder! You said the water was fine!”

“Well, it is! Once you get used to it.”

I gasp as the cold envelops me, but I force myself to wade in up to my neck. After a minute, my body adjusts, and I relish the sensation of weightlessness.

“You can turn around now,” I tell Ryder, tilting my head back to get my hair wet.

He does, and my heart flutters when he swims toward me, his body a blur of muscles in motion.

“See, I did it,” I say, pressing my toes into the sandy pond floor.

“You sure did.” Ryder’s gaze sends a whoosh through my belly, and I shiver despite the water’s now-tolerable temperature.

We look at each other for a moment, and the knowledge that nothing separates our naked bodies except for a couple feet of water makes me blush. Eager for a distraction, I focus on scrubbing the dirt off my arms, and then I dip my head underwater to clean my face. Ryder does the same, wiping a spot of mud off his forehead, and he shakes water out of his hair and studies me.

“All good?”

“You missed a spot, actually. You have dirt on your cheek. Right there.” I touch my own face to show him where, and he wipes his cheek with the back of his hand.

“No, a little bit lower,” I tell him when he misses the spot. “Now you’re too low. No, it’s more to the right—”

“Show me.” Ryder cuts me off, moving closer to me in one smooth motion.

“Huh?” I ask, dizzy at the closeness of our bodies. I’m no shy ingenue, but I’ve never felt so naked before, and the nearness of his bare form feels wildly intimate.

He reaches out to take my hand and presses it to his face, grazing my skin with his fingertips.

“Show me,” he repeats. His eyes flicker as he guides my hand downward from his left temple, tracing a slow path to his cheek and then down along his stubbled jaw.

My heart blazes, because the way he’s looking at me—like my touch is something he’s been wanting, craving, even—is not how a man looks at someone he sees the way he sees a tree. He’s looking at me like his heart is racing the same way mine is. Like he, too, feels the tension that’s been mounting since I landed on him after we rolled down the hill, the warmth of his body against mine assuring me that I was okay.

He’s looking at me like we’re lovers.

“Here,” I say, rubbing my thumb on the spot he missed. His jaw tenses beneath my touch, and I swear that for the briefest of seconds, he closes his eyes like the sensation of my hand on his cheek is something to be savored.

“It’s my turn,” I say suddenly, jerking my hand back before I let my imagination run away any further. I sink lower into the water to cover up my blushing skin. “You gave me a dare, so I get to ask you a truth.”

Ryder nods, his expression unreadable. “Okay.”

“Why did you follow me when I tried to help Dr.Sharp?” I ask, voicing the question I’ve been turning over in my mind since yesterday. “I didn’t ask you to come with me, but you did anyway. Why?”

He doesn’t blink or pause to think.

“I wanted to protect you.”

I move toward him, my body taking on a mind of its own as I halve the distance between us. “Why?”

He swallows, and I see a flicker of something like vulnerability cross his face. It’s the same expression he wore when he told me that he wasn’t a real tour guide; the same one he wore last night in the cave when I read Captain Evermore’s letter aloud. It feels like a glimpse into the real Ryder, not the swashbuckling guy who jumped on the boat or dared me into the water but someone softer, someone deeper. Someone whose heart has known breaking, and who tried to conceal the shattered pieces with a devil-may-care swagger and an easy smile.

He swims toward me, just slightly, as if he were going to embrace me but thought better of it.

“I promised myself that I wouldn’t fail to show up for someone when it counted,” he says. “Not again.”

I don’t know what the again means, but I don’t get a chance to ask, because Ryder, reaching forward to wipe a stray droplet off my forehead, keeps going.

“When I saw how brave you were,” he says, his thumb brushing my temple, “I knew I had to be brave, too.”

I shake my head. “I’m not brave, Ryder. I’m terrified.”

I’m not just talking about the fear of diseases and injuries and accidents that’s plagued me since my mom passed, or the terror I felt when Killian pointed his gun at us. I also mean that I’m frightened of whatever it is that’s happening between us, of falling head over heels for someone so different from everything I’m used to.

“You are brave,” he says, his hand grazing a wet curl. “I don’t know how long you’ve been telling yourself that you’re not, but it’s long past time to stop.”

I swallow, wanting to believe that it’s true. That he’s right, and that somewhere deep inside me, I am my father’s daughter after all.

“Thank you,” I say. “And thank you for coming with me.”

“You’re welcome.” Ryder shrugs. “My only regret is that I didn’t have something slightly more deadly than Caleb’s Discman.”

I freeze. “The Discman you threw at Killian was your brother’s?” I ask, stunned.

He nods. “He always carried it on the trail. Didn’t feel right to make this trip without it.”

“I…” I’m silent, thinking of everything I have that once belonged to Dad, and how precious all of it is to me now. The well-loved Cleveland Guardians ball cap I keep on my dresser. The dog-eared copy of On the Road he left on his living room coffee table. The half-finished grocery list I found in the pocket of his khakis when Brooke and I sorted his clothes for donation, the hastily scribbled words milk and frozen waffles reducing me to tears.

I think of how I would feel if I lost one of those items, if I had to fling it at Killian in order to survive.

“That must have been so difficult,” I tell Ryder. “To make the choice to sacrifice something of Caleb’s like that.”

Ryder gazes down at the water for a moment, and when he looks up at me, his expression is firm. Certain.

“You were in danger, Emily,” he says, his hand tracing the ridge of my ear and then settling on my cheek. “There was only one choice to make.”

His words are a balm to something pained and aching deep inside me, and I’m not sure which of us moves first. Maybe he lowers his head toward mine and I move toward him in response, or maybe it’s the opposite. Either way, the coldness of the water and the cramping in my muscles and the fear that’s been plaguing me since I boarded the ferry fade away as Ryder’s lips meet mine. There is only us, our mouths meeting and parting and meeting again, his arms snaking around the small of my back and pulling me into him.

I wrap my arms around his neck, deepening the kiss, not thinking or questioning but simply allowing myself to feel. I savor the rough pressure of his stubbled jaw against my skin and rest one hand against his chest, his heart pounding so fast that I can feel it.

“Look at me,” Ryder says, his voice like velvet, and I pull my lips away from his to glance up at him.

He studies me, cupping my face between his palms, and I swear that the world pauses in that moment.

“Emily,” he says, and then he scoops me up into his arms.

I wrap my legs around his waist, letting out a soft moan at the dizzying sensation of my bare breasts against his chest as his mouth finds mine again.

“Wait,” I say suddenly, a distant buzzing sound breaking the spell. “Do you hear that?”

Ryder blinks at me, confused. “Hear what?”

“That,” I say, as the hum of a motor ruins the quiet serenity of the pond.

I glance up at the sky, where hazy clouds streak across a blanket of blue.

“What the fuck is that?” Ryder asks, peering at the clouds, and then he lets out another curse.

Because he sees it at the same time I do: a white-and-blue striped seaplane, its front propeller spinning so fast it makes me dizzy.

“Run,” he says, grabbing my hand and rushing me toward the bank.

Because the plane is headed right toward us.