Page 68 of The Girl in the Forest

CHAPTER 19

Noa

The smuggler’s passageway stank of rotting food and worse things. No bioluminescence to chase the hated gloom. I gripped Grayson’s hand, wanting the light, to know that once we reached Sentinel Falls, I’d be safe again. Dry again.

But when Grayson led me from the dark, we hadn’t outrun the raging storm. Ahead, a rising dragon spine of mountains speared into the misty rain. A valley spread below. Wind gusted from the side because the weather, it seemed, still had a temper.

Grayson seemed unfazed, standing in the rain, unbowed. Water streamed from his inky hair and he wiped the wet strands aside before I could.

But my hand still curled.

“We’re near Owen Griffith’s settlement.” He swung around at my silence and added, “Miranda Kirk is his mate. Their settlement is a two-hour hike from here, out in the open. I can call for Julien—”

I answered before I thought about it. “No vampires.”

His lips twitched. So did my suspicion before his amusement faded.

“We can go somewhere else.”

My teeth chattered at his offer. “Where… else?”

“The home my parents built.”

Where they were killed, and he’d stood guard until the alpha arrived.

The cold I felt sank deeper. Sheet lightning lit up the sky. The clouds turned purple before fading to a normal stormy gray. But in that half-light, I saw the shadows in Grayson’s eyes, and compassion welled up. Life followed its own rules, and no matter how powerful the man, be him Alpha or Dread Lord, in the end, grief still pierced the heart.

Pain kept a wolf human—he’d given Laura that advice. And I could think of no other place where I’d rather go with him. To the home he’d loved too briefly. The loss he still carried.

When he held out his hand, I wrapped my fingers around his, honored by the offer. “How far?”

“Not far.”

We hiked through a forest that was less foreboding than the one in Alpen territory. The storm faded with squalls and spits. Rain dissolved into a crisp blue mist. Downed logs turned into emerald shrines, covered in moss and guarded by tiny white mushrooms.

Late-flowering rhododendrons dripped crimson against the green. Gurgling streams rushed over whitened rocks, carrying rain-battered autumn leaves—tiny yellow boats swirling along. I thought of Burn, how he’d love chasing through this forest, kinder than the one surrounding Sutter, although he could barely move. I wanted to believe it was possible.

The sun was breaking through the gray; it offered little warmth, and after a time, we approached an aging cabin set in the middle of an overgrown field, a larger cabin than those I’d seen in Sutter, and not as rustic.

I stared, envious, at the stone chimney. Boards were nailed haphazardly over the windows. Dried grass edged the steps leading to a covered porch, wide enough for two chairs. I tried to imagine Grayson’s mother sitting there, with the steps swept clean, flowers in the cracked pots near the porch railing. She’d be watching her little boy play. His father would be working the field or off hunting. And Grayson—oh, the adventures he’d be having, chasing the enemy, waving his pretend sword through the air.

Had they been warned, that day—his parents? Did they see the attack coming?

Had Grayson’s mother pushed him into the house, told him to hide? While his father came running?

Had the enemy charged across the field—where we’d just walked?

When the alpha found him—had he been sitting beside his dead parents in the spot where we now stood?

The imagery was so clear I wasn’t sure if my faille senses were kicking in, or if the story came from my imagination. After so many illusions that day, I couldn’t tell them apart.

But the porch groaned beneath our feet and at least that sound was real.

Grayson put his shoulder to the warped door and shoved inward. The screech of tortured wood ended in silence—a silence prolonged as he stood with his palm pressed against the door frame. But he didn’t cross the threshold.

I studied his face, wondering if he allowed others to see what I was seeing. If he even knew he had the look of a man lost and distant.

I put my hand on his back, rubbed circles the way he’d always comforted me. His chest lifted. Iron muscles flexed beneath my palm. I offered silence. Allowed him to work through what he needed while I stared at the starkness darkening his expression.

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