Page 137 of Hunted to Be Mine
“Could be longer.” He crossed to the fireplace, wood cradled against his chest. “This much accumulation, this fast, they’llprioritize valley routes first. Higher roads won’t see a plow for days.”
The flames already burned well, crackling warmth into the space. He didn’t need to add more logs. But he did anyway, arranging them with the same precise attention he applied to everything. The blaze jumped higher.
I observed him work. Observed how firelight played across his features, softening the hard edges that constant vigilance had carved into his expression. His shoulders sat differently than they had even yesterday. Lower. Looser. Not the coiled tension of a man ready to fight at any moment.
He was just building heat.
Such an uncomplicated thing.
When had we last had anything this uncomplicated?
“Warm enough?” No need to turn.
“Getting there.”
He added one more log, then straightened, brushing bark from his palms. The bandage on his left hand was clean; I’d changed it this morning, checking for infection, pleased with how well the lacerations were healing. My fingers had lingered longer than necessary on his skin, and he’d let me, his gaze dark and steady on my expression.
The area glowed now. Heat radiated from the hearth, pushing back the chill that seeped through the aged panes. Outside, darkness was falling early, the way it did in deep winter among peaks. Inside, we had illumination. Warmth.
Each other.
“First occasion.”
He turned, silver eyes finding mine across the small distance. Eyebrow raised in question.
“First occasion we’ve been somewhere truly protected. Actually protected.” I gestured at the area around us: the modest refuge with its worn furniture and creaking floors, its isolationand peace. “Not merely hiding. Not merely catching our breath between running. But genuinely secure.”
His expression shifted. Tenderness replaced the usual wariness. He surveyed the surroundings: the faded couch, the scarred coffee table, the kitchen visible through an open doorway. Nothing special. Nothing remarkable.
A place we didn’t have to flee from in the middle of the night.
A place where we could just exist.
“Yeah. First occasion.”
The flames popped, sending sparks up the chimney. Powder continued its quiet assault on the panes, cocooning us in white silence. And somewhere in the space between us, tension that had been pulled taut for weeks finally, carefully, began to ease.
I moved back to the pane, drawn by the failing illumination. The world outside had transformed: pine trees bent under their white burden, branches drooping toward the ground. Everything softened, muted. Peaceful in a way that seemed almost unreal after the violence we’d survived.
Darkness crept across the landscape, swallowing the distant peaks, the narrow trail we’d hiked in on, the steep slopes. Winter closing in fast.
Wolfe’s warmth pressed against my back. His arms came around me, mindful of my cast, and I leaned into him without thinking. Without hesitation. Our reflections merged in the glass, two shadows becoming one against the fading glow.
“Winter solstice. Shortest day of the year.”
His chin rested on top of my head, and I sensed him breathe me in. “Darkest day.”
“Mm.” I traced patterns in the condensation with my fingertip. Meaningless shapes. “But after today, the illumination starts returning. A little more each day.”
His arms tightened around me. He understood the parallel I was drawing: the darkness we’d walked through, the slowemergence into brightness. After the worst day comes the turning. After the longest night, dawn.
We stood there in silence, observing winter claim the Alps. The temperature was dropping fast now that the sun had disappeared. I could sense chill radiating through the glass despite the hearth at our backs, despite Wolfe’s heat surrounding me.
A sensation slid onto my right hand.
The pressure was so subtle I almost missed it: gentle weight, coolness of metal against skin. Heaviness where there hadn’t been any before.
I looked down.
