Total pages in book: 194
Estimated words: 187754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 939(@200wpm)___ 751(@250wpm)___ 626(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 187754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 939(@200wpm)___ 751(@250wpm)___ 626(@300wpm)
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.