Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
I can’t.
The rest of the ride is nothing but the whine of the engine and the echo of my own humiliation. By the time we reach the familiar turnoff for Talon’s cabin, my teeth are chattering so hard I’m afraid they’ll shatter.
Erasmus slows the truck to a crawl, tires crunching over the packed snow. He puts it in park, lets the engine idle, and finally turns to look at me.
His gaze isn’t cruel. It’s just old, and tired, and a little bit sorry.
“Don’t let him ruin you,” he says, voice soft as moss. “Not when there’s so much out there that’s better.”
I nod, unable to speak. I open the door, the cold slicing through me, and step out onto the hard, frozen earth.
I don’t look back.
The fox fits perfectly in my pocket, right over my heart.
And for the first time in days, I believe I might survive this after all.
Talon’s waiting for me when I walk up the steps. The porch boards creak under my boots, and there he is—Mr. McKnight, King of the Mountain, arms folded across his chest, jaw working like he’s chewing on broken glass. The sky behind him is a dirty blue, fading fast, and he’s lit up on all sides by the golden glow leaking out from the windows.
He doesn’t say anything when I get close. He doesn’t even move. Just stands there, blocking the door, those blue eyes fixed on my face like he’s daring me to run away again.
I want to flinch, want to shrink, but I don’t. I meet his gaze head-on, then shoulder past him, letting my coat brush his arm. His body is solid, hot, and for a stupid split second I want to lean into it. But I don’t. I just keep going, moving through the entryway, down the hall, to the bedroom where all my shit is still scattered over the floor.
I start to pack. Methodical, efficient, refusing to look at the sheets or the pillow still carrying the shape of his head. Every item I pick up feels heavier than it should, saturated with all the bad energy weighing on my heart. I shove jeans, bras, toothbrush, everything into my duffel, my movements clipped and robotic. I hear Talon’s footsteps behind me, soft but certain, as he comes to lean against the doorframe.
He watches, silent, arms still crossed. There’s a tightness in his jaw, but his eyes give nothing away. I know that look—it’s the same one he wore the day I showed up, the one that said I was a puzzle he wanted to solve but never, ever keep.
I zip my bag, ignoring the way my hands shake. I stand, sling the duffel over my shoulder, and turn to face him. He’s still there, filling the doorway, filling the whole fucking room with his presence.
I open my mouth, but no words come out. There’s nothing left to say, anyway.
He steps aside, just a little, just enough for me to squeeze past. His arm brushes mine again, and this time I let myself feel it—the heat, the pull, the tiny flicker of what might have been.
I keep walking.
The living room is empty, save for the fading fire and the memory of last night’s lovemaking. Did that really happen? It feels like ages ago now. I grab my phone from the counter, my charger, the paperback I picked up at BookEnds. I shove it all into my bag, then pull open the door.
The cold is sharp, almost cleansing.
I step outside. The wind bites my cheeks, and I can hear the crunch of Talon’s boots on the porch behind me.
“I felt something, you know,” he finally speaks, his voice a deep rumble. “It wasn’t all fake.”
But I don’t look back. I just keep walking, one foot in front of the other, until the cabin is nothing but a smear of light behind me.
The fox is in my pocket. My future is somewhere ahead, black and endless and mine.
I walk into it, not looking back, not even once.
I sit at the bus station, under lights that make everything look jaundiced and cheap, and wonder if it’s possible for a person to actually run out of tears. My suitcase is wedged between my knees, backpack slung over one shoulder, the wooden fox hidden in my coat pocket like a piece of forbidden magic.
Erasmus sits beside me, stiff and silent, a lump of flannel and old cigar smoke. He hasn’t said much since he dropped me off here, but he’s kept vigil, glaring at anyone who comes too close—especially the man behind the counter who keeps glancing at my face like he recognizes me from a poster on the post office wall.
Outside, the night is cold and brittle, wind slapping the glass with tiny claws of sleet. Every time the doors slide open for a new arrival, a gust of air knifes through the waiting room, making everyone flinch and huddle deeper into their layers. It smells like diesel fumes and microwaved burritos and the disappointment of people who know they’re never going anywhere better than this.