Haunted by Secrets (Shadowed Souls #3)

Chapter Five

The sun filters through the barren canopy above, gnarled branches causing the dappled light to cast patterns across the forest floor. We left at the buttcrack of dawn, actively ignoring the way we woke up. I’d turned in the night and draped myself over Wyatt’s body with my face in the crook of his neck. I didn’t have time to be mortified at my drool against his skin because my hand was gripping his cock through his boxers. What’s even worse is that he was hard and responsive to every twitch of my fingers.

Not thinking about it. Nope, no thank you. A quick change into our hastily packed sweats and a few cubes of gum shoved into my mouth, and we were out of there.

A caw sounds overhead, a crow igniting my jealousy with its ability to fly off into the wilderness. Shouldering my pack higher, I try to distribute the weight of supplies evenly. My legs ache, my back protests, and the damp chill that had evaded me overnight has returned with a vengeance. What I'd give to eat something that isn’t a packaged brioche.

Ahead of me, Wyatt trudges along, his broad shoulders squared as though the strain of his pack doesn’t bother him. He’s managed to shake the foul mood he woke up in, claiming to have had a nightmare, but I would honestly rather he was pissed off because I am. I’m sore and tired, the little sleep I had doing nothing to revitalize me, and looking at him soldering on with infuriating ease is making my headache even worse. Baxter trots between us, his tail wagging, seemingly oblivious to the tension radiating from me.

“Would it kill you to slow down?” I snap, swatting at a low-hanging branch before it smacks me in the face. Wyatt glances over his shoulder, his expression as bored as ever.

“Would it kill you to keep up? I thought ballerinas were meant to have stamina.” I glare daggers at the back of his head, my steps quickening just enough to draw level with him.

“And I thought basketball players were meant to be about team spirit. I must say, my morale is scraping across the ground beneath my sneakers right now.”

“Would a pep talk stop you from whining?” Wyatt smirks, the kind that makes me want to throw something at him.

I open my mouth to retort but am interrupted by Baxter letting out a low bark. He bounds ahead, his nose to the ground, tail wagging furiously. Wyatt and I exchange a glance before following him, my boots crunching over dry leaves and twigs. It’s the most excitement we’ve had all morning, and for a brief, fleeting moment, I dare to hope Baxter’s found something useful. A sign telling us where we are perhaps? Anything to signal the end of this endless sea of trees.

Instead, we find him pawing at a moss-covered log, thoroughly enthralled by a family of ants. I sigh, rubbing at the bridge of my nose.

“You must be hungry, old boy. We’ll get you some food soon.” Wyatt crouches beside the dog, scratching behind his ears. I drop my pack with a dramatic thud, crossing my arms.

“Will we, though? You have no idea how far we are from anywhere,” I sigh, planting my hands firmly on my hips. There I go, straight back to whining, apparently. Wyatt straightens, towering over me as his smirk fades into something sharper, more serious.

“We just need to keep following the road.” He growls, his eyes quickly dropping to my split lip and then up again. My gaze strays to the left, where I know the road to be at the top of a grassy back. I’m not sure why we have to navigate the uneven forest rather than walk along the smooth tarmac, but alas, Wyatt is in charge. For now.

Tilting my head back, I look at him properly for the first time today. His eyes are a darker green today, shrouded by the dark circles surrounding them. His ruffled hair is desperately lacking the styling products he would normally use, but that doesn’t detract from his overall appeal. To someone else, not me. I couldn’t give two shits that his head is tilting forward, bringing his sharp nose and occasional smirks closer to my level. Or that the smudge of dirt on his jaw could be considered endearing.

“Lead the way. I don’t want to have to camp out here another night.” My voice cracks, an unwelcome memory surfacing at that moment. Wyatt must have the exact same one, because his eyes flash and a sharp inhale is drawn through his parted lips. Fuck . Is it too much to ask the universe to make him ugly? It would make my life so much easier if I could hate him without my libido popping up to say hi every time he looks at me.

Wyatt strides away, and Baxter nudges my leg, breaking through my thoughts. I let out a shaky breath, reaching down to ruffle his fur.

“Come on then,” I mutter, grabbing my pack and hoisting it onto my shoulders. Wyatt has stalled by a trunk, casually waiting for me to catch up this time, rather than trailing me around on an invisible leash. I stop to tilt my head up and ask him something that’s been on my mind. A simple hope I hadn’t dared voice, but whether I like it or not, Wyatt is currently my only companion.

“Do you think, if we’re out here long enough, Nixon might come looking for me?” My voice is small, careful not to insinuate that Nixon might look for him too. Regardless, Wyatt chuckles under his breath and we fall into step along the uneven ground.

“I don’t know if you’ve realized,” he muses, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, “but Nixon doesn’t give a shit about you anymore.” His words slam into me harder than the cold ever could. My steps falter with the cracking of twigs.

“Of course he does,” I frown, irritation flaring back to the surface. It’s as if Wyatt is always searching for the easiest way to piss me off and he succeeds every damn time. His eyes roll, landing on me with a condescending tilt to his head.

“Nixon practically signed your death warrant when he forced you to join Waversea. If he was really concerned about your safety, he’d have sent you straight to that pretty little safe house. Not enroll you in a school where your name was listed on the registry for anyone to find.”

My sneakers scuff against a moss-covered root as my mind whirls, a string of weak protests leaving my lips. Wyatt doesn’t bother backtracking to save my feelings. He never does.

“There’s something I can’t dispute,” Wyatt rolls his shoulders, as if his next words might pain him. “And that’s Nixon’s love for his wife. Cathy shattered him when she had that affair, and despite the many he had in retaliation, he loved her endlessly.” His breath clouds in the cold air as he exhales. “I’ve thought long and hard about the day they brought you home, and the sudden shift in Nixon’s demeanor. You gave them hope. A reason to try and be a real family again. And I do think they got that, at least for a while. The Christmas portraits were practically sickening to receive each year.”

I sense, rather than see, the eye roll that follows, Wyatt’s voice dripping with disgust. But I don’t stop him, savoring the truth from his perspective at long last.

“I know you won’t like hearing this,” he mutters, stepping over a fallen branch, “but Nixon’s love for you died when Cathy did.” The words punch through my chest, hollowing me out from the inside. “You remind him of her betrayal. Of the very man who killed her and has been chasing you ever since. He’s tried to protect your feelings, all while pushing you away. I’d consider it his parting gift if I were you.” Wyatt’s pace remains steady, his voice unwavering. “It’s a much softer approach than he took with me.”

A small rock rolls behind my shoe and I lurch sideways, directly into Wyatt’s arms. He stares down at me, so many secrets hidden within his emerald eyes. My fingers tighten around the sleeve of his hoodie.

“You know exactly where he is, don’t you?”

The branches overhead whisper the answer Wyatt refuses to give me in the breeze. The damp earth shifts beneath my sneakers as I right myself, pushing away from his hold. With it, Wyatt takes the little warmth I had. I decide to drop the topic, refocusing on walking and getting the hell out of here.

The day stretches on, the monotony of the forest broken only by our occasional bickering and Baxter’s enthusiastic detours. It’s taxing, both physically and mentally, but it’s better than the silence. Silence gives me too much time to think about the time we’re wasting. About what could be happening to Meg, what the Souls are doing. I suppose that’s what caused me to start an argument about the fact Die Hard is not a Christmas movie.

“You clearly haven’t seen it,” Wyatt tries to brush me off.

“I have seen it, and I stand by my opinion.” I hold my head high, stepping over a twisted root crossing our path.

“The soundtracks are Christmas songs. It takes place at a Christmas party, for fuck’s sake! It’s a Christmas movie.” Wyatt quickly sounds exasperated, his hands flicking out in a stressed movement. I find I’m quite enjoying how easy it is to rattle him.

“It’s an action movie, which, for your information, was actually released in July. No one releases a Christmas movie in July.”

“There’s snow at the end! John McClane’s wife is called Holly-”

"Shh," I hold up my hand.

"Did you just shush me?"

"Shhh!” I say again, putting my hand in front of his face. “Listen!" I stop mid-step, my ears straining to catch onto the foreign sound. It’s faint beneath the rustling leaves and distant bird calls, but it’s there. A low rumble in the distance. My heart leaps.

"A car!" I gasped, the word exploding from me like an answered prayer. "Wyatt, we’re saved!" Without waiting for him, I lunge forward, dropping my pack to scramble up the muddy bank. I’ll pick up my stuff later. For now, I just need to stop that damn car and put an end to this torture.

My hands claw at the earth, dirt packing under my nails as I drag myself higher, desperate to reach the road before the sound fades. The rumbling grows louder, fueling my adrenaline. Salvation is so close I can taste it.

Then, out of nowhere, a crushing weight slams into my back, driving me face-first into the slick ground. The impact knocks the wind clean out of me, and before I can process what’s happening, Wyatt has me pinned in a full-body hold. He drags us both down the slope, away from the road, away from the sound, away from help.

“What the actual hell, Wyatt?” I wheeze, writhing beneath him like a live wire. He flips me over and claps a hand over my mouth before I can say anything else. His green eyes lock on mine, wild and frenzied, an edge of something that almost looks like fear. The sound of the car grows deafening, and I freeze beneath him. My mind races. This isn't just panic. It's something worse. The vehicle roars past above us, the noise receding as quickly as it came, leaving us alone in the suffocating silence of the forest.

I go limp, the fight bleeding out of me. Only then does Wyatt release his hold, his chest heaving with effort as he retreats, putting distance between us.

“What was that?” I demand, pushing myself upright.

“Nothing,” he replies too quickly, rushing to collect our discarded bags from the ground. I close the gap between us, shoving his shoulder.

“No, seriously. What is going on? Why wouldn’t you let me hitch a ride to the closest town?”

“We don’t know who’s in that car,” Wyatt cuts in, voice clipped. His back is to me now as he shoulders both of our bags, his movements jerky and tense. I narrow my eyes.

“Who do you think was in that car?” My tone is slower now, deliberate, as I stalk after him. Baxter is whining, brushing up against Wyatt’s leg and looking up at him for comfort. The following silence is thick; Wyatt’s expression pulled taut. I watch the tick in his jaw beat several times while he struggles with his own thoughts. Tentatively, I reach a hand out and place it on his bicep. “Wyatt, who are we running from?”

“Everyone,” he says without taking his eyes from the ground. Strolling towards a thick, fallen trunk, Wyatt drops down, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. I ease down beside him, my chest seizing painfully.

“When I met with Fredrick, he wasn’t alone. There was a whole room of thugs, ex-convicts,” Wyatt sighs, dropping his hands. “Fredrick spoke of owing favors and losing control. He said his men were becoming restless, and if he didn’t get a resolution, they would start acting out. They were bored of the cat and mouse. They wanted…”

“What did they want?” I ask quietly, edging closer.

“They wanted to take you for themselves. I saw the gleam in their eyes, Avery.” Wyatt finally turns his head to look at me, his eyes swimming with defiance and misery. “I will not let them have you.”

“And even now that you… that they possibly have Meg, do you think I’m in danger?” My pulse thunders in my ears, and Baxter lays his he ad on my thigh. Wyatt’s stare is unmoving, unnerving, as I swallow hard.

“I do.” He nods slowly. Suddenly, I’m on high alert. Every crack of a branch, every flap of a bird’s wing. My eyes dart around the forest as if I’m in enemy territory, and I shuffle in closer to Wyatt. He tracks the movement, staring at the spot where my arm is now pressed against his, but he doesn’t comment on it.

Somewhere amongst this new information is the sinking reality I don’t want to face. Wyatt’s arm shifts, resting over my back and opening his body to me. It’s a simple gesture that I accept, while the small voice in my mind screams even louder.

“You were always going to take me away, weren’t you? The sedative… you had it all ready.” I piece it together like broken fragments of a puzzle. The resulting picture is framed by Wyatt short huff.

“Not as ready as I’d have liked. If you hadn’t burst in, I could have finished my letter to the Souls explaining everything. I could have packed your belongings. I thought I had at least until morning.”

“You were telling them the truth?” I plead, begging for something to hold onto. I don’t want Wyatt to always be my villain. Fuck knows I’ve tried my hardest to paint him as anything but. He gives a single, jerky nod, and my whole world spins.

This wasn’t some last resort Wyatt thought up on the spot—to whisk me away from the ones I love because that’s simply who he is. The man who can’t stand to see me happy.

No. I see him clearly now. Every sharp word, every secretive glance, every maddeningly frustrating decision. It was never about control. It was fear. It was a desperate man drowning in his own darkness, willing to burn his bridges and break his bonds just to keep me alive. To keep me safe. In that aspect, he is the same as the rest of the Souls, despite his actions being less than favorable.

I search his face for something, anything, to suggest this is another one of his cruel jokes, but there’s nothing there—just raw, unfiltered conviction. Wyatt just watches me, his face like stone. The realization is suffocating. He’s sacrificed so much—his loyalty, his crew, maybe even Meg—all for me. And the sickest part? He doesn’t even expect me to forgive him.

He doesn’t care if I hate him, as long as I live .

My chest tightens, and my hand instinctively grips the fabric of my shirt, desperate to anchor myself to reality. Baxter whimpers again, his head pressing into my thigh as though he can feel the storm brewing inside me.

“Wait. My…my belongings,” I whisper, playing his words back on a loop. Beyond the sentiment, I see the cracks now. I see the fear that lingers just beneath the surface, the way Wyatt’s fingers twitch against his knees. Parting my dry lips, my voice cracks as if saying the words will seal my fate. “You make it sound like I’m never going back.”

A low, heavy sigh escapes him as he pulls me closer. My face leans into the rise and fall of his chest, into the tender kiss he places on my head. I know it’s coming, but if I bury myself into his body, perhaps I’ll be saved from hearing it. Or at least, save myself from Wyatt’s probing stare when the first tear escapes my eye.

“Avery. You’re never going back.”