CHAPTER THREE #2
“Maybe… maybe not,” I say, watching his eyes darken with jealousy.
“Who is he?”
“Someone unforgettable.”
“Careful, Sarah,” he growls, sending goose bumps through my body in all the right places. “If he’s still breathing, he won’t be for long.”
I arch a brow. “Dangerous, aren’t we?”
“And you fucking love it.” He grins, and damn it, he knows he’s right.
From across the table, Michael shakes his head like he’s the only adult in the room.
“Come play with us,” James says, his voice softer now, warming me in a way the fire never could.
“Tempting, but as much as I enjoy the sound of cards shuffling, card games have never been my thing. I’ll stick to my book.”
Books haven’t let me down yet, unless you count a paper cut every now and then as a betrayal. Plus, why play cards when I can play with fire? His fire.
James chuckles. “I need to find more books for you, then.”
“You already promised me chocolate,” I warn. “Priorities, James.”
“I’ll give you everything you want. Just tell me what and where.”
It’s the kind of thing you don’t say unless you mean it. And he always means it.
James doesn’t break eye contact, even as he casually flicks a card onto the table. The way he watches me, as if he’s tracing the lines of my body for some grand painting, makes me want to run to our room and wait for him.
How does he do that with just one look?
I lick my lips, trying not to grin, but my body’s already giving me away. Heat pools low in my stomach, and my skin prickles like it’s waiting for his touch.
I slide off the couch, letting the blanket slip to the floor, baring my legs. James’s gaze follows, and yep, I’ve got his full attention now.
As I head toward our room, I throw him a teasing look over my shoulder. “Don’t take too long. I might start without you.”
A knowing smile spreads across his face.
“I like to see that, b—”
“Hey! I can still fucking hear you two!”
I slap a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Trust Michael to show up right when things are getting good. He’s got a sixth sense for mood-killing.
I’m still smiling, halfway to the bedroom, when a chill creeps down my spine. The usual night sounds of rustling leaves and the occasional owl vanish all at once, replaced by… something else. A sound, faint and distant, but eerie enough to make every hair on my body stand up.
I turn back toward the living room, drawn by the sound. My feet carry me to the window, and I peer out into the dark woods. Sure enough, something’s there, darting too fast for me to get a good look.
“James! Michael!” I call out, my eyes still locked on the window.
They’re just a few steps away at the dining table, but right now, it feels like miles.
“What is it?” James looks up, and the cards slip from his hands when he sees the look on my face. I’m not laughing anymore.
The room freezes when I say it.
“There.” I point a trembling finger toward the windowpane. “A shadow.”
James goes deadly serious in less than a heartbeat, and Michael grabs his machete, always within reach. It’s wild how fast they flip from joking to all business. But I guess that’s what happens when you’ve nearly met your maker three or four times in a year.
James and Michael are the glue holding my world together, so I watch them a lot. I watch as James’s eyes meet Michael’s. A single nod passes between them, and that’s an entire conversation. They talk with just their eyes, and that’s it. That’s all they need to plan their next move.
I’m different, though. I need fucking words, the louder, the better. I need someone to shout over the noise in my head and the fear crawling through my body. It’s been this way since we fled the ranch, and even after all this time on the road, I’m still the same.
We’re all huddled by the window near the still-burning fireplace, scanning the dark woods. My heart races as the moonlight starts revealing shapes—more than one, moving too quietly to be friendly.
“It’s not just one person,” Michael whispers. “There’s five… no, wait, six.”
Michael’s right. Six of them are creeping toward our cabin, their shadows long and twisted. And they’re all armed.
I fidget with the hem of my shirt, a nervous habit I can’t shake.
“You think maybe they’re just passing through?” I breathe out, but who am I kidding? We’ve never been that lucky.
“Looters,” James says firmly. “We can’t stay. Pack up, now.”
We’re moving before he even finishes the sentence, same as we’ve done a dozen times before. Michael hauls the heavy packs onto his shoulders, and I work fast to erase any sign we were here.
No footprints.
No ashes in the fire.
Just ghosts again.
I grab all the food from under the kitchen counter and stuff it into my bag. Then I snag the blankets off the couch and chairs. They’re scratchy, sure, but when your whole world has to fit in a backpack, even an old blanket feels like a luxury you can’t leave behind.
As I pack up the last of our stuff, one of James’s grim mantras echoes in my head: “Each safe place always comes to an end.”
We’ve swallowed that bitter pill more times than I can count, but it never gets easier.
I watch as James grabs the knives he’s stashed all over the cabin. Each one’s made for a different kind of trouble. He’s got big hunting knives for whatever’s lurking out in the woods, and slick ones that disappear under a jacket—perfect for when you need to stay armed without looking it.
We haven’t had handguns or rifles in a while, just knives. And knives aren’t exactly comforting when six armed people are sneaking up on us in the dark.
We pack up everything in under five minutes. It’s almost impressive how quickly we can tear down something that felt like home.
Standing by the back door, I take one last look at the little cabin that, for a while, almost felt normal. I’ll miss its old charm, those fuzzy carpets and the green curtains hanging everywhere.
“Sarah, it’s time.” James’s urgent voice cuts through my thoughts. When he gets that tone, you don’t ask questions; you just move.
I glance around the room, trying to soak it all in, even though I know we’re not coming back.
My gaze lands on the vase of wildflowers I picked this morning, still fresh and bright on the windowsill.
They were meant to start our day with something beautiful.
Now, they’re just proof we were here for whoever finds this place next.
With a sigh, I grab the vase and toss it out the window.
“Goodbye.”
And just like that, another place becomes a memory.
We walk away from the cabin. Dad’s old compass is in James’s hand, its needle steady as ever, pointing us to… who knows where this time. His other hand finds mine, and I hold on tight, feeling the warmth of his fingers laced with mine.
I used to think home was a house with a door and windows and a roof, but now I know it’s wherever he is.