Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CALDER
I had faced ruthless hunters, wildfire, flood, starvation, and the harshest of winters.
None of them had challenged me like one human standing too close inside the hollow.
Afterward, I walked Milo Hart back to the cabin.
We spoke briefly on the trail. The woods carried enough sound on their own—the soft drag of damp leaves beneath Milo’s boots, the creak of branches overhead, a crow calling somewhere along the ridge.
I stayed beside him where the path widened and moved ahead when the undergrowth thickened, pushing low branches aside before they could catch against his face.
Near the clearing, Milo slowed as though he meant to say something, but he never did.
Neither did I.
By the time I returned to the hollow, dusk had settled across the ridge. Cool air drifted through the entrance, carrying the familiar scents of stone, moss, and wet earth. Usually, that was enough. The hollow had always steadied me.
Tonight, it did not.
My body still remembered Milo Hart.
The weight of him when I caught him. The quick rhythm of his pulse beneath my hand. The way he had steadied himself against me instead of pulling away.
And the look on his face when his eyes lingered on my mouth.
I should not have noticed that, but I did anyway.
I moved deeper into the hollow before turning back toward the entrance again, restless in a way I did not recognize. Storm smoke caused restlessness, strange predators, and sudden silence in the forest prompted unease.
This felt different.
There was no danger to track, no threat to drive away.
Only Milo Hart, and the memory of him standing inside the hollow. He had looked at the life I had built there without fear or disgust, as though understanding me had already become important to him.
That should not have mattered as much as it did.
I stood near the entrance and stared into the trees without truly seeing them. My hand flexed once at my side, still remembering the shape of Milo’s waist beneath my palm.
No one had ever stood that close to me before.
Humans had caught glimpses of me over the years. A shape between trees or eyes reflecting beyond firelight, maybe a flicker of movement disappearing into fog before their minds fully understood what they had seen, but no one had ever seen me the way Milo had–openly and curious.
As though wanting me near him had not even occurred to him as something dangerous.
That should have made the answer simple.
Distance.
Milo Hart was human. Humans reached toward things that fascinated them all the time. They photographed storms, followed predators into the wilderness, and named constellations they would never touch.
Fascination was not permanence, and eventually, Milo would leave these woods behind.
He had roads waiting for him beyond the forest, cities, work, and other humans who understood the shape of his world far better than I ever could.
Mine was not built for him.
The forest held hunger and winter and blood beneath snow. It beckoned hunters with rifles slung across their backs and creatures far less patient than I was. It taught instincts that had kept me alive for centuries and would not disappear simply because one human smiled at me inside the hollow.
Wanting him near any of that felt reckless.
No, far worse than that—selfish.
I closed my eyes briefly and exhaled.
It was only curiosity.
Milo Hart was curious about everything: the woods, the animals–me, curiosity was not what had passed between us inside the hollow.
I was well aware of that, and that was the problem.
If I stayed near him, I would keep wanting things I had no right to desire. I would keep remembering the way his gaze had lingered on my mouth and wondering what might have happened if neither of us had stepped back.
That path led nowhere good.
So I stayed away.
The first day, it was easy enough to fill the hours.
A fallen cedar blocked one of the northern game trails.
A black bear had wandered too close to the lower stream, leaving the deer disturbed along the ridge.
Fresh storm runoff had carved through part of the western slope, exposing loose stone that would need watching before the next hard rain.
I let those things occupy me and when night came, I told myself I would not go near the cabin.
I went anyway.
But not close enough for Milo to hear me if he awoke, not close enough to be seen. I stayed beyond the clearing where the trees thickened and watched the warm square of light in the cabin window until it finally disappeared.
Only then did I leave.
The second night, I returned again.
By then I recognized his rhythm. The hour the lamp dimmed, and the sound of water moving briefly through the pipes. The creak of the bed when he finally settled down for the night.
It should have been enough to know he was safe.
But it was not enough to keep me away.
Distance did not weaken whatever this was.
It only sharpened it.
Every day that I avoided Milo Hart, I found myself listening for him anyway, looking toward the paths that led to the cabin.
I would find myself wondering whether he stood somewhere in the clearing with that camera hanging against his chest, watching the trees like he expected me to step out of them.
By the third morning, restlessness had worn through restraint.
Before sunrise, I left the hollow and headed farther into the woods where older deer trails crossed beneath the ridge. The air carried the sharp cold that lingered just before dawn properly broke, and the ground remained damp beneath my hands and feet.
This, at least, still made sense: hunger, movement—instinct.
I lowered onto all fours and followed the scent trail through the trees.
Hunting silenced the unnecessary noises.
On two legs, I could argue with myself and pretend that distance was wisdom instead of avoidance.
On four, there was only the hunt.
The scent of a fresh deer drifted clearly through the cold morning air. Two of them, maybe three, and recent enough that the trail still held warmth.
I stalked through the trees, keeping low to the ground as weak dawn light filtered silver through the branches overhead. Damp earth softened my steps. Somewhere farther east, a fox crossed through older scent trails, but I ignored it.
The deer held my attention.
I stopped beside a cluster of young birch and listened.
One hoof pressed softly into wet leaves ahead, then another.
Browsing.
I dropped closer to the ground. Muscles tightening gradually beneath my skin. Every part of me narrowed toward the movement ahead.
This was familiar.
Simple.
Necessary.
The buck appeared through the brush moments later, young but broad enough through the shoulders to make the chase worthwhile. Another deer lingered farther behind it, partially hidden between the trees.
Neither had scented me.
The wind still favored my approach.
I moved forward carefully, one slow step at a time, and still Milo Hart found his way into the silence in my head.
It was not intentional, and never a whole picture–just pieces of him.
His laugh inside the hollow.
The warmth in his voice when he said he was glad I had brought him there.
The way he had looked at me like he wanted—
Annoyance flared through me.
That thought had no place here.
The buck lifted its head sharply.
I froze.
Its ears angled toward something behind me.
A second later, I heard it too: a footstep—a human footstep.
Too heavy through the heel to belong to deer.
My body had already committed to the lunge.
I burst from the brush in a hard forward surge, claws tearing through damp earth as the buck bolted through the trees in a crash of movement and white tail.
Then a voice cut through the woods behind me.
“Calder…”
Milo.
I landed hard, kicking up leaves and mud as I twisted sharply toward the sound, breath rough from the aborted chase.
For one terrible moment, I saw myself the way he would.
Low to the ground, claws buried in the earth, teeth bared—a predator.
It was not the version of me Milo had come to trust.
Only this.
Milo stood several yards away between two pines, his camera hanging forgotten against his chest. One hand remained half-raised like he had started reaching for me before thinking better of it.
His wide eyes stayed fixed on me, his breathing uneven.
I froze in place.
The buck was gone.
The hunt was over.
Nothing moved except the last trembling leaves settling back to the forest floor while Milo Hart stared at me like the ground beneath him had shifted.
He had finally seen me like this, and there was no taking it back.