Chapter 12 Briar
Chapter Twelve: Briar
Cold seeps in through the triple-paned glass, the kind that’s engineered to keep out winter and every reminder of it, but here, at the edge of the world, the cold wins every time.
The chill wakes me, but it’s not harsh. It reminds me that we’re safe.
I don’t move at first. Landon is curled in the blankets, his leg kicked over mine, head burrowed into the pillow like he’s warding off the coming day. His mouth is half-open, breathing slow and even, a line of drool barely trailing from the edge. It’s so ordinary it almost breaks something in me.
For a minute, I just look at him. The way his lashes stick together, the dark sweep of his hair against the white, the bruise fading at the juncture of his shoulder and neck.
In the city, I watched the world for threats; here, I watch him breathe.
I count the seconds between rise and fall, until I’m sure I haven’t imagined the peace of it.
I could kill this moment, easy. Drown it in my usual safety checklist. It’s a habit hardwired into me by a childhood that was mostly brutality and trauma.
But I don’t.
Not this morning.
Instead, I go soft. My eyes take him in, the way a starving man eye fucks a meal he thinks he doesn’t deserve.
The sun hasn’t even started to consider its rise.
The mountains outside the window are shadows on shadows, the snow below them bright and undisturbed.
I remember the instructions Brooks left: lock the doors after midnight, keep the comms dark, don’t answer unless it’s him.
The sort of instructions you give a friend you think might not survive the night.
I reach for my phone, but the motion wakes Landon. He twitches, then blinks at me, his face smoothing into something softer than sleep. He looks at my hand on the blanket, then at my eyes, like he’s searching for proof that I’m here and not another bad memory.
“Morning,” he rasps.
“Morning,” I answer, the rumble in my chest making a blush rise over his cheeks.
Despite his reaction, the word feels foreign, like I’m impersonating someone who knows what mornings are supposed to be.
He sits up, the blanket dropping from his shoulder. Compulsively, I take in his body. The slope of his shoulders, the way his nipples harden against the cold. His cock tenting the sheet. He notices my gaze, smirks, then gets out of bed with a stretch.
Wiggling his hips, he pretends to stretch, keeping his eyes on mine. He’s enjoying teasing me.
“Is there coffee?” he asks.
I nod toward the kitchen, then follow him, fighting the urge to bend him over and fuck him raw.
I dig the French press from the pantry, measure the grounds perfectly.
Landon watches, then pulls eggs and bread from the fridge, starts assembling breakfast like it’s something he’s done his whole life.
I watch him, but he pretends not to notice.
It’s a strange kind of choreography—two people with no script, making one up as they go.
He cracks the eggs, one-handed. “You cook?” he asks, not looking up.
“I eat,” I say. “My cooking skills are limited at best.”
He snorts, but the smile lingers. “Figured you’d be a protein shake guy. Or raw meat.”
I shrug. “Not opposed.”
He scrambles the eggs with a fork, puts a pan on the induction burner and starts toasting the bread. The sound is soft, almost nothing, but I hear every note: the scratch of metal on ceramic, the shift of his bare feet, the soft clatter as he rummages for a spatula. I could listen to it forever.
I pour the coffee, black for me, loaded with sugar for him. He looks at it, then wrinkles his nose.
“They really did a number on you, huh? You like the taste of suffering.”
“I like the taste of awake.”
He slides the eggs onto two plates, grabs the toast, and brings it to the table. We sit, facing the window, the world outside so white it’s almost hostile.
For a while, we eat in silence. I watch him steal glances at me, then look away, then try again. I wonder what he sees. A monster? A rescuer? Something worse, or something better?
He’s the first to break. “So, what’s there to do here?”
“Dunno.”
He grins, full and bright, and for a second I hate how much I want to see it every morning.
“You ever just… have a normal day?” he asks, tilting his head. “Not running, not fighting. Just… coffee and breakfast and maybe a walk?”
“Normal isn’t a thing I ever learned.”
He nods, accepting it. “You want to try?”
The question is small, but it hits like a truck.
I swallow a mouthful of coffee, then nod. “Yeah. I could try.”
He stands, clears the plates, rinses them in the steel sink. I watch him, the lean muscles in his back, the way his hands work. I remember last night—how he moved under me, how he kept my openness safe, how he gave back as much as I took.
I feel something hot in my chest. Not lust. Not hunger.
Hope.
I hate it, but I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
When he turns, I reach for his wrist, pull him toward me.
He turns towards me.
I touch his face, trace the bruise on his jaw, then the line of his throat. I want to say something, but my tongue trips on the words. Instead, I lean in and kiss him, soft.
He melts into it, like he’s been waiting for permission.
We stay like that for a long minute, the world outside turning from blue to white, the mountains watching, the fire crackling behind us.
When we break, he’s smiling. “See? Not that hard.”
“For you, maybe.”
He laughs, and this time it sounds read, then leans in, whispers, “I’ll teach you,” and I believe him.
After breakfast, after the newness of not being hunted, the world feels both too big and too empty.
I’m not built for boredom. There’s always been a mission—overt or hidden, but always there, guiding every movement.
Now, with Landon in the room and the world supposedly on pause, I feel the old itch for action gnawing at my nerves.
We get dressed in warm clothes and I decide we’re going to go on a hike.
I’m standing at the mudroom, prepping gear like a ghost on autopilot when I hear him behind me.
Landon joins me, wearing a thick black sweater and jeans.
He zips a navy parka up to his chin and laces on the kind of snow boots Brooks leaves for guests who might show up unexpectedly.
He looks at me, then at the bag I’m packing.
“Tell me we’re not running again,” he says.
I shake my head. “Not running. Field trip.”
He gives me a once-over. “You’re packing like we’re going to invade France.”
I pass him a pair of gloves. “Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing I’ve done before noon.”
He laughs, pulls on the gloves, and falls into step behind me. We exit through the back, straight into the white. The air outside is violent, the kind of cold that doesn’t just cut but carves—cheeks, fingers, lungs. It’s so bright you’d swear the sun was showing off.
Should have grabbed sunglasses.
The snow is knee-deep in places, drifted high against the house and on every flat surface.
The trees around the chalet are stripped bare, black lines against the sky.
Everything smells like fresh ice, with an undertone of wood smoke from the fireplace.
Our footsteps are the only sound, the snow swallowing everything else.
Even our breath disappears into the blue air, instantly ghosting.
We head south, toward the tree line. The chalet is perched so high up the mountain you could spit and hit the next country over, but Brooks designed the property with a dozen escape routes in mind. I choose the one least likely to be under surveillance and lead us along a ridgeline.
After ten minutes, Landon says, “This is incredible.” He stops and turns in a slow circle, head tipped back. “Never saw a sky like this in the city.”
He’s beautiful like this, the way the wind bites his nose red, the way he stands loose, not hunched against attack.
He looks at me, grins. “What? Do I have snotcicles?”
“Not yet,” I say. “Give it an hour.”
He shakes his head, then follows. We crunch up the slope, each footstep breaking the crust and sinking a couple inches into powder. I keep the pace slow, making sure he can keep up. The first part is easy—a straight shot along a packed trail.
He doesn’t talk much, but I feel the tension in him. Every few steps, he glances over his shoulder, then at the sky, then back at me. It’s not paranoia. Just awareness.
I stop at a bend in the trail, pull the backpack off, and dig out a folded map.
“First lesson,” I say, “always know where you are, and how to get back if shit goes sideways.”
He takes the map, studies it. “It’s all white. How do you even tell?”
“Landmarks,” I say. “Sun’s your main one, but you’ve got to keep track of elevation, wind, even the shape of the trees.
Here—” I point to a notch in the range, then a small X someone (me, years ago) marked with a pen.
“We’re here. If you lose the trail, angle toward the south face.
That’s the quickest way back to the chalet. ”
He nods, memorizing. I watch his fingers, the way he taps the edge of the map, the way his eyes narrow when he’s thinking. He’s built for this kind of learning—fast, intuitive, never wasting energy on things that don’t matter.
I watch him a second longer than necessary.
He glances up. “What?”
“Nothing.” I look away, then shoulder the pack and keep moving.
We climb the next stretch, the snow getting looser, the wind sharper. The world is quiet except for the rhythm of our steps and the occasional puff of breath.
After a while, Landon says, “So what’s the real lesson? This isn’t just a walk.”
I stop, turn, and face him. “You need to know how to get out. Always. Doesn’t matter how safe it feels.”
He holds my gaze, then nods. “That’s what you always do. You keep the exits in your head.”
“I have to.”
“Not here,” he says, and for a second he almost looks sorry for me. “It’s just us and the snow.”