Chapter 11
Evan
Istared at the beams on the ceiling until the wood grain swam before my eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come.
I couldn’t shut down my brain—no work to worry about, no contracts to revise, no meetings to attend.
But the man who nearly killed me was moving around the cabin like everything was normal, the same bastard whose touch had made this body grind against him before he shoved me away. At least he was dressed now.
The rejection still burned. Not that Gregory’s thoughts or desires should matter to me, but this body remained a mystery, torn between reactions that weren’t mine and responses beyond my control.
The way he moved through the kitchen, trying to remain silent, would have been endearing, even charming, if not for everything that had already happened. If not for the wall he’d put up between us.
He set down the cast-iron pan he’d been scrubbing, hitting the surface with a soft ring.
His footsteps were hushed over the floorboards, and I kept searching for a scent that never came.
That emptiness bothered me, making me restless in ways I didn’t quite understand.
Couldn’t tell if it was my frustration or something deeper, but the line between them faded every second.
Sunset turned the cabin walls a honey-gold. My traitorous stomach let out an angry, loud rumble as I shifted to sit on the edge of the bed, my swinging legs too short to reach the floor. Thirst scratched at my throat, and the water cup Gregory had left sat forgotten on the side table.
Might as well drink it.
The liquid was a welcome relief, the water lacking the metallic tang of city plumbing. Cool and clean. I hoped it might settle my stomach, but another growl, louder this time, proved otherwise.
I gripped the edge of the bed in frustration. “Guess takeout isn’t an option,” I muttered. I doubted there was a phone in this place.
A hesitant rasp came from Gregory’s throat. “I can cook for you,” he said, lifting the cast-iron pan, his eyes trained on the countertop.
Heat crawled up my neck. I’d barely breathed the words, yet he’d caught them with an ease that stripped away any illusion of him being human. “Thank you,” was all I managed.
Still, that… man was grieving. The knowledge lodged somewhere behind my ribs, an uncomfortable weight that wouldn’t lift. Losing someone, the finality of it, that was a pain I understood. But Gregory? He had Evan’s body right here, breathing and talking, though the person inside was a stranger.
That had to be worse somehow.
The thought entrenched itself with unwelcome clarity.
This was someone else’s body, stolen property in a way.
Gregory had treasured this person… all the things he couldn’t say to the real Evan, all the moments he’d never get back, all the chances he’d wasted.
That kind of guilt must be eating him up inside.
If someone did that to me, took Mom’s body and stuffed some random soul inside, forgiveness would never be an option.
So how could I expect him to feel anything else?
I pushed myself up from the bed, trying to ignore the ache.
When I put weight on both feet, there was no pain.
The bandages were softening any leftover soreness.
The shirt I wore hung loose, drowning me in fabric.
A glance at Gregory in his dark brown tunic confirmed what I’d suspected. This was his.
I grabbed the fabric and brought it to my nose before I could stop myself. The aroma that greeted me was this body, my smell now mixed with the linen. Whatever trace there had been of Gregory’s sandalwood was gone, replaced by a fragrance that was becoming mine.
A faint, stale echo of his scent lingered in the corners of the cabin, but nothing fresh reached me, as if he were holding himself back from the very room he lived in.
Yanking the fabric away from my face, I looked at Gregory again.
He was padding purposefully around the kitchen, but from the corner of my eye, I glimpsed him watching my movements.
The space closed in around me, both unfamiliar and confined.
I needed to understand where I was, to map out the boundaries of this new reality.
As I suspected, behind the curtain sat a wooden basin with cloths hanging from its rim. I traced the edge, worn smooth from years of use.
Moving to the fireplace, I glided my fingers over the stones, following them until they reached the shelf above.
I couldn’t help but sit on the settee with its thick fur cushions, sinking into it and running my hands over the wide arms before standing again. I glanced at Gregory again to check if he was still annoyed, but he remained focused on the counter.
I continued my slow circuit around the room, moving to the dining table. The wood was smooth under my palm, though a patch of slightly darker wood near one edge marked where someone had carefully repaired a split.
The exploration ended as I circled back into the kitchen, stopping near where Gregory was working.
Feeling braver, I took a step closer. He seemed lost, like he’d forgotten how to do the simplest things.
Fresh herbs lay around the cutting board, a slab of meat off to one side.
His attempt to dice up a root vegetable was clumsy.
Gregory let out a long sigh and slammed the knife onto the cutting board, knuckles going white as he gripped the counter, fingers flexing. His jaw tightened, like he wanted to speak, but only a hiss escaped. He dropped his head back, eyes squeezed shut in utter defeat.
When he lowered his chin, he glared at the mangled root vegetable as if the thing had personally offended him.
Tension knotted behind my ribs, making it hard to breathe. Without a second thought, I moved in and reached for the knife.
“Can I?”
He stepped aside, creating space between us. Every part of me wanted to follow him, to step back into his warmth, but I forced my feet to stay planted. I tested the blade’s weight in my palm. Well-maintained, sharp enough to slice paper.
I reached for the vegetable with my left hand. The root felt solid in my grasp, its skin rough but with the give of something edible underneath.
“What is this?” I turned the vegetable over, studying the orange and purple streaks that seemed like a combination of sweet potato and carrot.
“Mountain root,” Gregory harrumphed. “Good roasted.”
“Cubes or strips?” I positioned the blade, ready to work.
He glanced at the knife in my hand. “Cubes?”
“Cubes then.”
The knife glided through the root. Anita had made sure every kid in the children’s house learned basic culinary skills.
Most complained about the kitchen duty, but I’d found comfort in the routine of measurements and timing.
Those skills had carried me through college, even if I stopped using them once my schedule filled up.
I hadn’t made time to cook a real meal in years, but it seemed my hands hadn’t forgotten the work.
The mountain root fell into neat, uniform cubes under my blade. I looked at the stove, a beast of dark steel that took up half the wall, with thick grates over a deep firebox and a wide pan already on top. A chimney pipe reached from its surface toward the ceiling.
“How do you light this?” I motioned toward the stove.
Gregory moved closer, enough that his scent should have been overwhelming.
Instead, there was nothing. He held his hand near the firebox opening.
A small flame danced between his fingers.
Actual fire, sprouting from his skin like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The kindling ignited, flames licking over the neatly stacked wood, until heat began radiating from the stove’s surface.
I jerked back, my hip slamming into the edge of the prep table, the knife still clutched in my hand. For one second, I was paralyzed by the memory of his burning touch as he summoned fire from his hand as casually as flicking a lighter.
The heat on my face was from the stove though, not another attack, and I found myself leaning in rather than running away. I let out a shaky breath and stared long after the flames disappeared from his fingers, trying to reconcile the impossibility with what I’d just witnessed.
I gripped the knife, my reflection distorted in the blade. With my other hand, I reached up and touched my neck, finding the spot where his heat had left its mark. “That’s going to take some getting used to,” I said.
Gregory nodded toward the ingredients on the counter. “We should cook before the meat spoils.”
I set the knife down on the board with a decisive click.
“Where’s the salt?” I asked, scanning the area. “And the oil? What kind of meat is this?”
He pointed to a small box near the herbs. “Salt’s there. Oil’s in the clay jar.” He motioned to the meat. “Boar. From the forest.”
I got to work, sprinkling coarse salt over the cuts and drizzling oil into the cast-iron pan. The boar sizzled on contact, filling the cabin with a rich, savory aroma. The cubed mountain root went into another pan with some of the herbs. Rosemary and thyme, from what I could tell.
Heat from the stove filled the space between us. Gregory moved closer, the warmth from his chest at my back. The room was suddenly too small, or maybe I was too aware of him.
The words came before I could stop them. “I’m sorry,” I said, my gaze fixed on the pan. “I didn’t mean my words.”
“Hmm?” The rumble was so close my spine vibrated with the sound.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” I clarified, flipping the meat. “For me to be here when Evan… is not.”
Turning to face him, I reclined back against the counter while he crossed his arms and leaned against the cabinet, watching me intently.
“I didn’t ask for this. Didn’t ask to take his place.
I accepted that somebody killed me. I did so much wrong in my life, and this is nothing like what I’m used to.
” I tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear; its length was a constant surprise.
“I know I’m not worth a second chance, least of all one that comes from taking over this Evan’s life. I’m sorry for that.”
Gregory’s blue eyes scrutinized my face. He lowered his guard, revealing a gentler side I hadn’t anticipated. “But you respond to the name Evan too.”
“I…” I paused. “Because that is my name. Evan Ashwyck.”
He adjusted his stance. Though his brow was heavily furrowed, pulling his gaze into a fierce line, his voice softened. “How was your world then?” The question carried genuine curiosity rather than any hint of threat.
A small smile tugged at my lips despite everything. “New York.” I turned back to check the meat, moving it around the pan. “Concrete and steel everywhere. Buildings so tall they blocked the sun. Millions of people crammed into a space smaller than this forest, all of them rushing somewhere.”
More herbs went into the mountain root, the earthy fragrance mingling with the meat’s scent as it cooked. Gregory listened without interrupting.
“No magic. No omegas or alphas. Just people trying to endure another day.” The pause stretched as I tested the doneness of the boar.
“I had a driver who never spoke to me. An assistant who scheduled my life in fifteen-minute increments. A penthouse with a view of Central Park that I only saw at night.”
I took a cloth from a small bowl of water on the counter and wiped my hands. “It’s done. How do I turn off the heat?”
Gregory waved to the stove from where he stood. The flames in the firebox died to glowing embers.
“Right. Magic.” I wanted to ask how that worked, how he summoned fire as easily as flipping a switch, but the hunger twisting my stomach won out. I decided I could ask later.
I found plates in a nearby cabinet and grabbed utensils from a drawer.
The boar was seared perfectly, juices flowing clear, and the mountain root was caramelized at the edges.
I arranged everything on the plates, and Gregory carried them to the table before returning to fill two cups with water.
As he ducked beneath the pots, his muscles flexed under his shirt.
The fabric stretched tight across his back when he leaned over to set down the cups.
“Do you have anything else to drink? Wine?” The question slipped out.
A smile broke across Gregory’s face. It was genuine and unguarded, and it completely changed him. The hardness melted away, leaving someone younger and softer. My breath caught in my chest, and my heart slammed a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
He nodded and moved to another cabinet, retrieving a dark bottle and two cups.
Dusk was falling outside, leaving the cabin in soft shadows. With a simple flick of his finger, candle wicks around the room sparked to life, their warm radiance filling the space. He poured the wine, the liquid a deep red that shimmered in the candlelight.
“Please,” he said, with a sweep of his hand toward the table. “Sit.”