Chapter 33 Cabin of Last Light
“How is he doing?” I whisper in the doorway of Grayson’s room right before I leave the hospital at the end of my shift.
The little boy is fast asleep, clutching Bruce, the stuffed Dalmatian, in his arms.
“Hanging in there,” his mom says, her eyes red-rimmed and tired. “He’s next on the transplant list. Just need to wait a little bit longer, then—”
She hiccups, tears welling in her eyes. “I’m sorry—”
“Oh, honey,” I whisper, pulling her into my arms. “I’m sorry for what you’re going through. People like to put moms on pedestals.” My voice roughens. “But it’s okay to fall apart. Who says you have to be a saint? You’re human, that’s all.”
These were the same words Ren told me as Ghostface all those weeks ago when I was standing on the rooftop of Arcana & Bloom, feeling lost and numb.
Not living.
I miss him. It’s been three weeks since we last spoke, and while I feel his presence sometimes, I haven’t seen him once. True to his word, he’s left me space to be angry, to hate him.
But time has only made the shape of his absence clearer.
“Thanks for checking on us, Aria,” Grayson’s mom says, drawing me back to the present.
I clear my throat and strain a smile. “Of course. It’s the least I can do. I look forward to the day of never seeing you guys in these halls again.”
“Right, same here.” She squares her shoulders, her eyes taking on a determined light before disappearing back into the room.
Needing some quiet time, I take the stairs instead of the elevator. Thoughts of Ren keep me company as I trudge down the steps, my footfalls echoing against the sterile walls.
Last week, during one of my sleepless nights, I called Tristan because I needed to know the truth.
Did Ren really kill Blake?
The FBI agent finally got back to me. He looked into the strange sunflower email, but that went nowhere.
The IP address was masked. Tristan also checked the Bureau’s database—it took some time because the files were classified—but the bullet that severed Blake’s trachea didn’t come from Ren’s weapon. It came from an unmarked Glock.
Ren didn’t kill Blake.
He did turn his gun in time.
Does that change anything? Ren’s intention was to kill Blake. He lied to me by not telling me the truth. He invaded my privacy and took my choice away.
But the more time passes, the harder it is for me to be angry with him.
Because everything he did, he did out of love for Celia, for the young woman with a spark that refuses to die. And somewhere deep inside me…I understand. If someone had threatened Grandma when she was alive, I would’ve done anything to keep her safe.
Even things I couldn’t live with.
“What a mess,” I mutter as I make a turn. One more flight of stairs to the ground floor.
That’s when I hear it.
A faint echo of footsteps mimicking mine.
I freeze.
The footsteps also stop.
I go down another step.
There it is again, the same faint echo that isn’t mine.
I peer at the flight of stairs I just came down from, spotting a flash of someone short in a ski mask.
Someone decidedly not Ren.
A scream catches, and I barrel down the stairs, terror propelling my legs. The footfalls behind me are loud now, the stalker not trying to hide anymore.
I spot the gray placard with the letter G in the distance. A few more steps, and I’ll be out where people are. I can get help.
But he’s too fast. The man leaps over a railing and lands right behind me. In a split second, he has my hair in his grip. Pain rips across my scalp.
A glint of silver flashes in the air—a knife.
I scream and brace my hands in front of me as the man swings the blade down.
A loud bang crashes against the wall.
Someone throws himself in front of me. A pained grunt rips from my rescuer when the knife slices through skin and muscle. The distinct scent of amber and leather floods my nose.
Ren.
Relief hits first. Horror follows when I see the knife in his back.
Then I’m free, my back plastered against the railing.
The two men grapple with each other.
In three moves, Ren has the shorter man in a rear-naked choke. A knife still protrudes from Ren’s upper back—the knife meant for me.
With his steely gaze pinned on me, Ren twists the assailant’s neck—hard.
The ugly snap echoes through the stairwell.
The man crashes to the floor. I don’t need to check to know he’s dead, given the strange angle of his head.
Ren reaches for the knife at his back.
I scramble toward him. “Don’t pull—”
“He hit muscle. It’s fine.” With a hiss, he yanks out the knife and slides it into his boot.
Ren crouches, rolls up the dead man’s sleeve, and takes a photo. Then he hauls the corpse downstairs and dumps him in the small alcove, mostly out of sight.
His movements are efficient. Practiced. Terrifyingly calm.
Barely breaking a sweat, Ren reaches me in a few strides, throws me over his good shoulder, and walks out the door as if the knife wound is nothing but an inconvenience.
The usual ruckus in the lobby beats against my eardrums—children crying, patients groaning, wheelchairs squeaking, and the damn metal detectors shrieking.
“I can walk.” I nudge him. “You’re injured!”
“Too slow.”
“We’re not in a rush. Set me down.” I yank at his impossibly thick arm to no avail.
“In case you didn’t notice, I got stabbed, and I just killed someone,” he says, a small smile hitching his lips. “I’d say we’re definitely in a rush.”
“You’re pale,” I snap, “and if you bleed out on me, I’m dragging your ridiculously heavy body back to the ER myself.”
Ren chuckles as he carries me past the security checkpoint like a god. The guards part, letting him breeze through because, of course, his reach includes this too.
I spot Rachel in the far corner, her eyes comically wide as she gapes at us.
I groan. There’s no way I can explain this.
“Let me go this instant, Ren I-don’t-even-know-what-your-last-name-is,” I hiss, then frown when his complexion pales. “I’m too heavy and you’re hurt.”
“Sima,” he mutters and tightens his hold on me. “And I’m fine.”
“What?”
“My last name. It’s Sima.” He sets me on the seat of a sleek motorcycle and slides a helmet over my head.
Sima. He told me his last name.
A thick emotion seizes my throat, and tears burn my eyes.
It’s just a last name. Everyone has one. I shouldn’t overreact.
But he’s never told anyone before. And he’s telling you.
The motorcycle shakes as he climbs onto the seat. The movement draws my attention back to the man himself.
“Wh-What are you doing? I’m going home.” Baffled, I swing my legs to the side, but he stops me.
“You didn’t check your texts. You aren’t going home.” He rearranges me back onto the bike and adjusts the straps of my helmet. Then he shrugs off his leather jacket and puts it on me. “Don’t move.”
What on earth?
I grab my phone and, sure enough, there are two missed calls from Lana and one from Tristan, along with a text message.
Tristan
Gas leak at your apartment building, residents evacuated. Circumstances suspicious. Can’t rule out that this is a ploy to get you. Your place isn’t safe for now. Ren’s picking you up.
Ren starts the engine. He wraps my arms around his waist.
“Hold tight.” His voice comes through the helmet—he must have Bluetooth installed. “I’ll take you somewhere safe to wait this out.”
“Where?” The bike lurches, and he tears out of the parking lot. “Just take me to Lana’s.”
“Elias is out of town. And he’s protective of her.”
Oh right. I’m a target. The dealer of secrets would set the world ablaze before he’d let anyone harm even a hair on Lana’s head.
“The safe house then.” Squeezing my eyes shut, I focus on the solid heat of his body as he expertly weaves us through traffic, barely slowing down.
“No. You’ve used it once. To be safe, we won’t go there.”
He’s quiet after that, not answering my questions, only patting my thigh or squeezing my hands as the city lights fade into darkness. His shirt is stained with blood, but I’ve been checking the spread against the fabric and it has slowed. He’s probably right. It has to be a muscle injury.
Dark shapes of towering trees loom on either side of us.
The stars wink from the nighttime sky. Ren keeps driving, taking us away from civilization, away from danger, past shaded hollows into timbered hills and limestone bluffs.
With the whir of the engine in my ears, the rumbling of the bike between my thighs, and the solid column of him plastered against my front, the tears come before I can stop them.
My heart is full—too full.
I’ve missed him. Against all logic, I’ve missed him.
Somewhere along the way, he’s become the vibrant colors in my drab world.
Tears overflow, and they soak the back of his shirt.
Wordlessly, he lifts my hand, places it on his chest, and presses down.
Letting me feel him. The steady thumping of his heart beneath his skin.
His finger traces over the back of my hand. Firm strokes, quick flicks, just like what he’d done multiple times before.
A promise pressed onto my skin.
“What are you writing?” I whisper.
While he doesn’t answer me, he gives my hand a firm squeeze.
Before long, we coast to a stop, and he parks the bike behind a tall bush. After taking off our helmets and stowing them away, Ren leads me down a winding dirt path with nothing but the clear moonlight guiding the way.
Twigs crackle beneath my feet. Crickets chirp. Water laps against rocks somewhere in the dark.
Then I see it.
A small log cabin waits in the distance, solitary among the vast wilderness.
Ren makes a sound as he tugs down his half mask, his eyes taking on a faraway glint.
A soft, sad smile curves his lips.
My attention darts back to the weathered structure ahead, and I gasp.
It’s the cabin.
The place he was afraid to return to.
The memory of his parents he didn’t want this brutal world to ruin.
And now he’s risking that memory…for me.