Chapter Seven #3
“Long night?” I ask.
“Long season,” he answers as I slide some cash across the counter for him. He nods at me, our business done, and I lift the containers without effort, carrying them out into the dark.
The blood goes into the cooler in the truck bed.
Insurance, sustenance, a bridge between her current state and whatever control we manage to build in the coming days.
I slide back into the truck, glancing over at her to see she is still knocked out.
So, I turn over the engine and drive. The wilderness swallows the road by increments, pavement giving way to gravel, gravel surrendering to dirt, civilization thinning until the only signs of human presence are the tire tracks I’m currently creating.
Trees close in on both sides, old growth that predates the founding of this country, branches forming canopy overhead that filters daylight into something gentler, greener, ancient.
Pack territory.
The land recognizes me before I’ve driven half a mile past the invisible boundary my ancestors marked generations ago. Something in the air shifts… the forest itself acknowledging lycan presence and responding accordingly.
Charlie stirs in the passenger seat, her unconscious body reacting to the change in atmosphere even if her conscious mind remains locked in Hades’ imposed sleep.
Dawn breaks as the cabin comes into view.
Morning crawls over the trees in streaks of gold, probably pretty if I had the time to give a shit about scenery instead of the scion vampire beside me who’ll get a wicked sunburn if sunlight hits her in the condition she’s in.
New vampires burn, not fast or painfully, but their bodies haven’t developed the tolerance Originals possess, haven’t learned the tricks that let older vampires tolerate exposure without learning to endure the sun.
Think of it more as a sunburn, but she will be able to tolerate it fully.
All vampires can—the sunlight-kills-vampires ideology is a myth.
It’s like when you’re new, it’s more of an ache to their newly scion skin, which eventually dulls over time.
I park as close to the cabin’s entrance as the terrain allows, killing the engine and moving with speed that has nothing to do with urgency but everything to do with the clock counting down until Hades’ spell breaks and Charlie wakes in an unfamiliar place with her hunger still screaming and no idea where she is or why her skin is suddenly feeling hot instead of cold.
The cabin key hides where it always has, tucked beneath the third stone on the porch’s left side.
The door opens on hinges that creak in ways that would bother someone who cared about stealth, revealing interior space that’s exactly as I remember it.
One main room, a kitchen area against the far wall, a stone fireplace, and furniture built for function rather than comfort.
A hallway leading to two bedrooms and a bathroom with running water, courtesy of a well and septic system my grandfather installed decades ago.
Rustic, isolated, and perfect for what we need.
I carry Charlie inside, her body still limp in my arms, her weight distributed in ways that make the task easier than it should be.
The bedroom on the left has reinforced windows, the kind designed to withstand lycan strength during full moons, shifts when control becomes optional, and walls strong enough to contain what we become.
Curtains hang heavy and thick, blocking potential sunlight with multiple layers.
I lower her onto the bed, arranging her limbs with more care than necessary, smoothing her hair back from her face even though she won’t notice the gesture.
Her eyes snap open.
And Hades’ spell unravels instantly.
She inhales out of habit even though she doesn’t need to, pupils contracting hard as awareness slams back into place. For a second, she lies there, staring at the ceiling like she’s listing every sensation hitting her at once.
One second she’s the stillness Hades left behind, the next her eyes are open, and her body is locked, and her fangs have punched down from her gums on reflex, and she is looking at the ceiling like she’s trying to figure out whether she’s still alive, whatever that means for something like her.
I feel it through the bond before I see it on her face.
The jolt of disorientation hits hard, her senses sweeping over a room she doesn’t recognize.
The moment she notices the one heartbeat in the building and locates it at me across the room.
The instant her hand moves to check her own clothes because she doesn’t remember the last several hours and needs to know her body is still hers.
I record all of it.
I do not move.
“Charlotte.”
Her eyes cut to me. Red, scared underneath, furious further under that. And beneath the fury, something I’m not going to name out loud because it’s barely formed in her yet and she deserves to recognize it before I do.
“Nothing happened while you were under,” I say, because it’s the first thing she needs to hear and waiting for her to ask would be cruel. “I drove. I stopped once for supplies. I brought you here. That’s the whole account of what I did with you.”
She watches me. Her hand hasn’t left her ribs, but then her hand drops. Her shoulders ease a fraction, not trust, but the absence of active fear, and I’ll take it. I would take less.
Then she groans. “Oh good,” she mutters, dragging a hand over her face. “Cabin in the woods. Exactly where every bad decision starts.”
My mouth almost moves, but I don’t let it. She’s not ready for me to find her funny yet. She’s barely ready to be in a room with me.
Her gaze slides to me, sharp and assessing instead of frightened. Hunger burns in the red creeping through her irises, but underneath it is recognition.
“You weren’t kidding,” she says hoarsely. “You actually did it.”
“I told you I would,” I answer carefully.
She pushes herself upright slower this time, shoulders tight, jaw set like she’s bracing against the ache inside her.
“Yeah, yeah, I remember,” she says, voice rough but edged with dry humor.
“Magic nap, dramatic relocation, broody wolf guy playing chauffeur…” Her eyes flick over the room.
“Could’ve warned me the décor screams ‘serial killer Airbnb,’ though. ”
“Previous guests rated it highly.”
She stares at me. “Did you just make a joke?”
“No.”
“That was absolutely a joke.” She points at me. “You’re funnier than you look.”
Despite everything, the corner of my mouth almost twitches.
She swings her legs over the side of the bed, pausing when the hunger hits her hard enough that her fingers curl into the blanket.
“Okay,” she breathes, half to herself. “Still starving. Still angry. Still… whatever the hell this is.” Her gaze snaps back to mine.
“But before you give me the ‘trust me’ speech, just know I’m grading your performance very harshly right now. ”
“I’m aware,” I say dryly.
She huffs a soft laugh that turns into a frustrated growl, fangs pressing down from her gums as the hunger surges again. “You said cabin. You said pack territory,” she continues, rubbing her temples. “I remember agreeing. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“That’s fair.”
“And just so we’re clear…” she adds, pointing at me with a trembling finger, “… if you try anything weird, I will absolutely bite you out of spite. Hunger or no hunger.”
“I’m not here to hurt you, Charlotte,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Or control you. I’m here to help you survive this.”
Her eyes narrow, studying me like she’s trying to decide whether I’m full of shit. “Survive,” she repeats softly, the humor slipping for a moment.
The weight of what she’s become presses in, visible in the way her shoulders tighten.
“I’m not asking you to trust me blindly,” I continue. “Just give me one week. That’s all I’m asking. If at the end of that you want to leave, I won’t stop you. Your choice.”
She watches me for a long moment, hunger and skepticism wrestling behind her eyes. “One week,” she says slowly. “You get seven days of me not trying to bolt or eat anyone.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
“And after that, I can walk?” she presses.
“You can walk.”
Silence stretches between us, tense but no longer hostile.
Finally, she nods.
Reluctant but real.
“Fine,” she says, exhaling. “Seven days. Don’t make me regret it.”