Chapter 6
Alexandria
Iturn off the water and step out, wrapping myself in my towel. The air cools fast without the steam. I’m shivering as I open my backpack and pull out my gym kit—black leggings, a fitted tank, a sweatshirt. Clothes that feel like mine. Clothes I chose for myself.
I dress quickly, then shove my cleaning uniform deep inside, burying it out of sight.
I wipe the steam off the mirror with my cuff. As I drag a comb through my wet hair, I survey my reflection in the yellowish light. I look worn out, pale with dark shadows beneath my eyes.
It’s been a long, long day, and it’s not over yet. Adrenaline prickles in my stomach at the thought of what else might be waiting.
I stand there, hand on the handle.
Three of them out there.
I don’t know what I’m walking into.
He said I’d be safe here.
I square my shoulders and reach for the door handle.
I try to open the bathroom door quietly, but it groans, wood rasping against the floorboards. I cringe as the sound carries down the hall, announcing my arrival.
The air in the hallway is even colder, but when I open the kitchen door, a rush of warmth greets me. There’s a fire in the hearth now, and a lamp perched on a battered crate gives out a weak glow.
The men are all fully dressed. Denim, leather boots, faded shirts stretched over rippling muscles. Orson crouches by the hearth, shoulders broad and steady as he arranges a log with what looks like intense concentration.
Torin leans against the counter, a knife flashing in his hand as he slices into a gigantic hunk of meat on a cutting board.
And Gunnar.
He stands in the center of the room, arms loose at his sides, as if he’s been waiting.
When I shut the door and come into the light, his gaze locks onto me.
I feel his awareness sliding over me—my dripping hair, my tight workout gear. His hand flexes at his side.
“Better?” he asks.
His voice is low, roughened around the edges.
“Yes.”
The word comes out steady.
“Human survived the wilderness spa,” Torin says, glancing between us. “Guess the boiler’s holding.”
“Don’t jinx it,” Orson mutters from the fire without turning around.
For a moment, the only sound is the crackle and pop of burning wood.
My gaze drifts back to Gunnar, despite myself. He’s still watching me.
My pulse kicks harder. I don’t look away.
“We’ve been cooking,” he says, and turns toward the kitchen.
“That’s what he calls it, anyway,” Torin says. He turns back to the counter and continues chopping up the meat. It looks dark and gamey.
A pan waits on the stove. When he drops the first pieces in, fat sizzles against hot iron.
The smell spreads through the room almost immediately—rich, savory, delicious.
My stomach growls.
Great. Apparently, now is the moment my body remembers I haven’t eaten since yesterday.
Torin glances up, smirking.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“Nothing wrong with an appetite.” Gunnar scowls at Torin.
More pieces go into the pan, along with some chopped onions and carrots.
Orson straightens from the hearth, disappears out the back and returns with a beer. He pops the cap off with his teeth and lets it lie where it falls. Then he tips his head back and swigs most of it straight down, the muscles in his throat working.
“Yeah, I’d love one, bro,” Gunnar says. “Thanks for asking.”
I blink, caught off guard. And he looks different with those little crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes.
Gunnar also goes to what looks like a utility room and pulls out three beers. He hands one to me. “First rule of surviving a bad day.”
There are two sharp pops as more caps hit the floor.
I grasp the bottle, staring at it dazedly. I don’t usually drink beer. Always been more of an espresso martini girl.
Gunnar frowns. “Can’t open it?”
“Not if I want to keep my teeth.”
He snatches it, pops it expertly and hands it back. I take a sip.
It goes down cold, then warms as it hits my stomach, taking the edge off.
Torin lifts the pan off the stove and carries it to the table, setting it down on a thick wooden board that looks like it might once have been part of the floor.
He slides into the chair across from me and nudges the pan closer with the handle of his knife.
“Help yourself,” he says.
“What is it?”
“Deer. Hunted yesterday,” Orson says.
“By you… as a bear?” I blurt out.
“Yup.” He puffs his chest out.
I blink. Guess I shouldn’t be so shocked. I mean, how else would they hunt their meat than with their gigantic grizzly fangs?
The three of them are watching me.
Gunnar hasn’t sat down yet.
He’s leaning against the counter, arms folded, his gaze moving between the pan and me.
Finally, he pushes away from the counter and crosses the room.
Orson stops twirling the knife between his fingers. Torin shifts back in his chair.
Gunnar drops into the chair at the head of the table.
“Thanks for joining us,” Torin quips.
Gunnar grunts in response.
I hesitate, sensing them waiting.
Then I reach for the serving fork and spear a piece of the meat.
I blow on it and take a bite. I don’t even wait for it to cool properly. I close my eyes for a second.
When I open them again, Torin is looking at me expectantly.
“That good?”
“Yup.”
“Don’t have to sound so surprised,” he says.
I reach for another piece.
He lets out a quiet huff.
I barely register it. The meat is smoky and rich and salty, and suddenly I’m eating like someone who hasn’t seen food in days.
Across the table, there’s a shift in Gunnar’s expression, as the hard set of his mouth eases.
He spears another piece of meat and drops it onto my plate. “That one’s good,” he mutters.
The piece is thicker than the others, darker at the edges where it caught the heat. I cut into it and take a bite.
It’s ridiculously tender, the meat almost melting as I chew.
When I finally glance up again, Gunnar is still watching me. Those faint crinkles have appeared at the corners of his eyes again.
“Special treatment already,” Torin quips.
Orson gives out a snort.
“She’s hungry,” Gunnar grunts.
Torin leans back in his chair, studying me. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s why.”
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. “What does that mean?”
Torin opens his mouth—
Gunnar kicks him.
Torin winces and grins at the same time. “Nothing,” he says quickly. “Means absolutely nothing.”
Orson mutters something under his breath, scrapes his chair back and shoves another log into the fire.
But when I glance back at Gunnar, he’s watching me again.
I have no idea what just happened.