Chapter 2 #2
"That's not an answer." My voice is steadier now, my scientific mind overriding my emotional response. "These woods are huge. The odds of you just happening to ride past this exact spot at this exact time are astronomical."
"Lucky timing, I guess." He swings onto the four-wheeler, clearly trying to end this line of questioning.
"I don't believe in luck." I let the words hang in the air between us. "I believe in evidence. Data. Cause and effect."
Hunter turns to look at me over his shoulder. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying thank you," I reply carefully, "for the help. All of it."
It's not what I want to say. What I want is to demand the truth, to push until he admits what he is. But some instinct tells me that would be a mistake. Whatever secret Hunter Turner is keeping, he's not ready to share it.
And maybe I'm not ready to hear it confirmed. Not yet.
"Hold on," he says, and I barely manage to wrap my arms around his waist before the engine roars to life.
The ride back is both terrifying and exhilarating.
Hunter navigates the rough terrain with absolute confidence, never hesitating, taking paths I can barely see in the growing darkness.
The trees fly past in a blur, and I find myself pressing closer to his back, feeling the solid strength of him, the heat radiating through his shirt.
My scientific mind is cataloging everything. His elevated body temperature, his supernatural awareness of his surroundings, the way he moves with predatory grace even while operating machinery. Each observation adds to a hypothesis I'm not quite ready to articulate.
When we finally hit pavement, the transition is so smooth I barely notice it. Moments later, buildings start to appear. Old houses from what I can tell at a glance. Everything is well-maintained but lived-in, loved but not precious.
We pull into a driveway, and the house that rises before us makes me forget about wolves and injuries and impossible things for a moment.
"You live in a mansion," I breathe.
Because it is one. A proper mansion, with stone facades and large windows that glow with warm light from within.
I don't wait for him to cut the engine before swinging my good leg over, suddenly desperate to see more of this impossible house in this impossible town with this impossible man.
But Hunter is faster, dismounting and moving to my side before I can even attempt to stand on my own. He doesn't ask permission this time, just scoops me up again, cradling me against his chest.
"Put me down," I protest, clutching my bag. "I can manage."
To my surprise, he listens. He sets me carefully on my feet, keeping one hand on my elbow to steady me as I find my balance.
"We're almost there," he says, his arm sliding around my waist in a gesture that should feel presumptuous but somehow doesn't. "Three more steps and we'll reach the stairs."
I hop more than walk, aware of every point of contact between us.
His hand on my waist, my hand gripping his shoulder, the solid warmth of him supporting my weight.
When we reach the porch steps, I grab the cast-iron railing, and even through my confusion and pain, I notice the craftsmanship.
Hand-forged, probably original to the house, with details that speak of genuine artistry.
Hunter unlocks the heavy oak door and gestures for me to enter.
I hobble inside, and my eyes need a moment to adjust to the interior lighting. When they do, I can't help but stare.
The entryway is magnificent. Wood paneling covers the walls.
Dark walnut, polished to a soft gleam that speaks of generations of care.
The furniture is all heavy, masculine pieces.
A coat rack that's definitely an antique, a side table with claw feet, an umbrella stand made of brass and intricate metalwork.
But it's not a museum. There are modern touches too. There’s a jacket thrown over the coat rack, keys in a bowl on the side table, boots lined up neatly by the door. Someone lives here, really lives here, and that somehow makes it more impressive.
"This way," Hunter says, leading me through a doorway into a study.
The room takes my breath away. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line two walls, packed with leather-bound volumes and modern paperbacks, academic texts and what look like journals.
A massive desk dominates one corner, its surface organized but not obsessively neat.
Papers in stacks, a laptop, coffee rings on the wood that no amount of polish could completely hide.
Paintings cover every available wall space, dark oils in heavy frames. Most are portraits of stern-faced men and women in clothing that spans well over a century. The family resemblance is striking. Strong jaws, intense eyes, an air of command that seems to breed true across generations.
Many of the backgrounds show the local landscape.
Forests and mountains, rocky outcroppings I recognize from my research hikes.
One portrait in particular catches my attention.
It depicts a man who could be Hunter's slightly older brother, standing in front of a waterfall I've definitely seen.
The brass plate on the frame reads "Curtis Maxwell. "
"Your grandfather?" I ask, unable to look away from those familiar features.
"The last owner of the house," Hunter corrects, following my gaze. "Take a seat. I'll get my first-aid kit."
He gestures to a wide leather chair near the fireplace. Of course there's a fireplace, complete with tools that look both antique and well-used. I lower myself into the chair with a groan, and that's when the reality of my situation really hits me.
I'm alone in a strange man's house, injured and dependent, miles from anyone who knows where I am. This should terrify me. This should set off every warning bell my mother ever installed in my psyche about stranger danger and trusting your instincts.
Instead, I feel safe.
It's absurd, but there it is. Despite everything, I feel safer here than I did in my rental house last night.
"Here." Hunter reappears with a glass of water and two pills. "Ibuprofen. It'll help with the swelling and pain."
I take them gratefully, watching as he sets down what has to be the most comprehensive first-aid kit I've ever seen outside of a hospital. It's not a drugstore box. This is a serious medical supply kit, military-grade, with supplies that suggest experience with wilderness injuries.
He kneels in front of me, and I'm suddenly very aware of the picture we make. Him at my feet, looking up at me with those blue eyes, his hands gentle as they reach for my injured ankle.
"This might hurt a bit," he warns, carefully removing my muddy boot.
I brace myself, but his touch is so careful that it barely twinges. He examines the ankle with practiced efficiency, his fingers probing the bones, testing the joint's range of motion, checking for breaks.
"How did you learn to do this?" I ask, needing to fill the silence with something other than my racing thoughts.
"Growing up out here, you learn to handle injuries." His tone is casual, but there's something underneath it. "Before they opened the clinic last year, the nearest hospital was over an hour away. You get good at field medicine."
"Is that what you do? Are you a paramedic or something?"
"Or something." A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "I manage the land around Willow Creek. The territory. That includes making sure hikers and residents stay safe."
Territory. Interesting word choice.
"How much land?" I ask, genuinely curious now.
"About a hundred square miles, give or take." He says it like it's nothing, like managing that much wilderness is just a normal job.
"That's huge. How do you—" I stop, because the answer is obvious now that I think about it. You patrol it. On four legs. At speeds no human could match.
"It's a family business," he says, cutting off that line of thought. "Has been for generations. These scratches look a little deep for my liking. Mind if I clean them and put some antibiotic ointment on them?"
"That's fine." I'm about to ask more about his family when he reaches for the rubbing alcohol, and all thoughts flee as the burning sensation hits.
It's all I can do to keep from jerking my leg away, and I must make some sound because Hunter's thumbs immediately start tracing soothing circles on my calf.
"Sorry, almost done," he murmurs, his voice low and he’s surprisingly gentle for such a large man.
The gesture of comfort does more to distract me from the pain than anything else could. His hands are warm and the circles he's tracing send little sparks of sensation up my leg that have nothing to do with the injury.
"There." He caps the alcohol and reaches for the antibiotic ointment. "The worst part is over."
His touch gentles even further as he applies the ointment, and I find myself watching his face as he works. There's a concentration there, a care that suggests he's done this before. How many times has he patched up injured hikers? How many people has he rescued from his woods?
And how many of them knew what he really was?
"How did you find me out there?" I ask again, unable to let it go. "Really."
Hunter's hands pause for just a fraction of a second before continuing their work. His blue eyes don't quite meet mine when he answers. "I told you. I was out checking my property. I caught a glimpse of something moving quickly through the woods and went to investigate."
"That must have been one of the wolves."
The words hang in the air between us. I watch his reaction carefully, cataloging every micro-expression.
His eyebrow rises, but his surprise seems calculated, controlled. "Wolves? Probably a large dog. A lot of people around here let them roam through the woods."
"They were definitely wolves." I keep my voice steady, matter-of-fact. "I can tell a dog from a wolf. I've studied enough biology to know the difference. Plus they were easily over a hundred pounds each. The body structure, the face shape, the way they moved. Those were wolves."