CHAPTER 4 – Rafe
The walls are closing in.
Not literally. The cabin isn’t shrinking, but it feels like it is.
The air is thick, the heat from the fire pressing in on me, making my skin itch.
I can hear the wood crackling, the occasional shift of embers settling in the hearth, but it only adds to the suffocation.
The low ceiling feels lower, the walls seem closer, and the steady tick of the clock drills into my skull like a countdown I can’t stop.
I shouldn’t be here.
I can’t be here.
I flex my fingers, curling them into fists, then releasing, trying to ground myself. My breath comes slow, measured, but I can still feel the panic clawing at the edges of my mind.
This isn’t the first time I’ve woken up somewhere I don’t belong. But it’s the first time in a long time I haven’t been tied to a chair, bleeding out in some basement.
That doesn’t mean I’m safe.
I drag a hand through my hair, my fingers trembling slightly. The cabin is too quiet, the warmth pressing in on me like a weighted blanket I can’t shake off.
I used to crave quiet. Silence was survival.
But this silence? This isn’t the absence of danger. It’s the presence of something else. Something worse.
Comfort. That is bad. Comfort is how you get killed. It is how I was ambushed in the first place.
The scent of cedar and smoke lingers in the air, mixing with something soft—something unmistakably hers. It’s not perfume. It’s just her. And it makes my skin crawl.
I can’t fucking breathe.
I glance toward the window. Outside, the trees sway under the night sky, leaves whispering secrets to the wind. The scent of rain-soaked earth and pine seeps through the wooden walls, mixing with the lingering smoke of the fire. It calls to me.
The night.
The cold.
The freedom.
I need to get out of here.
Not just because I hate feeling weak.
Not just because I hate that someone had to save me.
But because if I stay here any longer, I’ll start wanting to.
The thought digs into me, deeper than the pain in my leg, deeper than the aches in my ribs. Wanting something, someone, means weakness. And I can’t afford to be weak.
I roll my shoulders, testing my ribs. Still sore, still bruised, but not broken. My leg is the worst of it, the bullet wound still fresh, but I can move.
And that’s all I need.
I shift my weight onto my uninjured leg, slowly rising to stand. My vision darkens at the edges, a wave of nausea slamming into me like a freight train. My pulse hammers against my skull, my body protesting the movement with sharp, immediate pain.
I grit my teeth. Breathe. Adjust. Adapt.
The room tilts for half a second before settling.
Good enough.
My muscles lock up, spasming under the strain. A sharp, searing pain flares through my side, the fresh stitches pulling tight against my skin like barbed wire.
I clench my jaw, swallowing down a groan.
Pain means I’m alive.
Pain means I can still move.
I suck in a slow breath and shift forward, gripping the back of the chair with white-knuckled fingers. My vision pulses, the room swimming in and out of focus. A cold sweat breaks across my brow, and for a second, I wonder if I’m going to black out before I even make it to the door.
Not an option.
I tighten my grip and push harder.
I reach for the chair beside me, using it for balance. My muscles scream in protest, my stitches pulling tight against the torn skin beneath them. Sweat beads at my temples, my body locking up in pain before I force it to move again.
But I don’t stop.
Because I don’t belong here.
Because she’s making me forget who I am.
And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.
I glance toward the bathroom, where she is.
The woman who saved me.
Emilia.
She can’t hear me. She is running a bath for herself. She must be tired.
I shouldn’t care.
But for some fucking reason, I do.
And that’s why I have to go.
I exhale slowly, step forward, test my weight again. My leg protests, hard and sharp, but I swallow the pain and push forward.
I make it to the door.
My hand closes around the handle.
I pull.
A voice in the back of my mind whispers that this is a mistake.
That I’m not ready. That I’m about to collapse in the damn doorway like some pathetic half-dead animal.
But I shove that thought aside.
I’ve crawled through worse.
The door groans on its hinges, the sound cutting through the silence like a gunshot.
And then—
The wind crashes into me.
Cold, fresh, biting against my fevered skin.
And it feels like freedom.
I step out into the night.
The first step is easy.
The second, less so.
By the third, I realize just how fucked I am.
The mud pulls at my boots, the uneven ground shifting beneath me. The trees blur together, the wind hissing through their branches, whispering warnings I don’t have time to heed.
I need to move.
I need to get away.
The pain grows sharper, like knives tearing through my leg, every movement a punishment for my stupidity.
But I keep going.
Each step is a battle.
The mud sucks at my boots, the cold slicing through my fevered skin like a blade. Every shift of weight sends a fresh bolt of agony through my thigh, the wound throbbing in time with my pulse.
I clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches, my breath coming in ragged, uneven bursts.
Move.
Keep moving.
Because I know what happens when you stop.
When you get comfortable.
When you trust the wrong people.
And I sure as hell am not making that mistake again.
I don’t have a destination. I don’t need one. I just need to be anywhere but here.
But with every dragging step, my body betrays me.
The trees blur. The ground tilts.
And then—
I’m falling.
The world fucking tilts.
Darkness claws at my vision, pain sinking its teeth deeper into my flesh. The wound in my leg pulses like a second heartbeat, hot and angry.
My body gives out.
I hit the ground, my breath punching from my lungs as the cold mud soaks into my clothes.
Fucking hell.
I slam into the dirt, my body seizing as pain explodes through my leg. My ribs protest the impact, sharp daggers of agony radiating outward with every breath.
I try to push myself up, but my arms shake violently, my muscles refusing to cooperate.
I grit my teeth, frustration mixing with exhaustion.
This isn’t the first time I’ve ended up face-down in the mud.
But it sure as hell better be the last.
I try to move, but my muscles don’t respond.
My fingers dig into the earth, but I can’t pull myself up.
And then I hear footsteps.
And then—
"You are such an idiot."
Her voice is sharp, cutting through the haze clouding my brain.
I force my eyes open, blinking against the rain dripping from her loose hair. She’s staring down at me, hands on her hips, her breath visible in the cold air.
She looks ready to kill me.
Or drag me back inside and do it later.
"Jesus Christ, Rafe," she mutters, crouching beside me. "Did you really think this was going to work?"
I glare up at her. "Would’ve worked if I hadn’t—"
She scoffs. "What? Been shot?"
Fair point.
But I’ll be damned if I say it out loud.
Her arms are crossed, her expression a mix of exasperation and something else.
She looks pissed.
"You done?" she asks.
I glare at her. "Fuck you."
"That’s a no, then."
I grit my teeth as she moves, gripping my shoulders and trying to haul me up.
She’s smaller than me—too small to be dealing with my dead weight—but she’s stronger than she looks.
Or maybe I’m just too weak to fight her off.
Either way, I end up leaning against her, my pride screaming in protest.
"You’re bleeding again," she mutters, shifting her grip as she starts dragging me back toward the cabin.
I barely register the words.
My head is swimming, my limbs heavy. My body fights against me, every movement slow and sluggish as Emilia pulls me up.
The cabin is too far. The fire too bright.
The warmth of her hands against my arm is the only thing grounding me.
I fucking hate it.
But I don’t let go.
Because right now, I can’t.
I hate the weakness. The vulnerability.
I hate that she’s right.
I hate that I fucking need her.
By the time we make it back to the cabin, I’m half-delirious.
The heat of the fire slams into me like a wall, my skin burning from the sudden shift in temperature.
Emilia grunts as she lowers me onto the couch.
She doesn’t speak.
Not at first.
Then"What the hell were you thinking?"
I open my mouth, but she cuts me off.
"Actually, no, I know what you were thinking," she snaps. "You were thinking you’re some kind of indestructible badass who can just walk off a fucking bullet wound."
I scowl. "It’s been worse."
She glares. "That is not the point."
I close my eyes, letting my head rest against the couch.
My body is on fire.
Not in a good way.
"You could have torn your stitches, bled out, passed out in the woods and died like an idiot."
I smirk, though it’s weak. "Would’ve saved you the trouble."
Her nostrils flare.
For a second, I think she might actually hit me.
She turns away, grabbing the medical supplies from the counter.
I lost this round.
But I won’t lose the next.
Because as soon as I’m strong enough—
I’m leaving for good.
Because if I stay…
I might not be able to leave again.
That’s the real danger.
Not the bullet wound. Not the men who put it there.
But the way she looks at me—like I’m something more than just a ghost trying to outrun his past.
I don’t get to be that.
I don’t get to want things.
And if I stay here long enough, I might forget why.