Chapter 10
Ethan
Idon’t like how quiet it gets after they leave.
It isn’t the natural kind of quiet, not the soft hush of wind through the trees or snow settling into the ground. This feels different, tighter somehow, like the mountain itself is holding its breath and waiting for something to break.
Maddie feels it too.
She does not say it out loud, but I see it in the way she lingers near the window without fully stepping into the light, in the way her fingers keep brushing the edge of the counter like she needs something solid beneath them, something she can anchor herself to.
“You’re pacing,” she mutters.
I glance at her. “You’re watching the door.”
“Because you keep looking at it.”
“Because something’s off.”
Her jaw tightens. “You’ve been saying that since I got here.”
“And I’ve been right.”
That lands. I see it in the flicker of her eyes before she looks away.
I move toward the door, grabbing my jacket as the cold outside presses against the cabin like something alive, something heavy and closing in.
“I’m checking the perimeter,” I say.
“I’m coming with you.”
“No.”
Her head snaps toward me. “You don’t get to just decide that.”
“I do,” I say, stepping closer, my voice lower now. “Not out there. Not right now.”
“I’m not staying inside like I can’t handle this.”
“Like someone who wants to stay alive?” I counter.
Her eyes flash. “You’re not the only one who can handle it.”
“I didn’t say I was.”
“Then stop acting like it.”
I stop in front of her, close enough that she has to tilt her head back again, the tension between us snapping tight and immediate.
“You want to come?” I ask quietly.
“Yes.”
“Then you stay behind me. You don’t move unless I tell you to. You don’t argue. You don’t hesitate.”
Her lips part, ready to push back.
“Or you stay here,” I add.
Silence stretches between us, heavy and charged. She glares at me, heat flashing across her face, but underneath it something else flickers now, something quieter and harder to ignore.
Fear.
“Fine,” she snaps. “But you don’t get to—”
“Stay behind me,” I repeat.
She exhales sharply. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re still coming.”
That shuts her up.
I open the door and step out into the cold, the night pressing in immediately, thick and dark, the trees forming a wall just beyond the clearing. Maddie follows close behind, and I feel her before I hear her, the shift in the air, the warmth at my back.
“Stay close,” I murmur.
“Not too close,” she shoots back, but her voice is quieter now.
Good.
We move slowly, our steps careful against the ground as I track the edges of the clearing first, scanning for anything out of place. The wind has died, and that makes it worse. Every small sound stands out sharper, every shift carrying more weight.
A sound to the left.
I go still.
Maddie bumps into me, softer this time, her hand brushing my back to steady herself.
“What?” she whispers.
I don’t answer, just tilt my head slightly, listening.
There it is again.
A branch creaking under weight.
Not the wind.
Too controlled.
I move forward, slow and deliberate, each step placed with intention. Maddie stays close now, not arguing, her breathing just behind me.
We reach the tree line, and everything changes. The darkness thickens, swallowing what little light the cabin gave us. I lift a hand slightly, signaling her to stop.
She does.
I step forward alone, slipping between the trees, scanning, tracking.
And then I see him.
A shadow where there should not be one. A shift of movement just beyond the brush.
He is watching.
Closer than I thought he would risk.
My jaw tightens as I take another step.
A branch snaps behind me.
Loud.
Too loud.
My head turns instantly. “Maddie.”
She’s not where I left her. She’s only a few steps off, but it is enough, her body turned the other way like she heard something different.
“Ethan?” Her voice cuts through the dark, sharp now. “I saw—”
“Don’t move,” I snap.
Too late.
Something shifts to her right, fast and close.
She turns.
And for a split second, she sees him.
I see it in her reaction, the way her body locks, the sharp inhale that tears out of her, the way her eyes go wide.
“Oh my God—”
I’m moving before she finishes, closing the distance in two strides, grabbing her and pulling her back against me as I turn, placing myself between her and the trees.
“Inside,” I say, my voice low and controlled.
“Ethan, he—”
“I know.”
I back us up slowly, step by step, my eyes locked on the darkness where he disappeared. He’s gone now, slipped back into the trees like he was never there.
But he was.
And she saw him.
Her hands grip my arms, tight enough to hurt, her breath coming fast against my chest.
“Did you see him?” she asks, her voice breaking. “Did you—”
“Yeah.”
That is all it takes.
The composure she’s been holding onto cracks completely.
Her fingers curl into my shirt, pulling me closer like she needs something real to hold onto.
“He was right there,” she says, the words rushing out. “Ethan, he was right there—”
“I know,” I repeat, firmer this time.
I guide her back toward the cabin, keeping the pace steady, controlled. Panic makes mistakes. I will not let her make one.
Her body stays close to mine now, not resisting, not pulling away. If anything, she leans into me harder, her shoulder pressed against my chest, her grip tightening every time something shifts in the dark.
“Don’t let him—” she starts.
“I won’t.” The words come out without hesitation.
We reach the cabin, and I get her inside, shutting the door hard behind us and locking it before I turn back to her.
Her chest rises and falls quickly, her eyes wide, her hands still gripping my shirt.
“He was watching me,” she says, quieter now. “Not just… around me. Me.”
I steady her without thinking, my hand settling at her waist.
“I know.”
Her gaze snaps to mine. “This isn’t random.”
“No.”
“I know him,” she breathes.
The realization hits her hard, and I see the shift in her expression, fear turning into something deeper.
Recognition.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
Her grip tightens again, but this time she pulls me closer instead of pushing me away. For the first time since she got here, she’s not fighting me.
Her forehead presses briefly against my chest, her breath uneven.
“I thought I was imagining it,” she murmurs. “Like someone was already there before I even got here.”
“You weren’t.”
“I should have handled this before it got this far.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I should have,” she insists, pulling back just enough to look at me. “I should have seen it.”
“Stop,” I say.
Her eyes flash. “Don’t tell me to—”
“Stop blaming yourself.”
Silence falls between us, but this time it is different, not as sharp, not as suffocating.
“He’s not getting close again,” I tell her.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
Her lips part like she is about to argue, but she doesn’t.
This time, she believes me.
Or at least she wants to.
Her hands are still on me, her grip loosening slightly but not letting go, and neither of us moves to break it.
“You’re shaking,” I murmur.
“I’m not.”
I tighten my hold at her waist just enough to feel it. “Yes, you are.”
Her breath hitches, and then she exhales slowly, like she’s giving in to it.
“Don’t let him take me,” she says quietly.
Something in my chest tightens at the words.
I step closer, closing the last of the space between us, my other hand bracing against the counter beside her, caging her in without trapping her.
“He won’t,” I say.
Her gaze searches mine, something new there now, something softer, something that trusts.
And that changes everything.
The tension shifts.
Her breath brushes my jaw, warm and unsteady, her fingers sliding slightly against my shirt as she steadies herself, and then her eyes flick to my mouth.
I feel the moment before it happens.
The choice.
This time, neither of us pulls back.
I close the distance slowly, giving her time to stop me, to step away, but she doesn’t.
Her lips meet mine, tentative at first, and then deeper, slower, like everything she’s feeling has nowhere else to go. The tension from outside, the fear, the adrenaline, it all twists into something else between us, something hotter, something that pulls tighter instead of breaking.
I slide my hand up from her waist, steadying her as the kiss deepens, controlled but not restrained, and she leans into it, into me, like she needs this just as much as I do.
For a moment, everything else disappears.
No woods.
No shadow.
Just her.
Then a sharp crack echoes outside, closer than before.
We both freeze.
The moment breaks, but the shift between us doesn’t.
It stays.
Lingering.
Changing everything.