Chapter 7 #2
Hope, sharp and unfamiliar, unfurled in his chest. She wasn’t afraid of him. Wasn’t disgusted by what he’d done. If anything, her eyes held nothing but fierce approval, and the sight made his heart race.
But hope was dangerous. Hope made him want to close the distance between them, to pull her against his chest and never let go. Hope made him think about carrying her back to the pallet and showing her exactly how much she meant to him.
Control. He needed distance before his instincts got the better of him.
He stood, moving away from her touch. The cabin felt too small, the air too thick with her presence and the heat from the fire. He needed something to focus on besides the way she looked at him like he was worth something.
The restless energy from the Legion made it impossible to sit still. He paced to the window, then back to the fire, hyperaware of every detail around them. Something had been nagging at him since yesterday. There were little details that didn’t add up.
His eyes swept the interior with new focus.
The construction was too good for ferals…
he’d noticed that yesterday. But now he saw other things.
Like the way the walls were lined with woven rushes, creating insulation against the cold, and the careful placement of the window to maximize light and warmth.
This wasn’t some random shelter. Someone had built this place to last.
A section of rushes near the back wall that didn’t quite match the others caught his eye. The weaving was looser, the color different.
He moved closer, running his fingers along the edge. The rushes shifted under pressure, revealing a gap behind them. He pulled the section free, exposing a small alcove carved into the wall.
Inside was a trunk.
The wood was rough but functional, sealed with tree sap to keep out moisture. Crude hinges held the lid in place. When he lifted it, the smell of dried herbs and old fur filled the air.
Clothes. Small enough to fit Michelle.
The garments were primitive but well-made... a leather tunic and leggings, fur-lined boots, a heavy cloak with bone toggles. Everything a female would need to survive in the wilderness.
His blood chilled.
“Zeke?” Michelle’s voice was cautious. “What is it?”
He lifted the tunic, holding it up to catch the light. The leather was supple, well-maintained. Recently used.
“Someone else has been here,” he said quietly. “Recently.”
Michelle stared at the clothes Zeke had pulled from the hidden trunk. The leather tunic felt supple between her fingers, worn soft from use. The stitching was crude but functional, made with sinew and bone needles.
“They look about your size,” Zeke said quietly.
She held the tunic up against her body. The sleeves would hit her wrists perfectly, the hem falling to mid-thigh.
“Where is she?” Michelle’s voice came out smaller than she intended. “The woman who wore these?”
“What makes you think it was a female?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
She pointed to the garments in her hands. “Look at the size. The cut. These weren’t made for a man.”
His jaw tightened. A muscle jumped beneath sun-bronzed skin as he stared at the garments. “There are no Izaean women.”
“What do you mean?”
“The mutation only affects Latharian males.” His voice went flat. “There have never been female Izaean.”
The words echoed in her mind, each one a hammer blow. If there were no Izaean women, then who had made these clothes? Who had lived in this cabin?
A bead of sweat rolled down his chest, hijacking her attention like she was a damned teen girl faced with her first crush.
The morning light streamed through the window, highlighting every ridge and valley of muscle.
Dark hair dusted the center of his pectorals, trailing down in a line that disappeared beneath his belt.
Her mouth went dry and all she could think about was the feel of that chest pressed against her back all night.
The weight of his arm around her waist and the thick length of his cock pressed against her spine.
Focus. She needed to focus.
“I should try them on,” she said, clutching the garments against her chest. “In case we need to leave quickly.”
He nodded and his gaze darkened as it swept over her, his pupils dilating. The intensity made her skin prickle with awareness.
“Turn around,” she whispered.
His broad shoulders tensed as he faced the wall, hands clenched at his sides. The simple act of giving her privacy sent warmth through her, intimate and charged.
She peeled off his shirt, the fabric carrying his scent… something wild and masculine that made her head spin. Cool air kissed her bare skin, raising goosebumps along her arms. Behind her, his breathing changed, growing rougher.
The leather tunic slipped over her head like it was made for her. Soft fur caressed her skin as she worked the bone toggles, the garment molding to her curves. The leggings came next, buttery leather that hugged her legs. Even the boots fit perfectly, fur lining warm against her feet.
“Okay,” she said softly.
When he turned, fire blazed in his eyes as they traced every line of her body in the primitive clothing. His nostrils flared, and she caught a flash of raw possession in his gaze that made her pulse spike.
“Perfect fit,” he said, his voice thicker than before.
She smoothed her hands down the tunic, aware of how his attention followed the movement. The leather was practical and well-made. Exactly the kind of thing she needed to survive in this wilderness.
Moving to the fire, he added fuel with sharp, controlled movements. The flames leaped higher, casting dancing shadows across the wall opposite. “We’ll eat, then check the area.”
They settled on the pallet with their plates, the space humming with tension between them. She tried to focus on the food, the nutty breadfruit, the sweet tubers, but her eyes kept drifting to him. The skin of his torso was covered in old scars that told stories she wanted to hear.
“Eight years old,” she said, the words bursting out of her. “They sent you away when you were eight.”
His fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Michelle—”
“No.” Fury blazed through her chest, hot and righteous. “Don’t defend them. You were a baby. A little boy who needed his family, not exile.”
She thought of her own children when they’d been eight… Lily with her gap-toothed grin, and Edward with his collection of dinosaur books. She would have torn apart anyone who tried to take them from her… would have fought armies to keep her babies safe.
“It was necessary.” His voice stayed level, but she caught the tension in his shoulders. “The blood rage is dangerous. People could have been hurt.”
“Where was your mother?” The question tore out of her. “How did she let them take you?”
Something flickered across his features, too fast to catch, but raw enough to make her heart ache.
“The system works,” he repeated, but his voice had gone hollow.
“Bullshit.” She leaned forward, her hand finding his forearm. His skin was warm beneath her palm, muscles tense as steel cable. “You were eight. Eight-year-olds need comfort and security, not military training and isolation.”
He stared down at her small hand on his arm. When he looked up, his gaze held something vulnerable, something that made her chest tight with emotion.
“No one ever questioned it before,” he said quietly.
“Well, I’m questioning it now.” Her grip tightened on his arm, feeling the steady pulse beneath his skin. “What they did to you was wrong. Child or not, blood rage or not, you deserved better.”
The silence between them thickened, charged with everything she’d said and everything he hadn’t. His free hand covered hers and the contact sent electricity racing up her arm.
“You’re the first person to say that,” he murmured.
Fire filled his eyes as he looked at her, and her breath caught at the intensity of his stare, the way he looked at her like she was something precious. Something worth protecting.
The space between them seemed to shrink. She could smell his skin—salt and something that made her want to press closer. Her eyes dropped to his mouth, remembering how his lips had felt against her forehead during the fever. What would they feel like against hers?
He’s so young, part of her whispered. And you’re—
Alive, another part answered fiercely. And he wants you. Look at how he’s looking at you.
His thumb traced across her knuckles, the gentle touch making her shiver. His breathing had gone shallow, pupils wide with need.
Her name was a rough whisper on his lips.
She leaned closer, drawn by the blaze in his eyes, the way his scent wrapped around her like a physical thing. His hand slid up her arm, fingers trailing fire across her skin through the leather.
A sharp crack outside shattered the moment.
His head snapped toward the window, every muscle in his body going taut.
“What was that?” she whispered.
“Could be nothing.” But his voice carried deadly focus now. “Or it could be the traps.”
He stood in one fluid motion, muscles coiling as he prepared for action. She watched the transformation… from vulnerable man to lethal predator in the space of a heartbeat.
“Stay close,” he said, heading for the door. “And stay quiet.”
Outside, the storm-ravaged forest bore scars from recent violence. Broken branches littered the ground, and patches of melting snow turned the earth to treacherous mud. The air smelled of wet earth and decay.
He moved like a predator, each step calculated and silent. She tried to match his quiet grace, but she couldn’t manage it and winced every time twigs snapped under her boots. Her breathing seemed to echo in the stillness.
They followed a game trail deeper into the woods, his hand signals guiding her path. The first trap was empty… a simple snare designed to catch small game. The second had been triggered but held nothing, just disturbed earth and broken branches.
Before they reached the third trap, he stopped dead.
Blood. Dark stains splattered across fallen leaves, painting the forest floor in rust-colored patterns. Too much blood for a small animal. The metallic scent hung thick in the air, mixing with the earthy smell of decomposition.
“Stay back,” he ordered, his voice deadly quiet.
But she had already seen it. The shape half-hidden behind a fallen log, torn apart with savage efficiency. Scraps of cloth clung to bone and there was dark hair matted with dried blood.
Her stomach lurched, bile rising in her throat. She pressed a hand to her mouth, fighting the urge to vomit.
“Don’t look,” he said sharply, moving to block her view.
Too late. The image was burned into her retinas… the casual violence, the way the body had been left to rot like garbage. Her mind flashed to the ferals who’d taken her, their promises of what they’d do. This could have been her, torn apart and forgotten in the wilderness.
“We have to bury them,” she whispered.
His eyebrows shot up. “Michelle—”
“We can’t leave them like this.” Her voice cracked, but she forced steel into her spine. “They deserve better than being carrion.”
He studied her face for a long moment, then nodded, pulling a small cloth from his pack.
“I need to take samples first,” he said quietly. “For analysis back at the garrison.”
She watched him work. His movements were efficient and professional as he collected evidence: blood-stained fabric, soil samples. This wasn’t his first crime scene.
“Could this be the person who owned the clothes?” she asked. “The woman?”
His hands stilled. He looked at the remains, then back at her. “I told you. There are no Izaean women. The mutation only affects males. All the Latharian women died during the plague, years ago.”
“Then who—?”
“There were human women on this planet until a couple of months ago, when a ship crashed not far from here.” His tone became clipped. “The pilot was rescued, she’s mated to one of our leaders now. But not all the passengers were recovered.”
Ice formed in her veins. “How many?”
“Five still missing from what I heard before I left the garrison. Banic was leading search parties to track them down.” He shrugged. “But last I heard, the trail led south. Not up here.”
She stared at the remains. “Was this one of those women?”
Someone like her, trapped and terrified, who hadn’t been lucky enough to have someone like him find her first?
He shook his head as he sealed the samples in a waterproof pouch. “I don’t think so. The crashed women haven’t been on the planet long enough to trap animals and cure hides. These clothes took time to make.”
They worked in silence, gathering stones for a cairn. The task was harder than she expected because the ground was soft from recent rain, and heavy rocks were scarce. But gradually, they built a small monument. Something, no matter how small, to mark that someone was buried here.
“Should we say something?” she asked when they finished.
He stood quietly for a moment, his gaze fixed on the grave. “Rest in peace,” he said. “You fought hard.”
Walking back to the cabin, her mind raced. The forest looked different now, like it was full of shadows that could hide watching eyes. Every rustle of leaves made her spine tense.
“How safe is the cabin?” she asked.
“Safer than open ground. But not indefinitely.” His hand clenched into a fist. “Ferals will eventually pick up our scent.”
“What are our options?”
“We could try to reach the garrison. But it’s hard travel through hostile territory with your leg still healing.” He glanced at her, expression tight with concern. “Or we hole up here and wait for rescue. I was with two others… if they survived the flood, they’ll send a rescue party.”
If they survived. The words hung between them like a death sentence.
“And how long before ferals find us?”
His jaw tightened. “Hard to say. Could be days. Could be hours. Depends on wind patterns, and how far they range.”
She nodded, processing the grim reality. They were trapped in a race against time, with death stalking them through the forest. But as she watched him move with lethal grace, calculating threats and weighing odds, the tight knot of fear in her stomach began to loosen.
Not because their situation wasn’t dangerous, it definitely was. But because she wasn’t facing it alone. He was a weapon in humanoid form, honed by years of training and combat. Whatever came for them would have to go through him first…