Chapter Seven
Maggie
I grip the steering wheel. The words cut deeper than the icy wind outside.
For a moment, I forget I’m holding my breath.
The engine hums beneath us, snow blows past, but it feels like everything around us has come to a stop.
I observe him out of the corner of my eye, how his chiseled jaw clenches, his eyes cold and unreadable.
There’s no regret in his tone when he spoke, and no hesitation. Just... honesty.
“You killed someone for killing your brother,” I say softly, forcing the words past the lump in my throat.
He doesn’t look at me. “Yes, Princess. In my world, when someone hurts someone you love, they die. Simple as that.” A heavy-weighted pause passes between us before he finishes his thought. "It’s just justice.”
I should be afraid. Any rational woman would be. Yet, all I feel is this strange ache in my chest, the kind that happens when you see someone whose whole life is only violence. They never got to experience a normal life.
Silence passes between us while the storm pounds against the windshield. For a moment, it's just us two strangers connected by bad timing.
Tears pull in my eyes, and with a steady breath, I say, “Justice doesn’t always fix what’s broken.”
“No,” he says, eyes still fixed ahead. “But it’s the only thing that keeps you going.”
And I understand him more than I would like to.
I swallow hard and look toward the old, decaying cabin coming in view. “I understand what it’s like to lose loved ones.” My voice trembles slightly. “My parents died in a car crash when I was seven. My grandparents raised me here. After they passed away, it’s just been me.”
He remains silent, simply observing me with his light blue, inscrutable eyes.
I softly say, "This place is the only home I’ve truly known. I look after it. Keep it safe." I meet his gaze. “And now, because of you, I wonder if it still is.”
He moves closer, but not close enough to feel his warmth. “You’re safe,” he says again, low and confident. “I’ll make sure of it.”
I want to believe him. I really do.
But I also know what kind of man makes promises like that and what they typically cost.
I cut off the engine as I stare at the old rugged cabin, wind whirls around, slipping and sliding through the trees.
He pushes open the side-by-side door and steps out, his boots crunching against the frost-hardened ground.
For a moment, he simply stands there, scanning the tree line scoping the area for potential threats.
Then, without saying a word, he rounds the vehicle.
When he arrives at my side, I expected him to tell me to stay where I am, or to return home. Instead, he opens my door and offers me his hand.
“Come on,” he says quietly. “You shouldn’t have to see this, but I can’t let you out of my sight, either.”
I observe his scarred rough knuckles, and a faint dried blood along his wrist. My instincts warn me against trusting him, but when his fingers brush against mine, I feel a soothing sensation. No fear rushes through my veins.
He squeezes once, not hard, just enough to catch my attention. His eyes soften. “I’ll make sure no one touches you. No one will dare to come near this land. Not after today.”
I swallow, my throat getting tighter. “You really think you can promise that?”
“I don’t make promises I can’t keep,” he says, his voice rough with honesty. “I'll make sure.”
We linger there for a moment, the cold wind piercing our skin while silence weighs between us. Finally, he lets go of my hand but stays close, his presence both protective and cautious.
We walk together toward the cabin, the air thick with anticipation of what lies inside.
The snow crunches under our feet as we step onto the creaking porch steps. The wind blows, carrying a scent of metallic and burnt wood.
He raises his gun just before we reach the door. His movements are quiet and precise, indicating he’s done this many times before. The tension in his stance and his sharp eyes searching for shadows makes my heart race.
He glances at me once, voice steady and low. “Stay behind me.”
I nod, my hands still clenched tightly in a fist. I look at my boot cuff, feeling the familiar weight of metal against my ankle.
My small pistol is hidden in my sock, something my grandpa taught me to always keep close when I'm alone out here. I don’t plan to shoot it, but I know I’m better off armed then unarmed around someone like him.
The door still barely hangs on the hinges. He surveys the room, pointing his firearm into each dark corner. My breath fogs in the cold as I follow behind with my flashlight, slicing through the non-lit cabin.
The cabin looks worse in daylight. The old boards are warped, the roof is sagging down from the moisture between rain and melting snow, and a faint smell of decay lingers in the air. My grandfather’s tools remain hanging on the wall, rusted over from time.
A dark, wet spot shows in the kitchen. I swallow hard, my stomach tightening.
Severin gently lowers his gun, his eyes narrowing as he scans once more. "His body’s gone,” he mutters softly.
I don’t need to ask who he’s talking about. I see it for myself. Someone came in and took his body, or did an animal drag him out? The words hover in the cold air, heavy and unsettling. My flashlight quivers in my hand as I move closer, eyes fixed on the wet red blood.
His tone sends a chilling jolt through me.
“How?” I ask and then answer my question. “His men.”
He avoids my gaze, looking at the floor and the faint boot prints leading to the door. “Yes.”
“Do they know it was you who killed him?” I whisper softly.
His jaw tightens. “I killed a lot of people on their map to find him. So to answer your question, yes. They know it's me.” His gaze shifts to me, no longer detached but warning, protective, and dangerous.
“But this is my land, how would they even know you’re here?” I throw my hands in the air. “If you just leave, then I’ll be safe. Right?” I’m grasping for any form of safety that I can muster. I don’t want the kind of trouble that he brings. I don’t want my grandparents’ land to become a war ground.
“I need to make a call,” he says, already turning toward the door. “We have to move. Now. They will still be close.”