Chapter 5
Mara
I wake up to the smell of something that definitely isn’t room service.
My brain claws its way toward consciousness, thoughts sluggish and heavy. But this time… this time I’m actually awake. Properly awake. Not the half-there state from before.
The cave. Right. Still in the cave.
I flex my fingers. They cooperate. My toes wiggle under wool that’s definitely not my Costco blanket. I do a mental inventory: sore, bruised, probably concussed, but alive.
Alive is winning.
The fire crackles nearby. The guy—K, or whatever his name is—is there, crouched beside it, doing something with a pot that looks hand-forged. His movements are economical, measured. Like he’s conserving energy or counting each gesture.
He hasn’t noticed I’m awake yet, so I take the opportunity to actually look at him.
Tall—I knew that. But consciousness gives me better perspective.
He’s built like someone who splits wood and climbs mountains for fun, all lean muscle and controlled strength.
The firelight plays across his profile, sharpening the angle of his jaw, catching in eyes that shift between gold and amber depending on how the flames move.
The tattoos on his forearms twist as he stirs whatever’s in the pot—intricate patterns that look Celtic or Norse or some combination of ancient things I’d need Wikipedia to identify. His hair’s longer than I realized, pulled back in a way that should look ridiculous but somehow doesn’t.
He’s wearing the same outfit from before—leather pants that look handmade, linen shirt, fitted vest. The whole ensemble should scream Renaissance Faire, but instead reads as functional. Authentic.
I’m staring. I need to stop staring.
“Smells interesting,” I say, because apparently my mouth works before my brain catches up.
K turns, and there’s that gold in his eyes again. Definitely not a trick of the light. Also definitely not contacts, because who wears decorative contacts while living in a cave?
“You are awake.” Not a question. A statement delivered in that careful, measured way he has.
“Yeah. Go Team Me.” I push myself up on my elbows, slower this time. The world stays mostly steady. “How long was I out?”
“Hours.” He sets the pot aside and moves closer, kneeling beside me with silent grace. Up close, he’s even more… more. The space he takes up, the heat radiating from him, the way he holds himself like someone trained to be dangerous but choosing restraint.
My pulse kicks up, and I tell myself it’s because I’m still recovering.
“You should eat,” he says.
“Is that what that is?” I eye the pot. “Food?”
Something that might be amusement flickers across his face. “Broth. Mountain herbs. Fowl.”
“Fowl. So… chicken? Turkey? Please tell me it’s not an endangered eagle.”
“Grouse.”
He ladles the broth into a wooden bowl—hand-carved, of course—and hands it to me. Steam rises, carrying scents of rosemary and earth and something faintly gamey.
I take it, our fingers brushing. Still unnaturally warm. I file that in the growing list of Things About K That Don’t Add Up.
The broth is… not terrible? Actually kind of good, in a “this would fuel a lumberjack through winter” way. Savory and rich, with undertones of more herbs I can’t identify, but my body seems desperate for.
“Wow,” I say around a mouthful. “Tastes good, for dirt.”
“You mock the mountain’s gifts?” K asks, and there’s something in his voice that almost sounds like humor.
I glance up mid-sip. “I’m not mocking. I’m just… calibrating expectations. Last meal I had was from a roadside kiosk. Dry pastry and something that might’ve been sausage. This is actually a significant upgrade.”
He tilts his head slightly, processing.
I take another sip, my body slowly coming back online. With food in my system and my head clearing, awareness sharpens. The cave feels smaller with him this close. I’m hyperaware of the way he watches me—not invasive, but attentive. Like he’s trying to make sense of me.
“Better,” I say, setting the empty bowl aside. “Thank you.”
He nods once, then his attention drops to my chest. “I should check your injuries.”
Oh.
Right.
The injuries that should’ve killed me.
“It doesn’t hurt,” I say quickly. “Not really. Just… tender, maybe?”
“May I?” He gestures toward where his oversized shirt hangs on me.
Heat prickles my neck. This is medical. Practical. Except the way my heart thunders suggests my body hasn’t gotten that memo.
“Yeah. Sure. Go ahead.”
He moves with careful deliberation, his fingers finding the hem of the shirt. “Tell me if there is pain.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He lifts the fabric slowly, exposing my ribs and belly. Cool air hits my skin, but K radiates warmth that chases it away. I keep my eyes fixed on the cave ceiling because looking at him while he’s this close, touching me, seems like a bad idea for reasons I’m not ready to examine.
His fingertips brush the skin just below my ribs—barely a touch, but I feel it everywhere. My breath catches.
“The pattern fades,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me.
I risk a glance down. The lightning-branch marks from before are nearly gone, just faint silvery traces against my skin.
“What was it?” I ask. “The pattern, I mean. What caused it?”
“Fire.” His thumb traces one of the fading lines, and the touch sends heat spiraling through me that has nothing to do with injury. “It leaves… signatures.”
“Fire doesn’t heal people, K. Fire destroys things.”
“Not all fire.” His eyes meet mine, gold bleeding into something darker. “Some fire protects.”
The way he says it—like he knows, like he’s certain—makes my pulse skip.
His hand flattens against my sternum, covering the area where the worst damage must’ve been. His palm is so warm it’s almost uncomfortable, but not quite. It’s the kind of heat that seeps deep, that makes you want to lean into it.
“The bones mended,” he says quietly. “Flesh knit. You should not have survived.”
“But I did.”
“Yes.” Something shifts in his expression—wonder, maybe, or relief. “You did.”
We’re close enough that I can see the exact moment his attention shifts from clinical assessment to something else. His eyes track from the healing skin up to my face, lingering on my mouth for half a second before meeting my gaze.
I should say something. Break the moment. Make a joke. That’s what I do—deflect with humor until things feel manageable again.
But my brain has apparently gone offline, because all I can focus on is the weight of his hand on my skin and the way he’s looking at me like I’m something unexpected.
“You’re really warm,” I say finally, because I’m not wired for awkward silences.
His hand twitches but doesn’t move away. “I run… hot.”
“That’s not normal.”
“No.” He says it simply, without defensiveness. As if he’s just stating a fact.
“Are you sick? Feverish?”
“I do not believe so.”
“Do you believe, or do you know?”
His jaw works. “I do not know.”
There’s something in the way he says it—a hesitation, a searching—that makes me look at him more closely. At the careful way he forms words. The way he doesn’t just answer questions but seems to test each response before offering it.
“K.” I keep my voice gentle. “How long have you been up here? In these mountains?”
He’s quiet for so long that I think he won’t answer. His hand is still on my stomach, radiating that impossible warmth.
“I do not know,” he finally says.
“Like… a few weeks? Months?”
His jaw works. “I do not know.”
Something cold slides down my spine. Not fear. Recognition.
“You don’t just mean you’ve lost track of time,” I say slowly. “Do you?”
He pulls his hand back, and I immediately feel the absence of that heat. He sits back on his heels, putting distance between us.
“K.” I push myself up to sitting, ignoring the way my body protests. “Do you remember anything? Before finding me?”
The firelight catches his eyes, and I see it. The struggle. The reaching for something that isn’t there.
“Fragments,” he finally says. His voice is careful, controlled. “Pieces that do not connect.”
Oh.
Oh.
“You don’t remember,” I say softly. Not a question.
“No.”
I stare at him. “Who you are? Where you’re from?”
K shakes his head.
I think about what that means. Waking up with no past, no context, no idea who you are or where you came from. Just… existing in the present with nothing to anchor you.
I’ve done that all my life, if I’m honest with myself. Moved from one moment to the next, putting the past behind me as if it hadn’t happened. Mom’s boyfriends cycling through like rental cars. Homes that weren’t homes. The constant feeling of being temporary in your own life.
I know what it’s like, not having roots. Not knowing where you fit.
“That must be—” I start, but movement outside cuts me off.
A sound. Distant but distinct. The skittering of rocks, echoing off the mountainside.
K’s head snaps toward the cave entrance, his entire body going still in a way that sets off every alarm bell in my lizard brain. That’s not “listening carefully” stillness. That’s “detecting threat” stillness.
“What was that?” I whisper.
“I do not know.” He’s already moving, rising in one fluid motion and crossing to where a long staff leans against the wall. Not a walking stick. A weapon. “But it is close.”
Another sound. Closer this time. The crack of branches, the scatter of stones.
Fear slides cold fingers down my spine. Whatever made that noise isn’t friendly. And we’re trapped in a cave with one exit.
K positions himself between me and the entrance, staff held ready. The firelight catches his profile, throwing his features into sharp relief. For just a second, he looks like something out of myth—a warrior guarding the threshold.
“Do not move,” he says, and there’s no room for argument in his voice. “Keep back in the cave.”
The sound comes again.
Louder.
Closer.