Chapter 8 Imani #2
The fire is still going strong, flames licking at a fresh log that must have been added recently. But Tolin isn’t here. His chair sits empty by the window, leather worn smooth from years of use.
The chair he told me not to touch.
I should just leave it. Add another log for the night, then go take my shower. That’s the smart thing to do.
But it’s burning too hot. If I leave it like this, it could spark. The cabin is old, all wood and exposed beams. It wouldn’t take much for something to catch.
I need to put it out. Or at least bank it down. Let it burn to coals overnight instead of roaring flames.
How do you even put a fire out? I stare at the hearth, thinking. Water would make a mess. And I don’t see any kind of damper or—
There. A metal tool leaning against the stone. Some kind of poker or spreader. I can use that to separate the logs, let them burn down faster.
But I can’t reach it from here. The chair is in the way.
I hesitate, remembering his words from yesterday. This chair is mine. You don’t sit in it. You don’t move it. You don’t touch it.
But I’m not going to sit in it. I’m just going to lean past it. Grab the poker. Fix it. And he’ll never even know.
I brace one hand on the armrest and reach.
Not far enough.
I shift my weight, leaning further, and my knee bumps the seat cushion. Just barely. Just for a second.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
The voice comes from behind me, low and dangerous.
I spin around.
Tolin is standing in the hallway entrance, wearing nothing but those low-slung pants. His torso heaves with each breath. His eyes are flashing gold at the edges, the bear pushing to the surface. And his face is twisted with a rage I haven’t seen before.
Not just anger. Fury.
“I was trying to put out the fire,” I say quickly. “It was too high, I was worried about—“
“I told you not to touch my chair.”
“I didn’t sit in it, I just—“
“You touched it.” He’s moving toward me now, each step heavy on the hardwood floor. “I gave you one rule. One fucking rule. And you couldn’t even follow that.”
“It was an accident. I was trying to—“
“I don’t care what you were trying to do.” He stops a few feet away, towering over me, close enough that I can see the gold bleeding into his brown eyes. “You people are all the same. You come into my home, you touch my things, you act like you belong here when you don’t.”
I take a step back.
“I was trying to help,” I say, and I hate how small my voice sounds.
“I don’t need your help.” He’s almost snarling now. “I don’t need you here at all. You think one dinner and some mopping makes us friends? You think I give a shit about your cleaning or your cooking or whatever sad little attempt you’re making to get close to me?”
“Get close to you?” I stare at him. “I’m doing my job.”
“Your job.” He laughs, harsh and ugly. “Right. Because every cleaner researches her client’s dietary preferences. Because every employee cooks a special dinner and tries to make conversation.”
“I was being nice!”
“I don’t want nice!” His voice rises, bouncing off the cabin walls. “I don’t want you here, making my food and scrubbing my floors and sitting in my goddamn chair like you have any right to—“
“I told you, I wasn’t sitting in it!”
“I don’t care!” He’s close now, so close I have to crane my neck to look at him. “I want you gone. I want all of you gone. Every employee Derrick sends, every person who thinks they can fix me or help me or whatever the fuck you think you’re doing here. I don’t need it. I don’t want it.”
My eyes are burning. I will not cry. I will not give him the satisfaction.
“Then why did you hire me?” My voice is shaking, but I force the words out. “Why did you pay double to get someone up here if you were just going to treat them like shit?”
“Because I made a promise I shouldn’t have kept.” His lip curls. “But don’t worry. I’m done pretending. Get out of my cabin. Get out of my sight. I don’t want to see your face again.”
Something snaps inside me.
“You know what?” I step toward him instead of away, jabbing a finger at his chest. “I don’t have to take this.
I came up here knowing you were difficult.
Knowing everyone else quit. I thought maybe if I just did my job and kept my head down, I could handle you.
But this?” I gesture at him, at the rage on his face, at the whole miserable situation.
“This is beyond difficult. This is cruel.”
“Careful.” His voice drops low.
“No.” I’m shaking now, but I don’t stop. “Everyone in town warned me about you. The grumpy bear shifter who makes people cry. The man who lives alone because no one can stand to be around him. I thought they were exaggerating. I thought maybe you were just misunderstood.”
I laugh, and it sounds bitter even to my own ears.
“But they were right. You’re exactly what they said. You’re mean and bitter and so determined to be miserable that you’ll destroy anyone who tries to get close. No wonder you’re alone. No wonder your clan doesn’t want you. No wonder—“
“Enough.” The word is a growl.
“No wonder you’re going to die on this mountain by yourself.” My voice cracks, but I push through. “Because no one in this town wants to be bothered with you, and now I see why. I don’t give a shit about this job. I don’t give a shit about your money. I quit.”
I turn toward the hallway, my vision blurring.
“I’m leaving,” I say over my shoulder. “Tonight. Storm or no storm, I’m gone.”
“Good.” His voice follows me down the hall. “I’ll even give your little car a push down the mountain.”
The words follow me into the bathroom.
I don’t turn around. I can’t. If I look at him right now, I’ll either scream or cry, and I refuse to do either in front of him.
The bathroom door slams behind me. I lock it with shaking fingers and lean against it, pressing my palms to my eyes.
The tears come anyway.
I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the cold tile floor, making myself small, sobbing as quietly as I can. Because he doesn’t get to hear me break. Doesn’t get to know how deep those words cut.
No wonder your clan doesn’t want you.
No wonder you’re going to die on this mountain by yourself.
I said those things. I said them to hurt him, and from the look on his face, they landed. But I don’t feel satisfied. I don’t feel vindicated.
I just feel sick.
After a few minutes, the tears slow. I wipe my face with the back of my hand and push myself up off the floor.
Shower. I need a shower. I need to wash this day off me, wash the grime and sweat and tears off my skin. Then I’ll pack my things and get the hell off this mountain. Tonight. I don’t care if I have to dig my car out with my bare hands.
I turn on the water and wait for it to heat up. The mirror is already starting to fog.
I peel off my grimy clothes and step into the spray, letting the hot water run over my head, my shoulders, my back. It feels good. Cleansing. The heat soaks into my sore muscles, loosening the tension I’ve been carrying all day.
I take my time. Shampoo first, working it through my curls, letting my fingers detangle the knots. Then conditioner, the thick creamy kind that makes my hair soft and manageable. I leave it in while I wash my body, scrubbing away the sweat and grime until my skin feels new again.
When I rinse the last of the conditioner out, I just stand there for a moment. Eyes closed. Water streaming down my face. Breathing.
I feel clean. Finally, truly clean.
The tears have dried. The anger has faded to something duller, heavier. I’m tired. So tired. Of this job, of this cabin, of this impossible man who pushes everyone away and then acts wounded when they leave.
But I’m done.
I turn off the water and reach for the towel.
Tonight, I’m getting off this mountain. And I’m never looking back.