Arden
There’s something wrong with my brain. Wait, maybe it’s my eyes. Maybe it’s both.
Maybe my entire nervous system has gone offline and I’m about to die, standing here in this strange cottage with the homemade bedspread and fridge full of butter and white bread.
because there’s no way on earth I’m looking at Marshall Hawke through the window.
It doesn’t make any sense. Like any sense at all. The last time I saw Marshall was at Thanksgiving in November, when he came down to our house for the week and spent time with his sister.
My stepmother.
But why in the actual fuck is he here, wherever this is? How did he get here? How did he find me?
Then I realize that I’m standing here thinking all of these ridiculous things while he stands on the other side of the window looking at me like I’ve lost my mind, and I jump back to life.
I dart toward the window, unlock the latch, and jerk it upward, then take a step backwards to stare at the man.
Marshall Hawke. Helen’s brother, and my step-uncle. Huge and blond and handsome the way only a man from the mountain can be handsome. He’s tall and broad and weathered, but exudes a sunshine I’ve never experienced in any other person. His voice is loud, his laugh even louder, and when he smiles...
Well.
The man lights up a room, and I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s noticed that. His bright blue eyes and chiseled face make him the stuff of any girl’s dreams, but it’s the feel of him that has always made him truly special. Warm. Strong.
Safe.
“Arden,” he snaps.
His tone tells me he’s said it multiple times, and I realize again that I’m standing here like some sort of idiot while we’re in the middle of what must be a rescue attempt.
I jump for the window, putting my thoughts away, and let him pull me through.
Seconds later I’m in his arms, cradled like a baby, and he’s running toward the forest, the smell of pine and crushed grass coloring the darkness around us.
An owl hoots in the distance, and another answers, and then we’re in the shades of the trees, the giants stretching up around us as if they’re giving us cover from prying eyes.
And though I don’t know where we are or who owned that cabin behind us, I know there must be prying eyes somewhere.
They’ve been prying into my life for months, now, and the sudden freedom from them is oxygen to body that hasn’t breathed easily since Christmas.
“But I’ve never ridden a bike,” I protest, staring at the enormous piece of machinery in front of me.
“And I don’t care,” Marshall answers sharply. “No time like the present, as they say.”
He doesn’t ask again. He picks me up, cradles me against his body for one long, warm second that has my holding my breath in anticipation, and then sets me roughly on the back of the bike.
I didn’t think about it when he hauled me out of the window, but now that I’m not in immediate danger, my brain is alert again.
And the press of his fingers into my skin has left echoes.
When he climbs onto the bike himself and settles between my legs, I nearly yelp.
Marshall, of course, notices none of this. He looks back and asks if I’m settled, then turns and starts the bike with a roar. He does something complicated with the handlebars, settles his feet in the stirrups on the sides, then turns again.
“Wrap your arms around me and don’t let go. Lean when I lean. If you get scared, keep it to yourself.”
Right.
I do as I’m told and turn my face into his broad, warm back, trying to remember the rules he’s given me.
And as we tear of into the night, the engine loud in the darkness of the night around us, I try once again to understand how he’s here, where here is, and what the fuck I’m supposed to do now. I’m free, that much is obvious, and as long as Marshall has me I trust that I’m safe.
At least for the moment.
This man has never been anything but kind, and Helen speaks of him glowingly, as if he’s the sun, the moon, and the stars, plus all the other planets combined.
I search through my memories, trying to build the picture of him, and remember that he’s her older brother, though they also have a baby brother I’ve never met.
Marshall comes into the city on business and stays with us on occasion, and Helen always treats it like a state holiday.
She rolls out all the best china and makes sure her schedule is clear for her brother.
My father hates it.
In fact, I’ve always had the idea that my father hated Marshall himself, though I’ve never known why. He’s warned me time and again not to trust Marshall Hawke, not to talk to him.
Which made me like Marshall even more.
And now he’s literally rescuing me from men who’ve kept me prisoner for months.
While my father has, I assumed, refused to pay whatever ransom they’ve demanded.
I leave that thought alone. It’s too painful to dwell on for long, although it will always take me to the same spot: My father deserted me.
Mars Hawke showed up in the middle of nowhere, knocked out my kidnapper, and then rescued me.
It’s not exaggerating things to say that right now, I’m on Mars’ side rather than my father’s.
I’ve just completed the thought when we turn sharply and slow, then come to a stop, and I look up to see that we’ve reached a house.
There’s a light on outside, so I can see its features clearly, and I catalogue them quickly.
Two stories, with an attic if I’m guessing, and all sharp, straight lines and clean cuts.
Gabled roof and wood siding. It’s craftsman style, the beams beautiful stained wood while the walls themselves are a dusty sort of green, and there are so many windows I wonder if the place is half glass.
A wide porch wraps around the front with rocking chairs and a swing, and the steps are lined with flowers.
Dear God, Mars Hawke lives in a fairy tale house. He actually is the mountain man-slash-lumberjack I’ve always thought of him as.
He drags me off the bike in the midst of this thought, sets me on my feet, and ushers me into the house, and here I see that the craftsman style reaches into the interior as well.
The house is clean lines and rough timber, dark-stained wood and lighter green walls, and every piece of furniture matches.
It’s also neat, tidy, and almost painfully organized.
This isn’t the house of a bachelor.
“Who lives here?” I ask, unable to keep my mouth shut.
“I do. Obviously,” he snorts. “Do you think I just walk into houses that I don’t live in?”
“Well no, but...”
When I turn to him, he’s staring around the place as if he’s seeing it for the first time, his face caught in a moment of wonder, and I smile softly to myself. The mountain man-slash-lumberjack who lives in a fairytale cottage that he doesn’t look at very often, evidently.
“It’s just not what I expected, I guess,” I finish.
His eyes turn to me, soft and dreamy and mellow, and then sharpen. “Didn’t start as mine,” he says simply. “Built it for my mom when my dad died. When she... When she got cancer, I moved in to take care of her. Been here ever since.”
His voice trails off at the end of that sentence, gone soft and sort of hoarse, and I bite my lip. It carries pain and memory, a history he doesn’t touch often, and I suddenly feel guilty for having brought it up.
Like I’m imposing by even questioning the house he built for his mother.
But there’s something so sweet about it, so romantic, that I pause there for a moment. A mother who found herself alone after a lifetime of marriage. A son who saw her need and used his own hands to build her a home of her own.
And then he moved in here to take care of her when she was sick.
I feel my heart contract a bit too hard, then give a kick as if it’s just remembered it’s supposed to be beating, and put a hand to my chest. When Mars sees it, he comes sharply back into the present and takes my hand.
“Come on. Let’s get you to a bed.”
He’s interrupted when someone comes blowing through the door as if he’s riding the wind, though, and Mars turns us both back toward the entrance.
Another man has entered, and this one is nothing like Mars.
Where my step-uncle is bright and sunny, this one is dark, his hair the color of midnight and his eyes even blacker.
His face is sharper, leaner, and more dangerous.
Handsome in a way that makes me want to turn and run before he notices me.
“Orion,” Mars snaps. “Do you have to go everywhere like you’re late?”
“Yes,” this Orion snaps.
His eyes swivel to me and narrow as he takes me in, his gaze dropping to my feet and back up, and leaving trails of chills in its wake. I suddenly feel like I should have dressed better for the occasion. Showered.
Put on makeup.
“This the girl?” he asks, his voice a dark rumble.
“No, she’s someone I picked up on the street. Left the other one at the cottage,” Mars snaps.
Orion’s eyes suddenly warm with laughter and he glances at Mars, dimples showing in his cheeks. “We went all the way there to rescue her and you left her there? Seems inefficient, Mars.”
Instead of answering, Mars growls, “What did you do with the guy?”
Orion gestures sharply, brushing this off. “Figured we didn’t want him up here to cause trouble when he regains consciousness. I gave him to Rookie. Told him to take him down the mountain.”
Mars pauses a beat. “Using what, his bicycle? Last time I checked, his bike was broken.”
Orion pushes past us. “It is. I let him borrow mine. Which means he’ll be insufferable when he gets back.”
Mars and I stand and watch him as he walks into the hallway on the other side of the living room. A moment later, a door slams and the house goes quiet again.
“That’s Orion,” Mars says, rather unnecessarily. “He’s my best friend. And roommate.”
There doesn’t seem to be a question there, so I keep my mouth shut, and when Mars says again that he’s going to show me to a room, I follow along quietly. His best friend and roommate.
And one, I think, who obviously doesn’t like that I’m here.
“This will be your room.”
Mars throws open a rough wooden door–the first on the right once we get upstairs–and then steps back to let me enter. I walk through it and see that it’s... charming.
It’s actually beautiful.
There’s a bed against the far wall, penned in by two beautiful end tables that much be hand carved. A dresser sits right underneath the window, effortlessly matched to the side tables, covered by several photographs and a plaid runner. Green and blue and white.
It matches the walls.
And it’s so incongruous, so unexpected, that I almost laugh. The place looks like it belongs in some sort of architectural magazine, not some small town in the woods where it belongs to a single man and his best friend-slash-roommate.
“There are clothes in the closet but I’m not sure if they’ll fit.
I’ll buy you more tomorrow. Plenty of food in the kitchen.
Plenty of coffee. For the morning, obviously, not for right now.
I sleep down the hall and Orion sleeps downstairs.
We do breakfast at 7, then work at the garage next door.
You’re free to make the house your own for... as long as you stay.”
I turn around, mind rushing across all this information, and catch him standing too close to me.
His body is nearly pressed against mine, the warmth of him so abrupt, so intoxicating, that I nearly gasp.
He smells of exhaust and car grease and wood and the night air, and the combination of that and how close he is makes me feel dizzy.
I look up at him, my eyes traveling the expanse of his chest and shoulders until they get to his face, and find that he’s staring at me like I’m something precious. Something too delicate to touch.
Like he wants to reach his fingers out and make sure I’m real.
But he knows I am. Of course he knows. This man has known me for years.
Or rather...
He knew the version of me that lived in my father’s house.
He breathes out slowly, his lips pursed, and the air between us grows thick with something I don’t understand. It moves sluggishly against my skin as if I’m wading through syrup, and I lick my lips, suddenly nervous.
What the fuck is going on here?
When his eyes slick to my mouth and watching me licking my lips, I get myself together and take a step back.
“That’s very kind. I won’t be here for long, I promise.”
“Stay as long as you want,” he says gruffly. “You’ll be safe here. I promise.”
He turns and leaves before I can ask him how he could possibly know that, when the men who kidnapped me are presumably still in town–save the one Orion gave to this Rookie–and the door shuts while I’m still standing in the middle of the room.
And just like that, he’s gone, leaving me wondering what the fuck that was supposed to mean, and whether it’s true.
Mars Hawke has always seemed larger than life to me.
But it feels like he’s just promised the impossible.
And to a girl he barely knows, and has no reason to protect.