CHAPTER 1 - Emilia
The storm comes in waves, a relentless force battering the trees, the roof, the world outside.
Rain lashes against the glass panes of my cabin, each drop hammering the fragile barrier between me and the wild.
Wind howls through the trees, bending them like fragile bones, their groans lost to the deafening roll of thunder.
The fire in the stone hearth crackles and pops, struggling to compete with the storm’s fury.
It’s the kind of night that makes the world feel smaller—where even inside, wrapped in the warmth of a flickering fire, you know you're at the mercy of something greater.
But I’ve always found comfort in nights like this.
The solitude.
The silence, apart from nature’s rage.
I stretch my legs out on the worn-out couch, pulling the threadbare quilt tighter around me.
The fire crackles in the hearth, its glow casting long shadows against the wooden walls.
The scent of burning cedar lingers in the air, mixing with the faint aroma of the chamomile tea I made hours ago but barely touched.
Nights like this are the reason I chose this life. No city noise, no strangers knocking at my door, no trouble. Just me, the storm, and the comforting weight of silence pressing in around me.
I didn’t choose solitude. Not at first. But the city is too loud, too demanding, too full of ghosts I don’t want to see.
Here, in the quiet, I can breathe. No deadlines.
No expectations. Just me, the fire, and the storm outside.
It should be enough. And yet, some nights, the silence is too heavy, pressing down like a weight I can’t shake.
I glance at the book resting on my lap, its pages slightly dog-eared from the countless times I’ve read it.
The story is familiar, predictable, a steady companion in my isolation.
A half-finished sketch lies on the coffee table beside it, charcoal smudges staining my fingertips from where I absentmindedly brushed at the page.
I sigh, rubbing at my tired eyes. The world beyond these walls feels impossibly far away, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe I’m truly alone.
Until I hear it.
A muffled thud against the earth, a sharp crack of breaking branches—every hair on my arms stands on end.
I freeze.
No one should be out there.
No one.
And yet, I know what I heard.
Every nerve in my body goes taut.
For a moment, I tell myself it was nothing—just the storm, a tree branch snapping under the wind’s relentless force. But then I hear it again. A low, guttural sound. Almost human.
The air in the cabin suddenly feels too thick, pressing against my chest like a weight.
Slowly, I rise from the couch, my movements careful, measured. My heart hammers against my ribs as I grab the shotgun leaning against the wall, the wood smooth beneath my fingers.
I strain my ears, listening.
Someone is out there.
I move to the window, pressing my palm against the cool glass. My breath fogs the surface as I peer outside, the storm turning everything into a chaotic blur of movement and darkness.
Then I see it.
A man’s figure. Staggering. Bleeding.
And then, he falls.
He collapses face-first into the earth.
The lantern’s light flickers wildly in the storm, barely illuminating his form as he crumples to the ground.
My stomach tightens.
His clothes are drenched, plastered to his skin—streaked with blood. His knuckles are torn, his face smeared with dirt and something darker. Even from here, I can tell his injuries run deep.
For a second, I think he might already be dead.
But then his chest rises shallowly, and a barely-there groan slips past his lips.
He’s still alive.
And I should leave him there.
Every logical part of me screams to lock the door, let the storm swallow him whole. But another part—a quieter, stubborn part—roots me to the spot, my pulse thrumming as I weigh my next move.
The past has taught me better than to trust a stranger. But something about him, about the way he fought to make it this far, keeps me from turning away.
And I already know, even before I curse under my breath, that I’m going out there.
My instinct screams stay inside. Lock the door. Ignore it.
The wind is like a blade against my skin the second I step outside, the cold slicing through my sweater, through the thin fabric of my leggings. The rain is relentless, hammering against my face, drenching me in seconds.
But I don’t stop.
I clutch the shotgun in one hand—more for comfort than defense—as I move toward the fallen figure. My boots sink into the wet earth, mud clinging to my steps, slowing me down. The storm roars around me, but my focus is locked on him.
He’s not moving.
I crouch beside him, barely able to make out his features. His face is turned to the side, partially obscured by the rain, but even through the blood and grime, I can see it—the sharp jawline, the stubble along his cheeks, the bruises forming beneath the cuts.
I swallow hard.
He’s massive—broad-shouldered, built like a man who knows how to fight. Or how to take a beating.
And right now?
He looks like he’s taken one hell of a beating.
Definitely more than one hell of a beating. He’s been shot.
Twice. Maybe more.
His chest rises and falls, shallow and uneven. He’s breathing. Barely.
I don’t know him. I don’t know what trouble he’s bringing to my doorstep.
But when I look at him—when I see the way his body is desperately clinging to life—I know I can’t just leave him here.
"Shit."
I slide the shotgun over my shoulder and grip him under his arm, trying to haul him up.
Jesus, he’s heavy.
My boots slip in the mud as I pull him forward, my muscles straining under his dead weight. The rain turns everything into a slick mess, making every step feel impossible.
"Come on, big guy. Work with me here."
His head lolls forward, his body dead weight against me, but after a moment, he groans again—this time, more aware.
His hand twitches. His fingers curl into the mud and gravel beneath him like he’s trying to find something to anchor himself to.
He’s fighting.
Good.
"I need you to stand," I tell him, adjusting my grip. "Can you do that?"
No answer.
His body sways, muscles tightening beneath my hands, like he’s trying.
But it’s not enough.
I curse under my breath. "Okay. New plan."
I bend lower, shifting his weight against me. It’s not perfect—I’m small, and he’s fucking enormous—but I manage to pull him upright enough to start dragging him toward the cabin.
Every step is a battle.
The mud sucks at my boots, the rain turns everything slick, and his dead weight makes my legs shake with the effort.
But I don’t stop.
I can’t.
The lantern on the porch swings wildly, casting erratic shadows against the walls. The door is so damn close—ten more feet, five—
His body buckles.
I curse, my knees nearly giving out beneath the weight of him. But I tighten my grip, forcing my body to move one step further.
Thenfinally—we reach the threshold.
I kick the door open and haul him inside, collapsing onto the wooden floor with him.
The storm is locked out.
But now, I have a bigger problem.
I stumble back, breathing hard, my hands shaking.
I take a step back, staring at the man sprawled out before me, blood pooling beneath his side.
What the hell have I just done?
I rub a hand over my face, my pulse still racing. He’s barely conscious, his breathing shallow but steady. The confusion begins to build up.
What am I doing? Should I call for help?
Instead, I reach for the shotgun and place it within arm’s reach.
I don’t trust him. I don’t trust whatever mess he’s bringing to my doorstep.
But I saved him.
And now, for better or worse, he’s my problem.
There’s a bleeding, almost unconscious stranger in my cabin.
And I have no fucking clue what I’ve just brought into my home.
I stumble, barely managing to guide him onto the couch.
His breath is ragged, uneven. Blood soaks into the cushions beneath him, dark and thick.
I move fast, shutting the door and locking it.
The wind howls outside, rattling the windows, but it’s nothing compared to the storm inside my chest.
I grab a towel, pressing it against his wounded leg, trying to stop the bleeding. His body jerks in pain, a muffled grunt escaping through gritted teeth.
"Who did this to you?" I ask.
No answer.
Of course not.
I reach for the hem of his shirt, but his hand clamps around my wrist like a vice.
His grip is like iron, even in his weakened state. His eyes crack open again, blazing with warning.
I meet his gaze, unflinching. "You’re bleeding out. Either let me help, or die on my floor. Your choice."
Something shifts in his expression.
For a moment, I think he’s going to fight me.
Then, slowly, his grip loosens.
Permission.
I waste no time.
I pull his shirt up, revealing a body covered in scars, old wounds, and fresh bruises.
Jesus.
This man has been through hell.
I work in silence, stitching him up, pressing firm when I need to, ignoring the way his muscles tense under my touch.
But I feel it.
The heat. The awareness.
He’s watching me.
Even half-dead, he’s assessing, calculating.
A dangerous man.
A man who shouldn’t be here.
A man who’s about to change everything.
I press the final stitch into his leg, exhaling.
He doesn’t speak, but he watches me.
Finally, I sit back. "Are you going to tell me your name?"
A long silence.
I nod once. "Get some sleep, stranger. You’re safe here."
A lie.
Because something tells me that wherever this man goes, safety does not follow.
And I have no idea what the hell I just let into my home.