CHAPTER 2 – Emilia
Mornings after a storm feel different.
The world slows, caught in the aftermath of chaos. The air is damp, heavy with the lingering scent of rain-soaked earth and pine, the kind of sharp crispness that seeps into the walls.
I sit at the small wooden table near the hearth, my hands wrapped around a mug of coffee, letting the warmth sink into my fingers. The fire, though burning low, still flickers against the cabin’s log walls, sending soft shadows dancing across the floorboards.
Beyond the window, the sky is bruised gray, stubborn clouds refusing to let the sun break through just yet. Drops of water slide down the glass, catching faint golden light as dawn struggles to take hold.
The house smells like cedar, smoke, and something else—something new.
Blood.
I inhale slowly, the realization settling in my chest.
Everything should feel normal.
But today, I am not alone.
A cold weight settles in my stomach, pressing heavy against my ribs.
I don’t move at first. I just stare up at the wooden ceiling, inhaling the lingering scent of smoke and damp earth, my mind racing.
I should have left him.
I should have locked the door, let the storm wash him away, let the forest swallow whatever trouble he carried.
But I didn’t.
And now, the silence isn’t comforting. It’s suffocating.
I glance toward the couch near the fireplace, where the stranger lies.
The man I dragged in from the storm.
The man who shouldn’t be here.
A dozen thoughts crowd my mind, fighting for dominance.
"What the hell am I doing?"
"What if he’s dangerous?"
"What if someone is looking for him?"
And then, the thought that troubles me most—
"What would Sienna and Camila say?"
Sienna would be furious.
"Emilia, do you have a death wish? Who brings a wounded, possibly dangerous man into their home?"
And Camila? She’d be giddy.
"Maybe he’s an ex-hitman, running from a dark past. A mysterious, brooding stranger who only you can save."
Ridiculous.
I shake my head, trying to focus. But the thought lingers—would they understand why I did it? Why I couldn't just leave him there?
I sigh and turn back toward the couch.
He’s still out cold, but I don’t like how still he is.
Not the kind of stillness that comes with peace, but the kind that comes with waiting.
I set my coffee down and move closer, carefully watching him.
Even unconscious, he looks... wrong.
Wrong because he doesn’t belong here.
His body—a roadmap of scars and fresh wounds—shouldn’t be in a quiet place like this.
The blanket I threw over him is barely covering him now, exposing the hard ridges of his torso, the bruises turning his skin into a canvas of pain.
I shouldn’t be staring.
But I am.
I tell myself he’s still unconscious. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t made a sound. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous.
Slowly, I reach for the knife tucked under the carpet. My fingers close around the worn handle, the familiar weight grounding me. Just in case.
I take a slow, steady breath and rise to my feet, moving toward him with careful steps. The floorboards barely creak beneath my weight, but my pulse thunders in my ears.
Even injured, a man like him could be a threat.
His chest rises and falls, steady but controlled. Too controlled for someone who was nearly dead hours ago.
Up close, the damage is worse than I thought.
The bruises along his jaw are a deep, angry purple, his bottom lip split in two places. A gash stretches from his temple to his cheekbone, raw and swollen. Dried blood crusts along the collar of his shirt, the fabric torn and stiff with it.
Whoever he is, whatever fight he barely survived—he didn’t walk away unscathed.
And yet, even like this, there’s something unnerving about him.
Something sharp that sleep cannot soften.
And then—he moves.
It’s small at first—the shift of his fingers, the faintest crease of his brow.
But I feel it.
The change in the air.
Something is coming alive.
My grip tightens on the knife still tucked at my side.
Wake up slowly, I silently beg. Don’t lunge. Don’t panic.
But the moment his gaze finds mine, I know I’ve lost that gamble.
His eyes are sharp despite the exhaustion, assessing the room, my face, his injuries, all in one sweep.
Then, his fingers flex beneath the blanket—testing movement, testing pain.
Testing me.
I don’t flinch.
His eyes are blue. Not just any blue. Sharp, cold, unnatural.
Like ice.
Like steel.
Like something that has seen too much and survived anyway.
I go still.
His breathing stays even, his body motionless—but I know he is assessing.
Me. The room. The exits.
A slow, practiced scan.
This man is not normal.
I swallow hard and force my voice to stay calm. "You shouldn’t move yet."
His gaze flicks to mine.
And for the first time, I feel like I am the one being studied.
It happens in seconds.
A slow inhale.
A shift of his fingers.
I don’t know what I expected.
Maybe confusion. Maybe disorientation.
What I don’t expect is for him to go still.
Not the sluggish, groggy stillness of a man waking up in an unfamiliar place.
No—this is something else.
This is instinct. Assessment.
His pupils contract, blue irises sharpening like a blade.
Even in his weakened, injured state, his presence shifts the energy in the room.
It’s not fear I feel—not exactly.
It’s something colder.
A knowing.
A realization that I’ve let something into my home that doesn’t belong here.
And for the first time since last night, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake.
I don’t move.
Neither does he.
The silence between us is thick, stretching like an invisible wire ready to snap.
Then, his gaze flicks around the room—a quick, practiced scan.
The fireplace. The coffee table. The door.
He’s searching for exits.
For threats.
For me.
I force myself to stay steady, even as my pulse beats a little harder against my ribs.
Finally, I break the silence. "You shouldn’t move yet."
His gaze snaps back to mine.
He studies me now—really studies me.
I feel the weight of it, the way his eyes take in everything.
The strands of damp hair that have come loose from my braid.
The oversized sweater I threw on this morning, sleeves pushed up to my elbows.
The faint smudge of charcoal still on my fingertips from last night’s sketching.
The shotgun resting against the kitchen counter.
He notices everything.
His voice is low, gravel-rough. "Where am I?"
I lean against the arm of my chair, keeping my expression unreadable. "About five miles from nowhere."
His lips press into a thin line.
"A cabin," I clarify. “My place”
Silence.
Then, slowly, he shifts.
Just enough that the blanket slips slightly, exposing the hard ridges of his torso, the bruises along his ribs.
His body is a roadmap of violence.
Scars. Fresh wounds. Old reminders of past battles.
I swallow hard, forcing my focus back to his face. "You were bleeding out in the storm."
He doesn’t answer at first.
Then he speaks, “Why am I here?”
The way he asks it—flat, emotionless—sends a prickle of unease down my spine.
Not how did I get here. Not what happened to me?
Why.
Like he already knows his situation is dangerous. Like he’s used to waking up in unfamiliar places, surrounded by strangers, and planning his next move before he even draws a full breath.
I cross my arms, tilting my chin up just slightly. “Like I said, you were bleeding out on my land. Thought I’d save you the trouble of dying.”
He watches me, gaze unreadable.
“Lucky me,” he mutters.
Something in his voice—low, dry, edged with something bitter—makes me grip my arms a little tighter.
I lift my chin. "I brought you inside."
Still nothing.
I exhale sharply. "You’re welcome, by the way."
Finally, something flickers across his face. Not gratitude.
Something closer to amusement.
And then he says, "Shouldn’t have."
There’s something in his tone.
Something that sends a slow, curling chill down my spine.
Not a threat.
A warning.
I ignore it. "You got a name?"
He hesitates.
Then, finally—"Rafe."
I watch him closely.
Not just the way his mouth forms the word.
The way his jaw tightens as he says it.
The flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.
A lie. Or maybe just a half-truth.
I tilt my head. "Rafe," I repeat. "You remember what happened to you?"
A slow inhale. Another flicker of something dark in those blue eyes.
Then, he exhales. "Jumped by a couple of assholes."
My brow lifts. "And they left you for dead?"
His jaw tenses.
"Something like that."
Liar.
But I don’t press.
I nod toward the stitches on his leg. "Well, you’re lucky I found you. You lost a lot of blood."
He shifts again, testing his arms, his ribs. Then, he moves to sit up.
Bad idea.
The second he does, pain rips through him, his expression twisting into something sharp.
I step forward on instinct, hands hovering near him. "Told you not to move."
He grits his teeth, breathing hard. "I’ve had worse."
I frown. "That supposed to impress me?"
One corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smirk, but something close. "Does it?"
Cocky asshole.
I roll my eyes, stepping back. "Just don’t bleed on my couch."
His lips part—like he might actually say something else.
He chuckles again, but there’s a flicker of some other emotion, almost like he is amused.
Like he’s amused by the idea of owing me anything at all.
I ignore the way it sets me on edge, turning toward the fire instead.
This is temporary.
The second he can stand on his own two feet, he’s gone.
And if he knows what’s good for him, he won’t look back.
But then his body gives out.
His muscles jerk, his eyes flutter, his weight slumping back into the cushions.
Fucking hell.
I shake my head, grabbing the blanket again and pulling it back over him. "Go back to sleep, Rafe."
He mutters something under his breath—a curse, maybe, or just sheer exhaustion.
And then, he’s out.
For hours, Rafe sleeps.
I should sleep too. Instead, I sit in front of the fire, flipping open my sketchbook.
Before I can talk myself out of it—
I start drawing.
I sketch the lines of his face first—the strong jaw, the hollow curve beneath his cheekbones, the shadows under his eyes.
Then, the scars.
His body is a map of war.
And for some reason, I need to know where the roads lead.