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“That won’t happen.” Her unused, raspy voice has never sounded so confident.
“But if it does?”
“Then at least you’ll have my body to bring back,” she says simply.
I frown—I don’t like any part of this. It’s unnecessarily risky and dangerous, and we haven’t even tried to look for another alternative. But the fire’s still behind us, and we already set the caves as a meeting place with Denver and Memphis.
Brooklyn crosses her arms. “Look, I’m gonna try crossing the tree whether you want me to or not. So you can either help me, or watch me plummet. Your choice.”
To emphasize her point, she hops on the top of the log, balancing on it. Seeing her so close to the edge, unprotected, feels unbearable.
“Fine,” I choke out. “I’ll get the rope.”
The nylon rope in my bag is neon yellow. I loop it around my waist, tying it tight. When I’m confident in the knot, I move to Brooklyn and gesture for her to raise her arms so I can wrap it around her. Of course, she glares at me a few seconds before she obeys. She just loves challenging me.
As I snake the rope around her, my fingers accidentally brush her stomach. Even through her t-shirt, her body feels hot. I hear her breath catch as we make contact, and for a moment I let myself imagine touching her on purpose. Running my fingers over her skin and finding out what other noises I can elicit. Her sighs and moans, maybe she’d even call out my name…
I shake my head, quickly finishing wrapping the rope around her, and when I tie the knot, I’m careful not to touch her. I can’t allow myself to give in to her, no matter how intoxicating her scent is.
When I step back, we’ve got roughly 20 feet of rope between us. Should be enough for her to get over without any issues.
“Good luck,” I say. She acknowledges that with a curt nod.
This time, when she climbs to stand on top of the log, I see her hesitate. It’s obvious from her stock-still posture that her rational mind is finally catching up to the insane stunt she’s volunteered to do. Her chest rises in a deep breath, and she takes her first step.
Every instinct I have roars that I should keep the Omega safe. Pull her back, tackle her to the ground if I have to. It’s a massive effort to allow her to take the next step.
Brooklyn keeps her slender arms outward, graceful as a ballerina. Each step is small but meticulous, her foot carefully set on the path ahead. My chest feels tight, watching her go. When she reaches the middle, she pauses, and I think for a moment she’s going to lose her nerve.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she looks back at me and flashes the most incredible grin I’ve ever seen. It’s triumph and pride, and it makes my heart skip a beat.
I smile back, giving her a thumbs up. I don’t trust myself to speak and distract her right now.
She takes her time on the second half, finally hopping safely off on the other side. On solid ground again, she throws her arms up like an Olympic gymnast finishing a crazy ass routine. I stifle a laugh at her display.
“Your turn!” she shouts back at me.
Fuck. Well, that’s it for anything funny about this situation. My stomach threatens to rebel against me, thinking about making the crossing myself. It’s too late to second guess myself, though. I’ve got no choice but to follow her.
Brooklyn and I are still connected by the rope around our waists. Part of me wants to keep that leash on her, making sure she doesn’t run again. But I picture the log giving out from under me, her weight pulled helplessly into the abyss as we both plummet down. The image of her broken body splayed against the rocks makes my nausea even worse.
“Untie yourself and wrap the rope around that tree,” I instruct, pointing to a thick maple behind her. “You can’t hold my weight by yourself.”
She nods, looping the rope three times around the maple trunk, securing it in a surprisingly complicated knot. I’m as safe as I possibly can be with a rotted old tree between me and a hundred foot fall.
I don’t even bother trying to stand on the log. It’s better for me to crawl, distributing my heavier weight more evenly. Hopefully, I can keep my eyes on the solid trunk below me, not on the sheer drop of air.
With a few deep breaths to settle my nerves, I crawl onto the log. It’s a little less wide than my shoulders, making me feel unsteady on it already. My limbs feel like lead as I begin to move them, only daring to bring myself forward a few inches at a time. In my head, I try to imagine a big net below me, ready to catch me. I know that the longer I stay out here, the more likely the log is to give under my weight. I can’t afford to hesitate.
Inch by inch, I move. The process is painfully slow, and the temptation to look to the depths below me is almost too hard to resist. I force myself to watch my own hands. My palms are sweaty and slippery, a bad sign. I wish I could wipe them on my shirt, but I don’t dare mess with my stability.
I’ve crossed literal minefields without feeling terror like this. It takes all my training and discipline to keep myself from spiraling. I move my hand an inch, then another. I fortify the imaginary net hanging below me with double, stronger strands. It’ll be fine if I just keep going. It’s all going to be okay.
Until a piece of rotted bark gives out from under my hand, tumbling into the ravine below.
Fuck.
