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Except when I scan the dim recesses of our cozy corner booth, it's glaringly empty. Zane is nowhere to be seen.
A leaden knot forms in the pit of my stomach as the realization sinks in with sobering clarity. Of course, he bolted—I just went full corporate raider on those douchebags without so much as a sideways glance in his direction. After everything we'd talked about keeping Camp Silverpine grounded and honoring its spirit, I let my business-minded instincts take the wheel without a second thought.
Just like that, the delicate balance we were working toward got tossed out the window.
Zane's stubborn pride and my own overzealous ambition are like flint and tinder. Of course, a stupid move like that would send him running.
The anger sparks to life then. He didn't even give me a chance before bolting. Again. Zane's vanishing act is just par for the course these days—the second things get too intense or complicated, he dives headfirst into his self-imposed exile.
Well, this time, his little wilderness hideaway won't be enough to shake me. Not a chance in hell.
The icy night air slaps me in the face as I burst out onto the street, instantly regretting my lack of warmer layers. Squaring my shoulders, I pivot on my heel and strike off down the deserted sidewalk at a brisk pace.
My breath fogs out in ragged plumes with each determined stride, the rhythmic click of my heels against the pavement keeping time with the furious pounding of my pulse. The neon glow of the restaurant fades behind me, swallowed up by the looming darkness stretching in every direction.
Zane is out there somewhere. I can feel it in my gut, that same primal intuition that used to allow us to track each other through the densest forest or up the most treacherous mountain face without even trying. He's licking his wounds in that vast, untamed wilderness that has always been his sanctuary.
And I'm going to find him, no matter what it takes.
Chapter 8
Zane
Zane
With each ragged inhalation, the crisp mountain air sears my lungs, but the familiar sting is grounding. Centering. Up here in the remote alpine sanctuary I call home, the cacophony of thoughts ricocheting through my skull finally begins to quiet.
I'm deep in the rugged backcountry before I finally shrug the heavy pack from my shoulders and begin the methodical ritual of making camp. Hammer the stakes, lash the guy lines, unfurl the compact tent. The familiar motions settle over me like a comforting shroud, quieting the riot of emotions still swirling in my gut.
Aspen's face flashes in my mind, those expressive green eyes blazing with the same fiery ambition that first drew me to her all those years ago. Except now, that intensity is twisted into something cold and calculating.
My fingers still as fresh embers of anger stoke to life. She didn't even hesitate before pitching those corporate douchebags on turning Camp Silverpine into some gaudy, overdeveloped tourist trap.
She belongs to that slick, cutthroat world of high-rises and power suits. I'm a nomad who finds solace in the vast, indifferent emptiness that stretches endlessly from horizon to horizon. We were trying to graft two fundamentally opposing pieces together, like stitching a wild grizzly bear pelt to a designer evening gown.
No matter how much we might crave that bond we once shared, maybe we're simply too different now.
So consumed by my thoughts and the task of making camp, I don't immediately register the telltale crunch of boots over the gravelly scree until they're nearly on top of me. I whirl reflexively, drawing my hunting blade up in a defensive arc as adrenaline spikes through my bloodstream.
And just like that, every ounce of hostility drains away in a nauseating rush.
Aspen stands rooted to the spot, chest heaving from exertion. Her fiery tresses are tousled by the biting wind, crimson tendrils whipping across those delicate features like the flickering tongues of a flame.
"Dammit, Zane," she says, sounding frustrated and exhausted. "You don't get to do this again. Not after everything..."
The words seem to catch in her throat, Aspen's gaze falling to the knife still clutched in my white-knuckled grip. She takes a reflexive half-step back.
"I wasn't..." I force the blade away, sheathing it quickly before raising my palms in a gesture of surrender. "You startled me, Red. That's all."
She nods, seeming to gather herself. "Yeah, well, I figured I'd better track you down before you disappeared into the wilderness for another decade."
The biting words strike their intended mark, the guilt lancing through me like shrapnel to the gut. I open my mouth, grasping for a retort—anything to deflect or downplay the hurt I've caused her yet again.
But Aspen's expression softens infinitesimally, her jaw setting in that telltale display of stubborn resolve I know all too well.
"I get it," she murmurs after a loaded pause, worrying her plump lower lip in a way that has me aching to taste the softness. "Why you ran. And I'm not going to apologize for trying to secure investors to save the camp. But I should've looped you in instead of letting my corporate blinders take over."
Aspen sucks in a sharp breath, seeming to steel herself for the admission that follows.
