Page 5 of Craved By the Mountain Man

I am not crying. Crying makes my nose red, and I have been inconvenienced enough.

When I finally move, I grab my backpack and the little black zippered pouch Kaden gave me years ago.

The front door is locked.

I stand beneath the porch roof while rain drips from my curls onto my shoulders. The lock is expensive, solid, and much better than the cheap deadbolt on my apartment.

“Gavin,” I whisper at the door. “This is excessive.”

I crouch and unzip Kaden’s kit.

My brother started teaching me useful things when I was young, while our parents were busy being important. He taught me where to hit if someone grabbed me, how to use leverage when someone was bigger, how to keep my thumb outside my fist, and how to get through a simple lock when getting through the door mattered more than respecting it.

This lock is not simple.

“Your paranoia is deeply unattractive,” I inform Gavin’s door.

The first pick slips.

I mutter something uncharitable and try again.

Rain drums steadily against the porch while I work by the faint light from my phone. The lock fights me for several minutes, which feels personal considering I once spent an entire afternoon illustrating individual strands of white hair against a white background without losing my mind.

Eventually, something inside the mechanism gives.

The lock turns.

Relief hits me so hard I nearly laugh.

“Still got it.”

I return the tools to the pouch, shove everything into my backpack, and push open the door.

The darkness inside is complete.

I hesitate on the threshold.

Two years ago, I saw this place in daylight, full of late-afternoon sun and Kaden’s voice carrying from somewhere near the kitchen. I remember wood, stone, an enormous fireplace, and Gavin standing beside it with one shoulder against the mantel while I tried very hard to behave like a woman who had seen a male forearm before.

Tonight, I can barely see past my own hand.

I could use my phone flashlight. I probably should.

Instead, I step inside and close the door quickly behind me because standing in a pool of light while dangerous men are looking for me feels like a good way to become a cautionary tale.

The lock slides home beneath my fingers.

Only then do I breathe.

The cabin is completely, wonderfully quiet.

There are no tires on wet pavement, no phone vibrating beside me, no stranger asking questions at my apartment building and no Declan-shaped disaster reaching into another corner of my life.

Only rain against the roof and my own breathing.

My shoulders sag.

“I made it.”