Page 21 of Torin

“Torin.”

I look back.

Hannah is still standing in the doorway, but whatever small amount of ease had crept into her face is gone.

“Don’t tell anyone I’m here.” Her fingers tighten around the edge of the door. “No one. Please.”

My chest tightens. “I won’t,” I say. “I promise.”

She watches me all the way to the truck.

I drive away slowly, watching until the little cabin is out of sight.

My beast lasts almost a full minute before starting.

Go back.

“No.”

Go back to mate.

“No. She doesn’t know she’s my mate yet, and I’ll just look like a creeper.”

Go back.

I sigh.

This is going to be a long night.

4

Hannah

The sound of Torin’s truck fades into the distance.

I lock the door behind him, check it, then slide the heavy bolt into place.

The shutters are already closed. I go from window to window anyway, checking the locks before I finally put down my backpack.

Professor Bennett gave me the coordinates to this place last year. If you ever find yourself in a tight spot, Hannah, the cabin’s yours. Key’s under the third flowerpot from the steps.

He didn’t ask me to explain why I might need somewhere to disappear to, and I didn’t ask why he thought I might need it. I drop into the nearest chair and let out a long breath.

I’d been worried Professor Bennett might have offered the cabin to someone else while he was away. But the place is empty. Torin confirmed what the stale air and stuffy rooms already suggested: nobody has been here for a while.

Nobody knows where I am.

Except Torin.

And for some reason, that doesn’t frighten me.

The cabin is exactly the sort of place Professor Bennett would own. Practical, comfortable, a little old-fashioned. Books fill the shelves beside the fireplace, and a pair of battered hiking boots sits neatly by the back door. There’s no television that I can see, which is possibly the most Bennett thing about it.

I push myself back to my feet and wander into the kitchen. The refrigerator is running. I try the faucet and get clear water, then test the stove. Everything works. As emergency hideouts go, I could have done a lot worse.

The bedroom is small and neat, with a double bed already made up. I put my backpack on the coverlet and check its contents: Laptop. Toiletries. Another change of clothes. And the files. I touch them, then zip the bag closed again. Tomorrow.

When I straighten, pain shoots through my ribs.