Page 27 of Gunnar

“For three years,” he goes on, his voice dropping, “nobody’s come up that road who didn’t belong here.”

The implication arrives before he says it:

Until tonight.

Gunnar edges forward and Orson glances at him before he speaks again.

“We kept this place quiet for years. Now we’ve got cops firing rifles in the clearing.”

His lip curls.

“First gunfire we’ve heard up here in years.”

Torin shifts in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Orson—”

“No.”

Orson’s gaze moves back to me.

“And the reason for it is sitting right here.”

Heat creeps up my throat. “I didn’t ask to come here.”

“No,” Orson says.

His gaze stays locked on mine. His eyes are pale green with dark rings around the irises. A predator’s eyes. I swallow.

“But here you are.” He gets up, shoving his chair away and storms across the room.

A growl escapes Gunnar’s lips.

Orson freezes.

It isn’t loud.

But the hairs on the back of my neck lift.

“Sit.”

The word drops into the room like a stone.

Orson’s jaw tightens.

For a moment I think he might keep going.

Then he turns a one-eighty, drags his chair back and drops into it.

Torin exhales through his nose, like he’s been waiting for exactly that outcome.

Gunnar hasn’t even looked at him.

His eyes are still on me.

I look at Orson. “Trust me,” I say. “This wasn’t my vacation plan either.”

Torin lets out a quiet laugh.