Page 48

As soon as I tell him what a liar I am.

I’m falling for him—too hard, too fast.

I push down my guilt and enjoy the moment, and he doesn’t push me, as I’m nearly lulled into a trance by the fire. I enjoy his arms, the feeling of still being alive and falling in love, despite the hunger in my belly.

My pleasure is short-lived. Twigs snap and footsteps crunch on the rock. Micah and Naomi finally return. Micah walks by us, nudging his brother’s shoulder and throws down a squirrel, landing a few feet away, maintaining his expertly crafted mask of indifference at seeing me in Maison’s arms. Naomi continues her icy demeanor toward me, barely sparing me a glance as she prances by. “Micah caught us dinner,” she says proudly, completely unfazed by what Micah really fed her.

Micah walks over to the supply area, now covered by our one tarp, hidden and protected by bushes and long grass, and tosses a shiny knife on the ground. He jerks his head to Maison. “I caught it, you skin it.”

An order from our alpha.

Maison blows out a breath and slightly nudges me to move. He rises, leaving a cold void behind me. He grabs the dead squirrel and heads toward the other site to hang it upside down on some wire we hung a few days earlier. He will be up for a while now, skinning it, but at least we will have something to eat tonight. I sigh heavily at how everyone jumps when Micah barks orders, and Micah merely smirks with amusement.

Naomi sits on Micah’s lap, and he wraps his arm around her waist, but he doesn’t look at her the way Maison gazes at me. Micah’s attention is once again completely fixed on me.

My eyes shoot open as droplets of rain wet my skin and smoke tickles my throat. I jump up from the damp blanket beneath me from the ground I somehow fell asleep on. The moonless, inky sky is like a wall of black around me.

Shit… How did I fall asleep?

Micah made the rule clear, keep the fire lit—simple. It’s smart actually, to save the fuel for when we really need it. Maison left me hours ago, for a good night’s rest before the boys leave for their early morning hunt.

I jump to the nearby pile of wet kindling, grabbing a piece and throwing it over the charred wood that used to be fire. The rain’s pattering down hard around me, causing what’s left of the red embers to hiss—simmering heat and smoke rising from the ash.

But the flame went out.

I push at the stick, hoping it lights and catches fire, dreading the fact I might have to wake someone up. The droplets of rain, now turning into a sheet of water, pour down on me, soaking right through my clothes. My chest tightens and stomach twists up as I crouch alone in the night, muttering to myself in frustration for failing to notice the impending storm above me as I now shiver uncontrollably. The last I remember, I was writing in my journal, then grabbed my book to help keep me awake. My eyes must have closed, and I fell asleep sitting up.

I turn to find Maison, but he is already on the other side of the fire, throwing a large stump near it. I didn’t even hear him approach through the sound of the rain hitting the ground and the water.

I walk up to him as he crouches, placing my hand on him and running it down his back. He shifts and casts me an indignant stare, and my face drops when I take in whose back I am rubbing.

“Wrong brother, sweetheart,” Micah says in a deep voice that makes my thighs clench.

Micah grabs the piece of kindling out of my hand and blows on the fire while poking it until one piece of wood catches hold.

He doesn’t falter, flinch, or even acknowledge me as I stand next to him, completely drenched, and the rain pours down on him. Once satisfied with the flame and the rain eases a bit, he finally looks at me. I fully expect his usual hateful glare and a lecture about how I let the fire die, but when I catch his eyes under the hood of his sweater, they are soft. For a moment, I thought I misjudged which brother was helping me. Maybe it is Maison?

“Crouch down with me,” he says in such a way, I’m instantly reminded it’s him—Micah, not the nice twin.

I freeze and falter, so he grabs my hand and pulls me down so hard, I fall into his muscled body. Rather than apologizing for being so brutish, he simply keeps a steadying hand on my thigh as I get on my knees and lean into him. The first time he’s ever touched me, and I think about how strong his fingers are—of his curling fist when he threatened me on the plane, and the tiny bruises found on Olivia’s neck.

“See that larger log? I want you to grab it.”

He threw the bigger piece of wood near the fire. My heart rate spikes at being so close to him, so I try to create distance between us. He presses his hand harder on my thigh, not letting me leave.

“Don’t move. It’s important you learn how to do this. I can’t always save you. Now grab the log. You are going to rebuild this fire, London, not me.”

London—he only ever calls me sweetheart, and not in a sweet way.

I grab the log and hesitate, unsure of my next move. I can barely make out his shadowed face from under his hood. “What now?” I ask him as rain drips off my nose.

“Toss it directly onto the embers. Right in the center.”

My brows narrow. “Won’t that put the fire out?”

“It will protect it from the rain and wind. The fire will burn beneath it. Do it before the ash burns out.”

The log is heavy and wet in my hands, so I toss it into the burning pit.