Page 35
The highway first. The Jeep coughing its last breath, gauges bleeding dark, the hopelessness that came with watching the engine begin to die in the middle of nowhere. Then the town lights flickering through the sideways snow.
Blackrose? No…Black Forest? Umm Blackthorn…yeah that was it. Blackthorn Ridge in Montana.
She remembered how close she had come to giving up. The car, dead at the diner, and Felicity’s voice telling her to go inside.
I must be losing it.
She frowned as she recalled the diner door swinging open, the warmth slamming into her like a physical blow, carrying the thick, sweet scent of apple pie and fresh coffee. The man in the corner booth, huge, quiet, watching her with those careful golden eyes.
She pressed her palm flat against the quilt, feeling the raised stitching bite gently into her skin, and breathed.
Bear…
Other fragments followed, hazier but no less real. The careful drive through the blizzard, the cabin emerging like a mirage out of white chaos, strong arms carrying her up the stairs, his low voice narrating every single movement before he made it — “I’m going to lift you now… easy, sweetheart… just a little water…” — as if he knew exactly how much the dark and the unknown could scare her. Medicine. Cool water on her cracked lips. The gentle darkness of a room where someone is watching over you. Not like the sharp, threatening dark she’d grown up with, but something warmer. Something present.
Safe.
He’d stayed.
She sat with that truth for a long moment, letting it settle like the heavy quilt across her lap.
Then she looked around the room properly for the first time.
“Looks like a fucking hotel,” she muttered to the empty air, her voice raspy and low — three weeks of breathing frozen air and one night of a raging fever had scraped her throat raw. The words still felt good. Real. Hers.
The space was ridiculous. There was a massive stone fireplace with a low fire still crackling, dark mahogany furniture that gleamed softly in the pale light, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stuffed with worn spines flanking the hearth. Through the window she could see snow-heavy forest and jagged mountains half-swallowed by low, bruised clouds. On the nightstand beside her sat a glass of water, condensation beading cold on the outside, and a small folded note.
Her hands trembled just slightly as she reached for it.
The handwriting was unexpectedly neat for hands that size — blocky, careful, almost old-fashioned. It read:
Medicine by the water. Take your time. Door locks from the inside.
P.S. — You snore.
She stared at the note…“I do not… idiot,” she whispered, but there was no heat in it. Just the faintest flicker of something warm and wondering.
She pressed her lips together. Then she grabbed and swallowed the medicine with the water and told herself it was nothing.
So he didn’t fuck you. Probably because you’re gross and clearly this guy can buy that if he wants it.
Somehow the thought felt wrong. Like the golden bear from her dream would have been hurt that she thought it.
“Shut up!” She said out loud and swung her curvy legs over the edge of the bed slowly. Tested the floor with her feet, thick carpet, soft, almost offensive in its softness. Stood.
Yup…a dumb rich hotel.
She slowly moved to the door.
She opened it and peered into the hallway. Wood floors. Plush rugs. Framed art on the walls, tasteful and varied. The smell of… coffee? Bacon. Something that might have been fresh orange juice.
She closed the door.
Looked at the lock.
It was a good lock. Solid. The kind that meant it. She crossed to it, reached out, and turned the bolt.
Stood there for a moment, her hand still on it.
