The word echoes in the dream, endless and absolute.
Mine.
I snap awake.
My eyes fly open, staring at the ceiling. The room is gray. Morning light filters through the storm shutters, cold and indifferent.
My pulse slams against my ribs. A hard, jarring knock, nothing like rest.
I tighten my grip on the gun before I even register the threat.
But there’s no threat. The house remains silent. The wind died down to a low moan.
The only enemy is my own body.
I’m hard. Painfully, undeniably hard.
My erection strains against the zipper of my tactical pants, adamant and refusing to stand down. The dream didn’t release the pressure; it concentrated it. The image of her face, the phantom feel of her heat, it’s all still there, layered over the waking world like a hallucination.
I groan, a rough sound scraping my throat.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to banish the image. Trying to force the blood to go somewhere else. Anywhere else.
It doesn’t work.
The ache creates a physical demand. A throbbing reminder of failure. I failed to lock it down. I failed to keep the distance.
I throw the blanket off.
I sit up on the edge of the couch.
I drop my head in my hands, digging the heels of my palms into my sockets until stars explode in my vision, and I breathe.
In. Out.
The air in the den tastes stale. Recycled. It tastes of confinement.
I need to hit something.
I need to destroy something.
I look at the gear bag. The handle of the Winkler Tomahawk sticks out, black micarta against the gray nylon.
Pure motion.
I grab my boots. I shove my feet into them, lacing them with jerky, aggressive movements. I pull the laces until they bite into the instep, welcoming the pinch of pain.
I stand and adjust the fit of my pants, ignoring the friction, ignoring the stiffness, refusing to subside.
I grab the axe. The weight of the head feels comforting. Balanced. Lethal.
I unlock the side door. The heavy deadbolt slides back, and I step out into the white again.
This time, I don’t walk.
I wade through the snow to the woodpile. It’s a stack of seasoned pine and birch, buried under a foot of fresh powder. I clear a space and set a log on the chopping block.
I swing.
