Page 222 of These Tears

About half an hour later, I shove the cabin door open—and halt.

Elias is standing beside the dinner table, closing the first-aid box, dressed in thick grey sweats and a white long-sleeved top that allows a suggestion of his tattoos through the fabric. A dressing bulges beneath the sleeve over his bicep, a faint rust-coloured stain already spreading through the white cotton.

He turns slowly, one wayward lock of black hair falling over his forehead.

Time holds still around us. The fire ticks softly beside us. His shoulders loosen by degrees, and my ribs seem to follow.

There is too much sitting between us to drag any of it back into words. We have already said the things that mattered. Anything more would only bruise them.

My eyes shift to his arm.

‘You might need a rabies shot,’ I murmur, then freeze at the double edge of it.

His sharp exhale might almost pass for a scoff. He takes an apple from the bowl and rolls it in his hand as I ease myself out of the jacket and the boots without taking my eyes off him.

He bites into it, attention fixed on the floorboards as he gives himself one step towards me. Another. Another.

By the time he reaches me, my body has gone completely motionless.

The sweet-sharp scent of the apple reaches me first.

He regards the bite mark for a long moment. When next his eyes meet mine, recognition moves through me before memory does.

And he raises the fruit towards my mouth.

A soundless echo passes between us. An apple once offered like a rule – a condition. A bite shared.

But his hand is looser this time. Slightly uncertain. The fruit hangs between us, offering a question instead of the command it once had.

I look from the apple to his face, reach up and turn it slightly, then bend closer to bite over the imprint of his teeth.

We chew in the quiet.

‘See?’ I murmur as I stare into the blue and find no winter left. ‘I bit.’

His jaw moves once before he swallows.

‘Mm.’ An Elias Crane sound.

‘Can you tell the difference now?’

His head moves in a slow nod as he looks down at the apple. The silence writhes, then settles into a steady rhythm.

‘I don’t like your tattoo,’ he says with that familiar imperious tone.

‘That makes two of us,’ I agree as I hook the coat and leave the boots by the door. My feet claim two steps towards the table. The floor complains beneath me.

That old, dangerous pressure settles along my spine when he follows. He stops before his body reaches mine, the heat of his chest crashing against my back.

He bites into the apple again, arm snaking around my waist as he lifts it to my mouth.

I take a small chunk off its flesh.

He swallows next to my ear. ‘I want it gone or covered.’

My hackles rise so fast they almost take my voice with them. ‘You want it gone?’

He hums in return. ‘I don’t want his name on you.’