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Steffen used me, but gave me what no one else ever did: freedom. That’s why this risk feels colossal. Everything I have could vanish in an instant.
The doorknob twists. Anders’s shadowy figure fills the cabin’s doorway, his long arms hanging loose, the image of nonchalance.
Liar. He knows I’m here.
The shadow of his ax creeps into the room, nearly reaching the chair where I sit.
Every three months, Anders returns here alone. This is where he lets his inner beast roam, hunting and killing along the cliffs.
I am no helpless lamb—I chose to walk into the dragon’s den.
Anders steps inside, whistling a tune that sounds like a requiem. Moonlight glints off the slick, dripping blade of his ax. I press my spine against the warm, cracked leather of his favorite armchair, grounding myself in its battered comfort.
“Did a bunny hop too far from home?” Anders purrs. The moonlight makes his blonde hair look like frigid ice.
“I took a page out of your book.”
“I have a lot of books. Which one did you grab, Rylan?”
Good. He knows it’s me. Hopefully, that’s why he’s allowing me to talk.
“The book where you act first and beg for forgiveness later. That story mattered to you. It’s how you met your wife.” My voice is sharp, daring him to react.
“You’re more psychotic than I thought.” He lets out a loud, ear-piercing whistle. “You come in here and insult my wife and me.”
“It’s not an insult,” I quickly reply. “Your love knows no bounds. Maybe mine doesn’t either.”
He watches me through the dark, a beast caught between a snarl and a smirk. He holds himself back, curiosity the only leash on his violence.
“Am I the first to come here on purpose?” I ask, pride curling in my chest.
I walked straight into Anders’s den. His sanctuary. His nightmare. The hunting cabin crouches on a lonely island off Norway’s coast. His father used to leave him here, a boy forced to survive alone. The old man is dead, but Anders keeps coming back, repeating the ritual.
Maybe I’ll poison the place. Maybe I’ll set him free.
“The first one foolish enough not to attack right away,” he replies. Along the edge of the ax, he slides his index finger, coating it in blood. Using that same finger, he drags it down his face. Moving quietly, he seizes a small box from the mantel, ignites a match, and inserts it into the waiting fireplace. The fire is small at first, only illuminating him and the fresh blood staining his face.
Anders thrusts his ax into the fire, making the blood shimmer anew. He hunts here, slaughters animals. Maybe he thinks his enemies’ souls are trapped within their bodies.
“How did you get here?” Anders finally asks.
“I’m a little insulted that you are keeping your back to me.”
He glances at me over his shoulder. His eyes barely look like a man’s, just black as night with orange flames flickering in them.
“Someone grew a spine. Where is the girl who was crying and kicked as I dragged her onto a plane?”
“She grew up.”
“But shall she live for long?” He turns, his face covered in shadows now that the fireplace is behind him. “How?”
How did I get to his private island of torture? It wasn’t easy.
Matter of fact, it was the hardest hack I’ve ever done. He has drones operating in the airspace and buoys in the water that trigger an alert if a boat approaches. He’s also wiped the island from all satellite images.
People have no idea about the islands around the world that don’t appear on Google Maps.
I drum my fingers on the chair’s arm, taking in the cramped quarters. This cabin makes a broom closet look spacious. There’s only a fireplace and a chair—no bed. He sleeps on the floor by the fire. No fridge, no stove. If he wants to eat, he hunts. The only luxury is the electricity he wired in years ago to keep in touch with the other leaders of The Rites of Passage.
