Page 6

My boots sink slightly into the damp forest floor as I set off, following a barely visible path between the trees. The darkness presses in from all sides, but I’ve studied the route on satellite maps for weeks. Fifteen minutes northeast from where I parked. Follow the stream until it bends sharply west, then look for the clearing with the ancient oak split by lightning.

Sweat beads on my forehead, trickling down into my eyes despite the cool night air. I blink it away, refusing to put her down. What if she wakes while I’m resting? What if she runs before we reach the cabin? The fantasy requires the perfect setting—not a confused struggle in the mud or gravel.

“Let’s find that small cabin that was around here,” I say aloud to steady myself.

A guy at a pub in Cardiff mentioned it months ago—abandoned by the forestry commission, occasionally used by locals for discreet encounters. No locks, basic furnishings, off the beaten path. Perfect for my needs. For our needs.

My breathing grows labored as I push forward, Vivian’s body warm against mine. The moonlight dances through the canopy above, casting shifting patterns on the path before me. In the silver light, the forest transforms into something otherworldly—neither sinister nor welcoming, but watching. Waiting. Like I’ve been doing for the past twenty years.

A branch snaps somewhere to my left, and I freeze, heart pounding. Just wildlife, I tell myself. Nothing to worry about. Rangers don’t patrol this deep after dark. Still, I pick up my pace, not wanting anyone to see me hauling an unconscious woman, anxiety mingling with the exhilaration coursing through my veins.

When I spot the clearing ahead, my shoulders nearly sag with relief. There it is—the small wooden structure nestled among the trees, exactly as described. One window facing the entrance emits no light, the door slightly ajar. I approach cautiously, still wary of potential occupants or rabid animals despite the darkness.

“Hello?” I call softly, unwilling to stumble upon some couple in the middle of their own fantasy. Silence answers me. I nudge the door open wider with my foot, revealing a dark interior. “Anyone here?”

Nothing. Perfect.

With careful movements, I duck inside, Vivian still over my shoulder. The floorboards creak beneath my boots, announcing our presence to the empty room. I fumble for a light switch, but eventually find it, flicking it on. The light is… shitty, barely illuminating us. There’s a generator in the back, but I wonder if it’s on its last legs. My hands tremble slightly as I shift Vivian’s weight, freeing one arm to reach for matches beside the lamp.

The light bulb starts gaining strength, filling the small space with warm, flickering light that dances across rough wooden walls. The cabin is simple but functional—better than I dared hope. A small bed sits against the far wall, two chairs pulled up to a circular table, a tiny fireplace built into the stone chimney. Dust coats every surface, but the structure seems sound.

“This is our home for the night,” I murmur, gently lowering Vivian into one of the chairs. Her head tips forward, and I cup her chin, tilting her face up. In this light, she looks even more beautiful. I allow myself one brief caress of her cheek before I take a step back to take a proper look around.

The cabin is both better and worse than I’d hoped. Better in layout—the single room with an attached small bathroom is intimate, romantic. Worse in condition. Cobwebs stretch across corners, banged-up walls, and the sheets on the bed are stained with... something I don’t want to examine too closely.

Focus, Andrew. One step at a time.

I move to the fireplace, considering. A fire would warm the chilly cabin, creating the right atmosphere for when she wakes. But I remember the warning from that dark romance online forum I took most of my tips from; keep the space cool if you’ve used sedatives. Heat can increase side effects and make the wake-up rougher. The things you learn from strangers.

“Fire or no fire,” I mutter, running my hand through my hair. “Ambiance versus comfort.”

I glance at Vivian, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Her comfort matters more. No fire, then. I can always light it later if she gets cold. Or hug her. Oh, I like this idea a lot.

My gaze falls on the bed again, and I grimace at the state of the sheets. No way am I letting her lie on those.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell her unconscious form. “Don’t go anywhere, cariad.”

I chuckle at my own joke, then guilt immediately pools in my gut. This is a person, not a prop in my fantasy. A person I’ve admired from afar for decades, who has no idea what’s happening or why she’s here. For a moment, doubt creeps in, cold fingers of uncertainty clutching at my chest.

Am I making a terrible mistake?

No, I’ve come this far. I just need to give her the chance to know me—the real me, not the bullied teen from high school or the rockstar persona I put on for shows. Once she sees who I truly am, she’ll understand. She has to.

I step back out into the forest, the cool air adding much needed clarity to my head. The path back to the car seems longer now, every shadow a potential forest ranger or hiker that I don’t want to engage with. My pace quickens, half jogging through the trees. With each step, I grow more anxious to return to Vivian. What if she wakes while I’m gone? What if she’s afraid?

“Hurry,” I mutter to myself, breaking into a full run as the car comes into view.

I unlock the trunk with shaking hands, gathering the supplies I’d packed so carefully—clean cotton sheets with a thread count high enough to impress my mother, pillows from my own bed, bottled water, and a small first aid kit. And a box of condoms, tucked discreetly under a folded blanket. My face burns as I think about how good it must feel to have sex with her. And the final ingredient—well, prop—the neon-blue mask.

Just like in the dark romance novels, I put it on and oh boy, do I feel untouchable for a couple of seconds.

The walk back seems to take forever, my arms laden with supplies, bugs buzzing around my head in the darkness of the mask. While it provides anonymity and a layer of coolness, it also severely hinders my eyesight.

How the fuck do dark romance protagonists see anything around with this on?

I swat the bugs away, the eye openings in the mask welcoming them like landing strips directed to my eyes, as I mutter curses under my breath. I hate them—always have, ever since some bullies in middle school shoved a handful of beetles down my shirt.

As I approach the cabin, something feels wrong. First, the silence. Then, the door stands wider than I left it, yellow light spilling out onto the forest floor. My pace slows, wariness creeping up my spine.