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The cabin is calm and silent after Ridge leaves. I finish the bacon before moving on to the scrambled eggs, and even though the meal is as simple as it can get, it’s delicious—the bacon just the right amount of crispy, the eggs fluffy and moist. It hits the spot for me in a way no food has in a very long time.
From what I’ve been able to tell, Ridge definitely lives alone in this small cabin. I’m touched that he went out of his way to cook me breakfast and to bring it to me in bed. He also wasn’t half bad at trying to be as non-threatening as possible. And I appreciate that too.
That doesn’t mean you should stay, I think as I finish off my cooling coffee and put the empty mug back on the tray.
But I’m torn. On the one hand, my fight-or-flight impulse has taken up what feels like permanent residence in my gut, and every nerve-ending in my body is screaming at me to run. Ignoring that self-preservation instinct that’s become so ingrained in me after life with my uncle feels like the stupidest thing I could possibly do right now.
But on the other hand… I’d be safe here. Safer than anywhere else. I truly believe that now, at least.
After I finish, I carry the tray into the kitchen and spend a few minutes washing and drying the dishes, before I open every cabinet and drawer in the room to put them away in the right place. I figure if Ridge is going to cook for me, the proper thing for me to do is at least clean up after myself.
His kitchen is small, tucked in a corner adjacent to the living room with one small window over the metal sink and a back door that opens out over a small empty plot of grass. The cabinets are mostly empty—just a handful of plates, bowls, cups, and mugs, which tells me he doesn’t have company over often. The fridge is sparse too. A gallon of milk, eggs, bacon, and lunch meat with a few generic condiments. Because I’m nosy, I also open the freezer and find it packed full with different kinds of meat, which I guess shouldn’t be surprising given he’s a wolf.
A wolf.
Holy fuck, I still can’t quite believe that.
Closing the freezer, I walk through the living room and poke around a bit. There are three magazines on the solid wooden coffee table—two copies of Men’s Health and a single copy of Popular Mechanics that advertises “How to Survive the Next Great Disaster.”
Funny. I could use some advice in that regard in my own life.
Other than the couch and coffee table, the living room area is sparse, but with a clean, masculine feel. The hardwood floors look freshly varnished and shine beneath the rays of sunlight slanting through the double picture window. I pass back into the hallway where a coat rack holds several jackets.
I hesitate for a second before pressing my face into a blue jean jacket lined with flannel and taking a deep breath of Ridge’s unique woodsy scent.
Then a flush creeps up my neck, and I glance guiltily toward the door as if expecting him to come bursting through demanding to know why I’m sniffing his clothes like some kind of creepy stalker.
I wouldn’t have an answer for him. Not one that makes sense anyway. I just know that I can’t get enough of the way he smells. The way his voice sounds. The way his amber eyes burn like
two steady, reassuring flames.
Even just the lingering scent of his jacket in my nostrils brings me a kind of calm I never knew existed.
I take one more surreptitious sniff, promising myself this is the last one, before continuing on in my exploration of the house.
A woven throw rug in shades of brown and tan rests by the front door, and I pause, the soft weave plush beneath my bare toes as I tiptoe to peek out the high decorative window in the door.
At first glance, the street outside looks empty. The bedroom is on the opposite side of the house, and I ran down a small dirt road lined by other houses when I ran for the woods yesterday. On this side, a larger gravel road runs just beyond the small front yard, and other similar cabins sit on the other side of the street.
I’m tempted to slip on shoes and step outside to get a better look at this little settlement. It looks like a miniature version of Big Creek, which is a small town in its own right, and I wonder how it functions so far from civilization.
But before I can make a move, I notice a group of big, burly men striding through the village.
I duck, my heart rate jumping. I saw no indication they were coming here—the five or six men looked as if they were deep in conversation, faces and movements relaxed as they navigated up the road. But something about them pokes the fear that’s lain right beneath the surface in me since the moment I awoke in Ridge’s house, never entirely fading away no matter what I do.
Those men passing by the cabin are huge, powerful, dominant. Just like the ones who burst into the house yesterday.
Just like all of these people.
These wolves.
These shifters.
I don’t quite understand what it means for someone to be a shifter, besides the fact that they can change from human to animal and back. I don’t know what it all means.
But I recognize strength, power, and dominance when I see it.
And all I can think of is Uncle Clint.
