Page 53 of Breaking His Exile

Then it went black everywhere.

Evander woke to blood dried along his temple and daylight bleeding out of the trees. He blinked blurry eyes until the edge of the shelter’s roof came into focus above him—mossy, age-silvered logs against gray sky.

The rain had stopped.

The fire was dead ash.

His skull pounded, and every breath sent a hot wire through his ribs where Creed’s knee had landed.

He sat up.

Too fast.

Way too fucking fast.

He caught himself on one hand and waited for the world to stop its Tilt-A-Whirl act.

His rifle was gone. His pack lay open beside the dead fire, contents scattered. Radio. Water. First-aid kit. Creed had searched it.

His knife lay on the stone beside him. He could still feel the resistance of Creed’s flesh around the steel, but the blade was clean, wiped of blood. The bastard had pulled it out of his side, cleaned it, set it down within reach in a clear message:

I could have killed you.

But he hadn’t.

Why?

He staggered to his feet and squinted at the late afternoon sun slanting through the trees. He’d been out for hours. Two, maybe three.

And Rainey was alone at the cabin.

His empty stomach clenched at the thought. Acid burned the back of his throat. He’d left her there. Sent her back with Tilly and a pistol and the absolute certainty that he would draw the threat away from her. He’d decided it was for the best. Just like he decided on that ridgeline in Afghanistan. Just like every other bad choice he’d ever made when someone else’s life sat in his hands.

The pattern was repeating.

Nate’s face in the snow.

Cooper’s open eyes.

River’s blood on the barn floor.

His ribs screamed when he stood. His vision grayed. He caught himself against the shelter wall, palm flat on cold stone, and breathed through the nausea until the trees stopped swimming.

Creed could have gone anywhere in three hours. Down the mountain toward town. Or—the possibility turned his stomach to ice—straight to the cabin. Straight to Rainey.

No.

He abandoned the shelter at a run.

fourteen

Rainey heard a crash in the trees, branches snapping somewhere in the dark trees east of the clearing, loud enough to carry through the cabin’s closed door. She froze, fist clamped around the pistol grip, and listened. Another crash, closer. Something heavy moving through undergrowth, breaking through it, not caring who heard.

Tilly lifted her head from the floorboards. Her ears pricked forward, and a low growl rumbled through her chest.

Rainey eased off the cot. Her ribs complained, but the ache was distant now, overruled by fear and adrenaline. She’d left the lantern burning low on the shelf, and in its dim light she crossed to the door, pressed her eye to the gap between planks, and saw nothing. Trees. Darkness. The last gray light of dusk bleeding out of the sky.

Another crash.