“Stupid,” he muttered again. “Should have left you. You die. I don’t care.”
“But you didn’t.”
He sneered at me.
I nodded slowly, rubbing my hand on my leg. I looked around the room again, taking it in. It was a single room, the floor made of dirt. The ceiling was vaulted, the beams crisscrossing overhead. The room had three windows, and the only light came from the fire. A battery-powered lantern sat on an old table, but it was off. There were scratches in the walls, long and deep, as if something had been trapped inside and tried to get out.
Two headless rabbits hung from a rope near the fire, twine around their back legs. They’d been skinned. My stomach grumbled at the sight of them.
Gavin glanced at me, frowning. “Those are mine.”
I held up my hands. “Not gonna touch them, dude.”
His frown deepened. “Not dude. Don’t say that.”
I looked around again. “This is a cabin.”
He didn’t respond.
“Is it yours?”
He huffed out an angry breath but didn’t speak.
I rolled my eyes. “You have to give me something here, man. I’ve spent almost a year looking for you.”
“Didn’t ask you to.”
“Yeah, well, fuck you too.”
He stood up suddenly, my shorts slipping on his hips. I stared a beat too long at the dark hair on his chest and stomach. He snarled at me. “You’re better. I fixed you. You leave. Now. Go away.”
I blinked. “What? I’m not going to fucking leave. I just got here! You take off like it’s nothing and make me track you all over the goddamn continent, and you think I’m going to leave?”
“Yes.”
“Not happening.”
“Why?”
I looked him straight in the eyes. “You know why. Whether you like it or not, and fuck knows I don’t, you’re my m—”
One moment he was standing by the chair. The next he was in front of me, the blanket around his shoulders fluttering to the floor. His knees bumped into mine, and he gripped my face harshly, fingers digging into my cheeks. “Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t. Don’t say it. Nothing. You are nothing. I am nothing.”
I reached up and gripped his wrist. My thumb pressed against his pulse point, and it felt like thunder.
His eyes widened, and he jerked his arm back, stumbling away as if I’d scalded him. He whirled around and stalked toward the door. He paused with his hand on the latch. “Leave,” he said without turning around. “Don’t be here. When I get back.”
I squinted against the morning light as he opened the door, then slammed it behind him. Motes of dust sprinkled down from the ceiling as the walls shook.
“Shit,” I whispered.
I FOUND THE REMNANTS of my ruined jeans sitting in a pile in the corner, the stench of blood wafting off them. They’d been shredded like someone had taken a knife to them.
Or claws.
I tilted my head, listening.
All I could hear were the sounds of a forest alive in the throes of an early winter. Somewhere in the distance, leaves rustled as an animal moved through them. I didn’t hear the heavy drum of Livingstone’s heart or the sounds of his son.