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Chapter Eight
London
Spring
We are still alive and have officially survived winter. I think it might be early spring—or, at least, there are hints of it in the air. Subtle changes at first, things I hardly noticed, but that Micah picked up on immediately, like the sunlight lasting longer and pushing the darkness away. Some days are agonizing, and ever since the day Micah tied me up, the days have blurred together. Just wind and winter. Micah was there through the darkest part of it, always making me feel better.
When I’m alone, and in the odd times when I’m awake and Micah is sleeping beside me, with my hand placed over his beating heart, I hear the voices. It’s as if they are lingering on the surface of my psyche, waiting to torment me. The other day, they came while it was light outside. Micah had only left for a few minutes, but I saw someone hidden in the shadows. When he came back, I was curled up in a ball, shaking. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him why. When it happens, I usually seduce him, then submit to him in the ways that hurt the most. It’s easier to get lost in him than to deal with what these voices might mean.
The night when he tied me up was only a couple of weeks ago, and somehow, I fell even more in love with him since then. He continues to feed me, fuck me, worship me, and he helps me get over my fear of dying here. We are still in the dark about the state of the others, and Micah still doesn’t seem to care. He doesn’t believe they are still alive, and I’m pretty sure he hasn’t given them a second thought. Micah is still fragile and still hasn’t properly dealt with Maison’s death, although his temperament has settled. He thrives out here, in the wild, in this wicked place—with me.
So I try to forget them, just as Micah has trained me to forget Maison. It’s only the two of us now, and even if somehow the others are still alive, no one else matters.
“Get ready, London. Pay attention; they aren’t far ahead,” Micah calls over his shoulder. He’s standing with his back to me but doesn’t turn to face me, keeping his focus on the paw prints of his prey.
I drop the wood in my hands, grab my spear, and crouch, trailing a few feet behind him. My long dark hair falls over my face, and my heartbeat picks up as it always does before a kill. I can only imagine how untamed we look. We’re hungry, and Micah’s hunting. He’s so sexy in his natural state—like an apex predator—that watching him move makes me want to jump him right here.
It’s April now; at least, that’s what we think. The snow has melted to nothing but slush as the temperatures rise, and what was once a white and barren land now has hints of a lush forest terrain. I can’t wait to see how pretty it is at the height of summer. The trees here are plentiful and diverse, with fir trees surrounding us. Fresh buds and muted greenery tease the bushes and ground. I’ve fallen in love with it here, away from the rest of the world.
And I’ve fallen so deeply for him.
I watch him move with grace as he crouches and crawls with his back to me, stalking a deer. His body is tense as he grips his bone weapon. His hood covers his face, and he’s wearing his usual gray sweats. I can’t see his expression, but I know his eyebrows are pinched in deep focus. I enjoy the heat from the blazing sun on my skin and the view of his fit, strong frame a few feet ahead of me.
He gives me a hand signal to stay put and jumps out of view, leaping almost wolflike into the thick woods. He thinks a deer is nearby, similar to the large doe I let get away all those months ago. We only ever catch one type of animal other than fish. A hare of sorts, larger than the rabbits we used to catch in the fall. On special occasions, or on the days when I don’t think I can handle game meat anymore, he lets me have some of the canned food.
Micah and I haven’t talked about that night we had spaghetti. He smiles more, as if he’s aware he owns my soul. He knows I could never leave him—I haven’t left his side since. It’s easier that way, not having the tension of our past ruining our present, giving him the control he needs as well as my full attention. At least, this way, we can focus only on our survival.
I’ve been dreaming a lot lately, both while asleep and awake, my mind drifting off to the dark spaces in the forest, which lead to darker spaces in my mind. It’s as if the forest likes to play tricks on me and knows we don’t truly belong here. Sometimes, I have to pinch myself to make sure I’m really awake and not follow it. And unfortunately, even after I pinch myself, the laughter continues. I hear it every fucking night, and I have since the night I walked into the woods when I shouldn’t have. The sound of Micah’s breathing brings me back—he keeps my sanity from completely shattering.
Over the past weeks, on the days when the sun was shining, he would bundle me up and take me outside to help me clear my head and give me fresh air. He teaches me everything, every intimate detail about every northern animal, like which droppings are which, what types of animals we can find during winter, which birds to expect in the spring, and what I have to do to survive without him—which I never plan on doing anyway.
Right now, he’s been gone longer than I anticipated, and he never leaves me alone like this. I twitch, trying to keep still and quiet like he told me to. I resist the urge to call out to him since it’s incredibly important to be quiet while hunting. If somehow the doe gets past Micah, I’ll aim for the heart or an eyeball because my stomach is shredding and I’m not currently feeling humane. In the meantime, I sit and wait, trying to blend into the earth.
I turn my head as the wind whistles through the trees. I can sense Micah hidden from my view in the shadows of the dense forest, so I keep my head locked in front of me. I glance upward, and my heart stills a single beat at the soft whispers in the woods.
It’s Maison.
Soft, caring… concerned. His presence is like a soft feather on my skin. He says my name, calling out to me, and I search for him. He’s there in his usual gray hoodie, outside my field of vision, watching over me. I’ve never seen him this clear.
“Micah?” I call out, and only stillness answers me. Too quiet.
I close my eyes, and when I look again, Maison’s gone, although his whispers linger. Every memory—his crooked smile and his comforting presence—lingers around. It’s pleasant knowing he’s still with me, and I wish he would come closer so I could feel him. My heart flutters, and my breath catches.
It was Maison—I know it in my heart—and this fleeting moment I had with him wasn’t long enough. “Come back…” I sob. Tears sting my eyes as the emotions of my stilted grief flood through me. “Maison, come back to me,” I call out again, my voice breaking.
“London.” Micah’s voice snaps me back to reality, and for a moment, I recoil. “What are you looking at?
The whispers disappear, Maison’s presence vanishes, and I pull back. Micah approaches me, and I find his gaze, making sure he knows I’m still with him. His eyes are like dark clouds as he studies me.
I swallow hard, the vision of Maison still stuck in my mind. Did Micah hear that? Did he hear me call out for Maison? I keep my voice steady, but inside, the cracks are forming, ready to shatter. “Nothing. I was just checking the forest. I was waiting like you told me to.” I point to the spot where the barren forest floor peeks through, in the opposite direction of where I saw Maison. “You can see the ground over there. It looks like grass is coming in. I haven’t seen the ground in months.”
It’s the place where I saw that footprint a few weeks ago in the snow. The one I still have not told Micah about. The one I think belongs to Nigel.
His eyes narrow as if not believing me, and he parts his lips like he wants to say something but holds back. Luckily, he doesn’t press the subject as he walks through the slush with an animal in his hand. He tosses it aside and walks up to me, pressing his lips to the back of my head. His body is a steady, warming presence behind me as I gaze into the glistening forest beyond.
“Did the deer get away?” I ask, leaning into him, enjoying his warmth as a chilly spring breeze cuts through the trees.
He shrugs and tightens his fingers around my arm. “I saw droppings, so it can’t be far. We’ll have to get it another day, but I caught us lunch.” The rabbit he threw a few feet away from me is still bleeding from its neck, where Micah likely sliced it. He leans in so his mouth tickles my cheek. “I caught this for you, baby. For your birthday.” I decided it was my birthday this morning since my birthday is in late March, and he promised to make me something good. Food hasn’t been as plentiful as I’d hoped. Every day is a struggle not to dip into our reserves.
