Page 25 of Out on a Limb

It’s no different now, fleeing from the man who offered me shelter and friendship and who, only a few hours ago, taught my body how to come fully alive for the first time. Stig breathes steadily in the bed, crashed out deep in sleep, completely oblivious as I tiptoe around him and pack my things.

Every now and then, I glance in his direction. Every time, the sight of him is a punch to my chest.

The slack, trusting expression on his handsome face; the single arm tossed casually over his head, fingers curled into his palm. This is something I’ve learned over our brief time together: you don’t really notice the strain that Stig Hansen carries around in his face and body until he falls asleep and it finally melts away.

It doesn’t take me long to pack, but I linger anyway. Hover at the cabin’s front door, fiddling with my keys and warring with myself, partly wanting to climb back into bed and melt into Stig’s arms, and partly wanting to sprint out into the darkness before I can break my own heart any worse.

Stig makes a hoarse sound in his sleep and rolls over, one arm stretching across my side of the bed.

My side. If only.

Nothing in this cabin is really mine. It’s all stolen goods, all borrowed temporarily—including the man asleep in the bed. If I want to keep even an ounce of self-preservation, I need to remember that.

My key scrapes as it slides into the lock. The door creaks as it opens, a wave of cold air crashing inside. With one last glance, I check on Stig.

He doesn’t stir.

Stars glitter in an inky blank sky, and the air is so cold my breath forms chalky clouds. Heart raw, body sore, I step out onto the deck and heft my backpack higher on my shoulders. The door clicks shut behind me, my stolen key tucked safely beneath the mat.

Thirteen

Stig

Iwake up in a panic, sitting bolt upright. The cabin is dark; my loud breaths are ragged. Sweat drenches my t-shirt, sticking it to my skin, and my throat is so dry.

Christ.

I swallow hard, scrubbing a hand down my face. If my heart bangs any harder, it’ll bruise my ribs.

But I’m used to this. After years of living like I do, placing myself in dangerous positions and still needing to sleep, I’m well accustomed to waking up in a dizzying rush. Sometimes it means that a predator is near, growling in the shadows, and my hind brain has sensed it. Sometimes it means that I’ve rolled too close to the edge of the narrow ledge I’m sleeping on, and one more shift could send me tumbling to the rocks far below.

Usually, when I wake up like this in my cabin, frazzled and sweating in a place I should be safe, it’s just memories haunting me. Near-misses from my past adventures that still make the hairs on my arms stand on end.

But tonight is different.

Tonight, something is wrong.

“Jana?” My whisper floats through the dark cabin. I squint at the messy covers beside me, trying to make out her shape. “Jana?”

My palm strokes across the mattress—and finds it empty and cold.

My gut plummets harder and faster than it ever has before. The tips of my fingers are numb.

“Jana.”

Fumbling and cursing, I switch on the bedside lamp. Sure enough, the other half of the bed is empty with no sign of my girl. My neck twinges when I whip around to stare at the bathroom door.

It’s open. Dark inside.

Unoccupied.

The world tilts, and I clutch two fistfuls of bed covers—like if I hold on tight enough, our reality from last night won’t be ripped away.

Jana. She’s really gone, and in the middle of the night. Where? Why?

Is she safe? Is she meeting someone? Why wouldn’t she tell me she was going? My grip flexes on the covers, and my breaths are shallower now.

Fuck, what if I scared her off? What if the things we did, the desperate way I made love to her… what if it was too much, and she bounced? What if she doesn’t need me the way I need her?

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