Page 29 of Cedarwood Cabin

We make our way back to the living room where Lyka stands leaning against a door frame, arms crossed over his chest, staring at me with disapproval.

Why the fuck is he judging me? I feel embarrassed already.

Dax lowers me on the couch and I sink down, feeling exhausted yet relieved. Lyka pushes off the door frame and walks away with a huff.

“I know what you tried to do in the forest,” Dax begins as he sits in the armchair across from me. His face glows from the fire and his eyes are filled with compassion. “Lyka and I won't mention it to anyone. But I think staying here for a few days is best until you recover.”

My breath catches in my throat as my defenses crumble. I look away from him, not wanting to make eye contact. “I’m ashamed,” I mumble as my eyes fill with tears.

“Don’t be. I know how you feel. When my mother…well, my adoptive mother, died from sepsis, my whole world came crashing down. I didn't want to be here.”

My tears spill over and I wipe them away. “I know that feeling too well. My mother died from Covid.”

Dax leans forward in the armchair and looks at the fire. “So, you don't have any other family in America?” he asks.

“No. I have an auntie in London. However, it’s an estranged relationship,” I explain. “She used to contact me regularly once we moved here. She wanted me to move back to London after my father died, but I haven’t contacted her back…even though that’s where people think I am right now.”

Dax gives me an awkward smile and I can tell he doesn't know how to respond. The silence between us grows. The only sound you can hear is the fire crackling and the occasional creak of the wooden cabin settling.

I shift the conversation. “So, do you live here with your father, then?” I ask.

“No. Our father died of liver disease five years ago. The alcohol killed him after he turned to the bottle. He wasn’t much of a father after my mother died. Lyka stepped up, looking after me.”

Guilt hits me and I feel terrible after my recent actions with the vodka. “Oh. I’m so sorry. I’ll stop asking questions.”

Dax lets out a dry chuckle. “It’s fine. Lyka and I have moved on. That’s life.”

I wish I could move on like they had.

He stands up from the armchair, walks over to a wooden box in the corner of the room, opens it, and retrieves a blanket. He places it beside me. “Get some rest. I’ll cook you up something.” “Thank you,” I murmur, placing it over my legs.

Dax heads towards the kitchen and I settle back into the couch. I glance toward the staircase, half-expecting to see Lyka’s disapproving figure. Instead, the space is empty. For the first time in two months, I allow myself to relax.

I blink hard a couple of times and finally manage to open my eyes. Lyka leans over me, his cold stare greeting me. I quickly raise my torso from the couch and the blanket slips down my shoulders.

“Fuck! Jesus, Lyka! You scared me,” I gasp.

“Dax made you some food,” he mumbles, walking away.

Do I have to follow you then? Yes? No? Asshole.

I push the blanket to the side and stand up slowly, still feeling rough. With each step, dizziness hits me harder.

I enter the kitchen which has the same rich wood that defines the rest of the cabin. Deer heads adorn the walls. In the center stands a stone island with smooth, light wooden stools surrounding it.

Dax is already at the island and pulls out a stool for me. “I made you some chicken noodle soup. Hopefully, it will make you feel better.”

I take a seat, my eyes falling on the bowl in front of me. The soup smells delicious. The golden liquid has tender chicken, noodles, and vegetables with steam rising off it.

“Don't worry if you can't finish it. The main thing is you need to drink plenty of water,” Dax explains, his voice soft but firm.

I lift the spoon and take a sip, the warm broth soothing my sore throat. Dax sits next to me with his own bowl. Across the island, Lyka sits there with a grumpy, intense, rugged allure. His tattoos snake up his massive arms. His light blue eyes, piercing and cold, sharply contrast his black hair, which is stylishly pushed back. Despite his grumpy demeanor, his edge makes it hard to look away.

Dax, on the other hand, presents a more approachable figure. His light brown hair falls casually on his forehead and his golden eyes hold an inviting warmth. Even though he was adopted, there was a surprising resemblance between him and Lyka. I observe them, feeling an unexpected flutter in my stomach. It is strange and unsettling. There’s something about them. My eyes flutter back to Lyka. He sits there, still glaring at me.

Stop staring at me, Lyka. Fine, I’ll make small talk. Asshole.

“So, Lyka, who was that girl with the black hair and tattoos at the concert?” I ask.

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