Page 37 of Under Fyre

My eyes travel back to the source of heat for this room, back to the thing that drove me from such deep sleep.

A fire snaps and bites at the hearth of a stone chimney built into the wall separating this room from the rest of the cabin. Beside it, a closed door. Undoubtedly locked.

Where is Fyre?

When I slide out of bed, creep across the rug-strewn floor, and try the handle, it turns easily in my hand.

Fyre’s by the stove, preparing a meal from the smell hanging thick in the air. He’s drawn the curtains, but there’s a chink in the kitchen one like he was looking out and forgot to close. That pitch-black window doesn’t show anything new. He told me to take a nap while he warmed up the house and made us dinner. I can’t believe I was so tired that I actually obeyed.

Guess it’s true what they say about fresh air.

There’s athump-thump-thumpfrom nearby. My eyes are drawn to Arrow as her tail pats the rug near the fire. She gazes at me with liquid brown eyes, never once lifting her head from her paws.

It’s desperately warm in here. I have a feeling that, if the fire goes out unexpectedly in this place, no one would know until they found your frozen corpse.

“Nice nap?” Fyre asks.

“Amazing.”

“Have a seat. Dinner’s almost ready.”

I sink into the closest armchair. The furniture in this place looks like it was selected by an interior designer. Big, soft sofas and armchairs in neutral shades draped with bright, chunky throws. The living room shares a wall with the bedroom, and I guess the two fireplaces share their stone chimney too.

As soon as I sit down, Arrow gets up and pads over to me on silent paws, head low, ears flat, nose working a mile a minute.

I draw my legs up and hug them hard, moving myself away from the dog’s inquisitive nose. As if sensing my displeasure, Arrow takes one last sniff and then retreats to her place by the fire.

For several minutes, I sit silently in the chair, watching the dog watching me, as Fyre works in the kitchen. Eventually, he calls Arrow with a quiet whistle. A metal clang must be the dog’s bowl being set on the floor, the wet “oomphing” noises that follow must be Arrow wolfing down her chow.

Then there’s a bowl in front of me. Thankfully, it’s porcelain, not metal.

Fyre takes a seat on the sofa nearest me. We eat in silence—well, as silent as it can be with a dog chasing its food bowl around on the floor.

“Arrow.”

As soon as she hears her master’s voice, the dog limps out of the kitchen and goes to lie by the fire. She watches me eating until Fyre clears his throat in a meaningful way, and then she looks into the flames and lets out a long huff.

Moments later, she’s snoring.

“How did she get the limp?”

Fyre’s fork clatters, drawing my eyes away from the dancing flames to his eyes. They’re as dark as his expression.

I open my mouth to tell him that I don’t want to know anymore, but he’s already answering me. “She’s a hero. She almost died trying to save my family.”

Fyre’s delicious stew goes rancid in my mouth. I put my bowl in my lap, swallowing hard to get the last meaty lumps down my throat.

“Excuse me?”

He takes a last bite, but as if he’s also lost his appetite, he sets his half-finished meal down on the coffee table, watches the fire for a few seconds, and then gets up with a ragged sigh.

“I need a drink for this,” he mumbles. As he comes past, he grabs my bowl out of my lap and I’m overcome with a wave of unease.

How could he be angry with me for asking? I didn’t even know he had a family.

I squeeze my eyes closed, give my head a tiny shake. Just how naive—howstupid—am I? How could I think a man like him could get to his age without falling in love, without having kids?

Now I want to know everything.

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