Page 151 of Savage Hearts
“So should you. He shot you!”
“It was an accident. I’m sure he feels awful.”
His reply is a disgruntled growl. I kiss his cheek again, and he squeezes me closer into his side.
I decide to leave my questions about Declan’s future for later.
In my heart of hearts, I already know the answers, anyway. If Mal were going to kill Declan, he already would have.
We arrive at the cabin just as Poe is landing on the wood railing on the porch, squawking at us impatiently for treats.
The next few weeks are a blissful dream.
The snow starts to melt in the meadow. A riot of wildflowers springs up from the thawing ground. I perfect my target shooting skills and learn how to shoot a bow and arrow, though only at trees. I even start work on a book, a project I always dreamed of but never had time for.
When Mal asks me what the story is, I tell him it’s about a girl who doesn’t know she’s dead.
“Like that movie,” he says. “‘I see dead people.’”
I smile at him. “No, this is a love story.”
“A love story withghosts?”
“Keep making that face, and I’ll never let you read it.” He chuckles, kisses me, and leaves it at that.
We go to bed early and sleep late, sometimes staying in bed all day. We make love on every surface in the cabin, including up against all the walls. I’ve never been happier.
I promise myself that when Mal has to go back to work, I’ll call my sister. I’ll deal with “real” life, but not yet.
For the first time, I’m happy, whole, and completely at peace. I feel like I was wandering lost in a wilderness, but now I’ve been found. I want to live in the cabin in the woods forever.
Until the day Mal goes into town to restock supplies and everything falls to pieces.
I should’ve known something so beautiful was too good to last.
FORTY-ONE
MAL
I spot him the instant I step into the grocer’s, because nobody from here looks like that.
Nobody from anywhere looks like that.
Leaning against the wall by the restrooms near the back, his arms folded over his sizeable chest and a toothpick stuck between his movie star teeth, he’s the picture of effortless cool.
He’s tall, muscular, and has full sleeves of tats down both arms. His dark hair waves down to his shoulders. He’s got the angular jaw of a superhero and the proud bearing of a bullfighter. In a tight white short-sleeved T-shirt, faded jeans, cowboy boots, and mirrored aviators, he looks like the love child of James Bond and Elvis Presley, with a dash of the pirate Blackbeard sprinkled on top.
I hate him on sight.
I also know instinctively that he’s not here by accident. He’s here for me.
The odd thing is, he’s not trying to hide it. He wants me to see him. That’s obvious. Judging by the way he’s lounging against the wall, arrogant as the devil, he wants everyone to see him.
He removes his sunglasses and looks me up and down. I’m gratified to see him purse his lips in dissatisfaction.
“Dobroye utro,Malek,” says the old woman behind the counter to my left.
“Good morning, Alina,” I reply in Russian, turning to her. I walk casually to the counter, making sure the movie star sees my relaxed smile. “How are you today? How’s the knee?”
