Chapter 5

LYRA

How is this even happening?

It's hard to draw my eyes away from him as he absently types on a laptop beside me. His thigh rests against mine, separated only by a layer of harsh, black denim. Heat flushes to my cheeks as I take him in, from the sharp edges of his face to the way his muscles bunch beneath his shirt. He has changed a lot since I saw him last, his once lean body now stacked with muscle. Scars and tattoos mark his skin, the dusting of facial hair doing nothing to hide the slashes across his cheek. Still, despite the changes, he feels like home.

I try to focus on the now cold noodles in front of me, swallowing them down as quickly as possible. How in the world he remembers my favorites is beyond me, and better yet, how he has them here. There are so many questions sitting at the tip of my tongue, but I feel unable to speak. Where has he been all these years? Why did he visit my dad's grave? What of the wolf in the woods? Why did he never try to find me?

"So, how have you been?" I ask, attempting to break the silence. He has barely spoken to me since he agreed to let me stay the night, but it's worth a try. His nostrils flare as he turns to face me, his dark eyes roaming my body but not looking directly into my eyes.

"Fine," he snaps back, returning his attention to the laptop where he's typing out a message on some messenger system. I try to look at what it is, but he turns it enough that I can't make out the words. "Do you mind? I said you could stay the night, not that I wanted to make up for any lost time, Lyra. Things have changed; I have changed. Fuck, you have changed."

"It's been eight years, Ryker. Eight years of radio silence from the one person in the world I cared about."

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, the familiar haze blurring my vision. Just when I think they've dried up, my emotions get the best of me. Before long, the steady stream drips onto the black shirt I'm wearing, my chest becoming damp.

Needing to create some space, I make my way to the only other internal door in the cabin, praying for a bathroom. My small venture from the bedroom to the lounge provided no opportunity to see myself, but I can bet I look like absolute shit. My skin feels tacky, a mix of dirt and sweat from last night settling deep within my pores.

The small space lights up with the flick of a switch, revealing an old clawfoot tub and a shower head over the top, the plain white shower curtain hanging limply from an oval rail. A large mirror is perched over an old-style basin, with a few personal items sprawled on the outer edge.

Gripping the edges of the porcelain, I take a moment to look at myself for the first time since I left home. My hair is in knots, sticks and bark tangled into the long strands as they hang over my shoulders. Thick, dark circles surround my eyes, the purple blooming under my pale skin. Tiny veins spindle through my reddened eyes, exaggerated from the copious amount of tears. I look like death on legs, and he saw me like this.

I reach up to my throat, where a deep bruise is forming across the front. My mind races, thinking of the moment my life flashed before my eyes, before everything went black. I was more than willing to be pulled under in that moment, settled with the notion that this was it for me.

Years and years of pain and loneliness, my life lacking any true human connection outside the small talk from customers at work. It has been surface level at best, downright fucking lonely at worst, accompanied by an ache that never left for the man who disappeared off the face of the Earth. I had given up hope of finding him, without a thread of information crossing my path until an hour ago.

He's holding me at arm's length, figuratively. The warmth he once held is now replaced with cool indifference. His words have venom, but there's nothing behind it. He can barely hold eye contact with me for more than a few seconds before his jaw flares and he looks away.

I can feel that he's still in there somewhere. It may be more distant, but still there—the boy who saw me during my darkest times until he helped me escape, the one who would bring me meals to my room when our parents were not home or crawl into my bed and hold me when I had bad dreams.

The vivid memories play like a movie, scene after scene flitting through my mind. His scent. The way he looked at me like I was someone to him, as though my life had meaning to him and him alone. He coveted me, protected me even when his body was beaten to a pulp. Fast forward eight years, and he can barely look in my direction without his lip curling.

Deciding to shower, I step under the searing spray of water, a light moan escaping from the feeling of water hitting my scalp. Dirt swirls at my feet, along with all the stray bark struggling to fit down the drain. I lather my hair in the unlabeled soap, the single bottle of anything in the shower, and am overwhelmed at the scent. It's Ryker's scent, the one I prayed would cling to the ratty old hoodie I wore of his. It's rich and woody, with that man smell, the one that smells faintly like his old cologne.

My fingers massage my head as I close my eyes, focusing on the scent now enveloping my body. Suds rush down my skin, pooling at my feet. I could stay in here like this for hours, but he has been pretty headstrong about me leaving tomorrow. I need to make the most of the time here, regardless of his attitude.

Making light work of the rest of my body, I towel dry my hair enough that it's not a constant stream of drips and throw on his t-shirt before making my way out to the silent lounge space. He hasn't moved, still seated on the sofa, but his head is tipped back. His laptop sits closed on the coffee table, his body much more relaxed in my absence, it seems. Interesting.

I study him, the way his chest rises and falls deeply with each breath. The way his Adam's apple moves when he swallows, his corded neck twitching. His presence swallows the sofa whole, so big and imposing. The longer I stand here, the harder it is to ignore the warmth building in my lower stomach, a feeling I haven't experienced in a long time.

Out of nowhere, he smirks, his eyes still firmly closed. A small dimple forms where the scar slashes his cheek, adding to how fucking breathtaking this man truly is. If only he knew the loss, the pain I felt losing him for what I believed was forever that night. How I mourned him. The countless nights spent sobbing into the worn grey fabric, begging for something as small as his scent to return.

How many times I researched until the birds started to sing in the morning, showing up to work with no sleep at all, fueled by caffeine and sorrow. Never in a million years did I think we would ever cross paths again, but here we are, and it's nothing like I could have predicted.

He gets up and stalks over to me, backing me up until my back is flush with the wall. His arms cage me in on each side as he stares down at me with such intensity, it makes it hard to breathe. The heat building in my core is painful, an ache I have only ever felt after waking from a dream, one of the ones that features him, usually chasing me.

"I will say this once, Lyra: I am not the man I was eight years ago. Do you understand?" he snarls through clenched teeth, miles away from the carefree look he carried moments ago. He inhales deeply before a low growl rumbles from his chest. It hardly sounds human, something I've never heard before. "You should be running for the hills, wanting to leave, but here you are, staring at your stepbrother and dripping down your fucking thighs. Go, out of my sight. You being here is a mistake."