His lips trail down my neck, sending shivers all over.
"I love looking at you," he breathes, brushing the hair off my shoulders. "Will you let me look at you?"
My heart hammers, a wild thing seeking his. "Yes."
So he does. And I feel it. For a long...
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NOAH
Dogs know nothing of evil. Kick them, and they'll apologize for whatever they think they did wrong. Love them, feed them, shelter them, and they'll worship you like a god.
Isn't that fucked?
The spacey interior is dim, lit only by the flickering fire in the hearth, but it's like the heat can't get to the dog. Shadows dance on the walls, and the air is thick with the smell of burning wood and something faintly sweet, like cinnamon, but the little guy wouldn't know because he won't open his eyes.
I rub his velvety black ears, but it feels futile. This dog is holding on by a thread—barely.
The man who let us in—John, he eventually communicated—is tall, broad-shouldered, with dark skin and short, white hair. There's something in the way he looks at Cam. His eyes are sharp.
I don't like it.
Camila is lying by the fire, her body swaddled in blankets that John gave when we first walked in.
John sits across the room in a rocking chair, spooning oats into his mouth, his gaze locked on the fireplace. The bowl in his hands is steaming, the scent of cinnamon and apples mingling with the smoke.
I'm in the old fabric chair, holding Charlie in my lap.
And nothing's changed in an hour.
Cam's sleeping. Charlie's dying. John's eating.
I can't stop watching them—Cam, Charlie, and John. All three of them breathing slow, wheezing.
"You were in the storm." John's voice is rough.
I glance at Camila, then back at him, but he's staring at the fire. I don't trust this guy, but I can't afford to be careless. And now that the snow outside is more like a white wall of gust, there's no leaving anytime soon.
"We were driving," I say again, choosing my words carefully. "Got caught in the worst of it. Cam pointed me here."
John doesn't ask another question right away, keeps staring into the fire, spooning oats into his mouth like he's got all the time in the world. He rocks his chair. He doesn't blink as much as he should.
I try to keep my voice steady, keep my nerves under control. "We didn't mean to intrude. Just needed a place to ride out the storm."
"This isn't Middlebridge. This place exists outside of town. Nobody comes here—except her. She comes here."
"Camila," I say.
"Yes."
"Why?"
He spoons more oats into his mouth—and fucking ignores me.
There's something off about this whole place, something I can't put my finger on.
Then I see the picture on the mantle. It's John, a younger version of him, with his arm around the shoulders of a teenage girl. She's got big black curls, caramel skin, and a broad grin with gapped front teeth. She's rail-thin like a strong breeze could knock her over.
