Michael's arms tightened around me, pulling me closer until I felt the steady thrum of his heartbeat against my back. He pressed his lips to my shoulder, not quite a kiss.
Outside, the wind picked up, branches scraping against the cabin's exterior like skeletal fingers. Tomorrow loomed before us—unknown, terrifying in its possibilities. But for now, in this borrowed bed, with Michael's breath warming my skin, I allowed myself to believe in a future where we survived everything.
Chapter nineteen
Michael
TheweightofAlex'sbody anchored me as I slowly began to wake. We hadn't moved much since falling asleep—my arm draped across his waist, his back pressed against my chest.
I listened for warning signs—footsteps, whispered voices, or the click of the insertion of a cartridge—but heard only silence and the cabin's sounds: wood contracting in the pre-dawn chill, distant water dripping from eaves, and the barely audible hum of electricity coursing through old wiring.
I studied Alex's profile in the weak pre-dawn light—his growing beard, and the flutter of his eyelids as he dreamed. His face had softened in sleep, his grief momentarily suspended.
I traced the bumps of his spine with my fingertips. He stirred briefly against me.
When I slipped from beneath the covers, Alex murmured something unintelligible but didn't fully wake. I dressed in silence. My jeans still carried the faint scent of laundry detergent from my apartment—a reminder of normality that seemed to belong to someone else's life. My holster settled against my ribs as I checked the safety twice out of habit.
I paused at the threshold, watching Alex's chest rise and fall.
Miles sprawled across the sofa, one sock-covered foot dangling over the armrest, mouth slightly open. Our plan for sleeping in shifts had failed, and Miles and Marcus decided against sharing a bed.
I crept toward the front door. The knob turned with minimal resistance, and I slipped outside into the raw morning air.
The morning was still cold at the higher elevation. It was a bracing shock after the cabin's warmth. Pine-scented air filled my lungs, sharper and cleaner than the city's perpetual dampness.
My father taught me the value of perimeter checks before I learned to drive. "Know your ground before the day knows you're on it," he'd say. The habit had saved my life overseas more than once and followed me home like a stray that wouldn't leave. Especially now, with everything at stake.
I descended the wooden steps, boots crunching on frost-stiffened gravel. A blanket of mist hovered inches above the ground, twisting around my ankles as I moved.
The cabin sat in a small clearing, with forest pressing in from three sides and a rough access road cutting through on the fourth. It was perfect for privacy but left only one escape route. I began my circuit, scanning for broken branches, disturbed undergrowth, or footprints where none should be.
Near the northwestern corner, I stopped. The impression wasn't obvious—only a slight depression in the soil where frost hadn't fully formed. I crouched, fingers hovering above what was unmistakably a bootprint. The tread pattern was distinctive: not civilian hiking gear, but tactical. The impression showed a heel dig deeper than the toe, suggesting someone had paused, shifting their weight backward. Watching.
I didn't touch the print; instead, I examined the surrounding area for companions. None were visible on the hard-packed earth—this observer had been careful, stepping only where necessary and leaving minimal traces. Professional. Military or paramilitary training.
My throat tightened as I assessed the evidence. The print was fresh—the crisp edges hadn't been softened by weather or time. It was hours old at most. Someone had stood here, observing the cabin, while we slept inside, oblivious to the intrusion.
Our safehouse was compromised. The question now was whether to flee immediately or finish what we'd started first.
I paused at the cabin's edge, where the tree line came closest to the structure. From that vantage point, I saw through the kitchen window where Alex's laptop sat on the table, its screen glowing with the progress of our digital resistance. Forty-eight percent complete when he'd stumbled out of bed to check at 4 a.m. Two and a half hours remained before the upload finished.
Hours we might not have.
I knew I should tell Alex about the bootprint immediately, then share the intel with everyone in the cabin. That would be the honest approach, respecting their right to make informed choices about the danger.
I also knew what would happen. We'd argue about our next steps and lose focus. Panic would seep in, corrupting our judgment. And in trying to protect everyone, we might sacrifice our only chance to expose Asphodel to the world.
Turning back toward the cabin door, my boot soles crunched against gravel once more. The eastern sky had lightened, gray warming toward pearl. Morning approached, bringing with it decisions that we couldn't delay.
I stared at the surrounding trees. "Damn it, I'm not ready to lose him."
When I returned to the cabin, I moved to the kitchen, grateful for the ancient coffee maker that Marcus had programmed the night before. The carafe was half-full, liquid black as tactical gear, and probably strong enough to strip paint. I poured a mug and leaned against the counter, letting the ceramic warm my hands while I assembled my thoughts.
The smell of brewing coffee permeated the small space, mingling with the lingering traces of last night's meal and the distinctive mustiness of a building rarely occupied.
"Anything out there?"
I turned to find Marcus emerging from the bedroom, raking his fingers through disheveled hair. His voice was low, mindful of Miles still sleeping nearby. I weakened immediately and decided to share the news with my older brother.
