He could be onto something. Idostill have a splinter in my ass.
“You know, Edward,” I say sweetly, “the whole point of chess is strategy. You can’t just glare at the pieces until they surrender.”
His blue eyes flick up, narrowing at me like he’s trying to decide if I’m worth responding to. Finally, he growls, “I don’t play games.”
“Mm.” I tap my pawn against the board, sliding it forward with an obnoxious littleclick. “That explains why you’ve already walked your queen into a death trap.”
He stiffens and looks down. Then he swears under his breath when he realizes I’m right.
“Oh, come on,” I tease, leaning forward, my blonde hair spilling over my shoulder. “Are you seriously telling me a man who survived combat can’t handle a twenty-four-year-old with a pawn?”
His lips twitch, just the barest flicker.
“Maybe I let you think you’re winning,” he mutters.
I laugh, the sound bouncing around the log walls. “Of course. The great Edward Rogers, martyr of the chessboard. What a noble sacrifice.”
He snorts and takes a long swallow of tea, but I don’t miss the way his eyes linger on me as I settle back in my chair. That heavy, searching stare of his… it does things to me. Things that have certainly helped pass the time these past few days.
We play two more rounds and he loses both. Though he insists the board is 'rigged', so we move on to sketching side by side.
His drawings are still dark and filled with violent shadows that make my chest ache, but at least he doesn’t hide them anymore. Not from me.
At some point, I end up perched on the rug with a blanket around my shoulders, doodling his profile as he opens a can of vegetable soup.
I like watching him move around the cabin. For someone his size, he's so quiet and capable. It feels… weirdly intimate. Like we’ve been doing this for years. Like this isn’t just survival. It’s a lifestyle we've both chosen.
By late afternoon, the snow has thinned to lazy snowflakes, the kind that glitter when they catch the ever so subtle hint of light.
Edward sits back in his armchair, boots crossed at the ankles, while I flop dramatically onto the foldout bed, sketchbook balanced on my knees.
“So I was thinking,” I announce, stretching like a cat.
“God help me,” he rumbles without opening his eyes.
“Rude.” I toss a pillow at him, which he catches one-handed despite not even seeing me throw it. “No, listen. When this storm finally lets us out, I’m going to open that studio. I can see it now…Penny Kaye’s Gallery of Wild and Wonderful Things. The townsfolk will sip cheap wine out of plastic cups and nod like they know what ‘expressionist abstraction’ means.”
Now he cracks one eye open. “Expressionist what?”
I wave a hand. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is I want you to be there. Front row. Brooding in the corner, looking rugged and mysterious, driving up my sales with sheer intimidation.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.” I point at him with my pencil. “Tall, glowering mountain man with a tortured past? Do you have any idea how much money people would drop on your sketches if you showed them?”
His mouth tightens, that familiar resistance sliding back into place. “They’re not for sale.”
“Edward—”
“I told you. They’re not for anyone,” he cuts me off, voice low and firm.
I study him for a moment, then close my sketchbook with a sigh. “You know, for someone who claims he doesn’t play games, you sure do love hiding behind rules.”
His gaze sharpens. “Rules keep people alive, Penny.”
“Or they keep them locked up in a cabin, pretending they’re already dead.”
The silence that follows is thick. His jaw works, his hand flexes against the arm of the chair, and for a second I wonder if I pushed too far.
