Chapter 11: The Cottage Empty
The afternoon sun had slanted into long, drowsy evening shadows across the mahogany floors of Kane’s bedroom before the first thread of unease began to weave through him. He’d cleaned up, dressed in dark jeans and a black t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders, and tried to occupy himself. The silence of the great house, usually a comfort, now felt thick and expectant.
He’s just packing. It takes time. He has a life there.
Kane repeated the thoughts like a mantra. He imagined Winter carefully wrapping his carving chisels in soft cloth, folding his flannel shirts, deciding which pieces of his own work to bring. The mental picture soothed the low buzz of instinct for a while.
But as the last light faded and true dusk settled, the buzz became a hum, then a persistent drill between his temples. He stood at the window, staring down the empty, moon-washed driveway. No sign of a car. No crunch of gravel.
Maybe he’d fallen asleep. The rut and its aftermath had drained him more than he’d let on. The deep, cellular exhaustion had been held at bay by adrenaline and relief. Now, with Winter gone, it came rushing back. He lay down on the crimson silk, inhaling the mingled scent of them both, and closed his eyes. Just for a moment. Just until he heard the car.
He woke with a jolt, the room pitch black. He knew instantly, viscerally, that too much time had passed. The moon had moved. The house was a tomb.
He was out of bed and down the grand staircase in seconds, a sense of wrongness coiling in his gut like a cold snake. He grabbed the keys to his truck from the hall table, not bothering with a jacket. The night air was chill as he gunned the engine, the headlights cutting violent swathes through the darkness as he sped towards the village outskirts.
Winter’s cottage was dark. Not a cozy, settled dark, but a hollow, empty one. No soft glow from the kitchen window. No scent of lavender or pine smoke from the chimney. Kane killed the engine and was at the door in three strides. It was unlocked.
The smell hit him first. Not Winter. Faint traces of him, underneath. But over it, the sharp, acrid scent of unfamiliar sweat—two people, one male, one female—and a cloying, chemical perfume that made his nose wrinkle. And fear. Winter’s fear, sour and bright, laced through everything.
He flicked on the lights.
The cottage was still a cottage. But it was wrong. The quilt was folded neatly on the bed, which Winter never did. A half-packed suitcase lay open on the floor, a jumble of clothes spilling out. Winter’s favorite leather tool roll, the one he’d had since trade school, was gone from its hook. But his second-best set of gouges lay scattered on the workbench, as if knocked over in a hurry. A mug of cold tea sat on the small dining table, a faint ring staining the wood.
“Winter?” Kane’s voice was too loud in the stillness.
Silence.
He moved through the three small rooms like a storm, his breathing starting to come in short, ragged pulls. The bathroom. The scent of fear was strongest there. He yanked back the shower curtain. Nothing. He opened the tiny cabinet. Toiletries were gone. His eyes scanned the small space, desperate for a sign, a clue, anything. His gaze fell on the back of the toilet tank. A slight ripple in the dust.
He knelt, his large frame crammed in the tiny room, and felt behind the porcelain. His fingers closed on a folded square of notebook paper, wedged into the narrow gap.
He pulled it out. Winter’s precise, careful handwriting. Smudged in one corner.
Kane,
I’m so sorry. I’m an idiot. I called my parents. I was scared and happy and I needed to tell someone, so I told them I was pregnant and that you’re the father. It went so bad. They showed up an hour after you left. My dad hit me. My mom just kept screaming. They said they’re taking me and my brother Leo to some cabin my uncle owns out in the countryside, a place I’ve never even heard of called “The Spruce Haven.” They’re talking about “fixing” me, about making me see sense. They took my phone.
I’m so scared of what they’ll do. Sarah’s scared too. I’m writing this while mom’s in the other room. I’ll try to leave it where you might look. I’ll try to get away. I’ll try to find you.Please.
Please find me.
- W
The paper trembled in his hand. A low, inhuman sound built in his chest, a rumbling growl that vibrated the small room. The words “fixing” me and my dad hit me seared into his vision, burning away the last vestiges of his control.
He exploded out of the bathroom.
His hand, already thickening, claws threatening to breach the skin, swiped across the dining table. The mug and lamp shattered against the far wall. He upended the small sofa, its frame cracking like gunfire. He gripped the edge of Winter’s workbench and, with a roar that was only half a man’s voice, hurled it sideways. Wood and metal tools rained across the floor.
The wolf was right there, snarling and pushing against the confines of his bones, howling to be let out to hunt, to tear, to kill. The image of Winter, scared, pregnant with his child, being struck by some small, hateful man, forced into a car… it was an atomic blast behind his eyes.
He braced his hands on the wall he’d just cleared, head bowed, every muscle corded and shaking with the effort of containment. Fur receded. Claws withdrew. The growl subsided into a ragged, furious pant.
No. Not the wolf. Not yet. The wolf would track, but it couldn’t drive. It couldn’t ask questions. It couldn’t open doors.
He stood amidst the wreckage of the only place that had ever felt like a home to Winter, the note crumpled in his white-knuckled fist. The cold, strategic part of his mind, the part that had built an empire and eliminated threats in the dark, clicked into place, sharper and more deadly than any tooth or claw.
He would find him. He would use every resource, every dirty trick, every ounce of fear he’d ever inspired in this village and beyond. He would pull apart Winter’s family tree root by root until he found the name of an uncle and a place called “The Spruce Haven.” He would burn the world down to the ground if it stood between him and what was his.
He smoothed the note carefully, folded it, and placed it inside his shirt, against his heart. Then he turned and walked out of the shattered cottage, his eyes reflecting nothing of the moonlight, only a promise of absolute, unforgiving night.