No. Absolutely not. I am not doing this. I am not settling in. I am not letting a few pretty lights and one stupid kiss and a pack of overgrown alpha idiots trick me into forgetting what they are.
By the time we reach the cabin, the decision is already made.
I’m leaving.
31
Mo
Iwait until everyone is asleep before I make my move and grab my backpack from under the bed.
“We’re leaving?” Rocky says from the nightstand.
“Damn right we are,” I mutter, stuffing him into the front pocket of my backpack. “Before I get any stupider.”
Charly makes a disapproving sound as I pick him up. “This is a mistake, Mo. We have a good thing here.”
“Good things don’t last,” I hiss, shoving him in beside Rocky. “You of all people should know that.”
“We’re not people,” Rocky argues. “We’re a stick and a rock.”
I ignore them both and grab the bar of soap from the bathroom. The peach-scented one that makes my skin smell like, well… peaches.
My eyes fall on the comforter. So soft, so warm, and the nights in the forest get cold. Before I can talk myself out of it, Istrip it from the bed and roll it up tight, securing it with a belt from Lily. It takes up most of my pack, but I’ll make it work.
“You’re being paranoid,” Charly whispers from inside the backpack. “Nobody here has hurt you.”
“Yet,” I mutter. “Nobody has hurt me yet.” Besides, this isn’t just about the terrifying fact that I’m starting to want things I can’t afford. Stuart saw me, and staying here means waiting for the past to come knocking.
I slip on my boots, sling the pack over one shoulder, and ease the bedroom door open. The hallway is dark, but I know every creaking floorboard by now. I move silently, the way I learned to move in the woods when being heard meant being caught.
“We should at least leave a note,” Rocky suggests.
“For what? I whisper hiss. ‘Thanks for the hospitality, see you never’?”
“How about ‘Thanks for saving my life and giving me a home?’” Charly counters.
I reach the main room and freeze. Archer is standing in the kitchen, his broad back to me as he stares out the window. He’s holding a mug of something steaming.
Shit.
I consider retreating, but his head tilts slightly. He heard me. Of course, he heard me.
I wait for him to turn. To stop me. To wake up the others or to tell me to stay. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even look my way.
“The woods are cold this time of year,” he says quietly, still facing the window.
My throat tightens. “I know how to survive out there.”
He nods once, taking a sip from his mug. “I know you do.”
And that’s it. No argument. No attempt to physically stop me. No guilt trip.
I edge toward the door, waiting for the catch, for the moment he changes his mind. My hand closes around the knob. Still nothing.
“Goodbye, Archer,” I say softly.
He doesn’t turn, but his scent turns flat. “Be safe, Blue.”