Freshened up, beneath the quilt, still warm from love and sleep, the lovers lie entangled.
Neva's fingers thread through Rhett's damp hair, her touch feather-light, soothing—as though she could comb away the weariness that clings to him.
His lashes droop, heavy with exhaustion, until sleep finally claims him.
He breathes softly against her chest, lips brushing her warm skin with each exhale.
She gazes down at him, heart stirred and unsettled. The resemblance—between Rhett and Ishmael—claws at her again.
She'd wanted to ask, last night... about Ishmael. But Rhett had been cold, worn down to bone. It didn't seem right to burden him more.
And yet, Ishmael's actions still gnaw at her, his words still echo, sharp and lingering like thorns in her mind.
She leans in, plants a kiss in Rhett's curls, and sighs. Then she closes her eyes and whispers a weary prayer into the quiet—and slowly drifts into sleep.
---
(Morning)
"Angel... wake up."
His voice scrapes low, rough with sleep, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
Neva stirs under the covers, and Rhett's kisses trail along her cheekbones, soft and persistent, tugging a sleepy whine from her throat.
"We need to leave," he murmurs, still curled into her, head resting heavily on her chest, his breath warm against her skin.
She blinks slowly. "Where do we go now?" Her voice is thick with sleep, barely above a murmur.
She wraps her arms around him, clinging to the safety of his weight, his warmth.
"Where the breeze blows safer," he breathes, planting a kiss on the hollow of her neck. His voice is low, muffled, already slipping into planning.
She runs her hand through his hair again—so soft, still slightly damp. Her heart aches.
"He told me things," she whispers, "things I thought were impossible."
Rhett lifts his head, eyes narrowing.
"Raka?"
She frowns. "No—his name is Ishmael."
"Raka's his underworld name," he mutters bitterly.
"What did he want, Angel? Did he touch you?"
His voice turns sharp. His muscles tense. His heart begins to race beneath his ribs.
Neva shakes her head quickly. "No."
But her skin prickles—crawling—as the memory flashes across her mind.
Liar, she scolds herself.
Is it Rhett's guilt she fears? His temper?
Or is it the truth—that she simply wants to forget?
To shove the terror deep into the folds of her mind, to bury it so far down it becomes unreal.
A dream. A distortion.
Anything but what it was.
Her spine locks as the memory strikes again—sharper, clearer this time.
She meets Rhett's eyes.
He's already watching her—brows drawn, gaze sharp.
"Neva," he murmurs, voice low. "What happened?"
Her lips part, then close.
The truth claws at her throat, but she swallows it down.
Not now.
"He said… he wants to be with me," she murmurs.
Rhett goes still.
"What?"
His voice drops—dark, low, almost unrecognizable.
Neva purses her lips—his stare slicing through her.
"Rhett..." she whispers, afraid, her voice barely audible.
He exhales hard, eyes closing. "What nonsense did he spit out this time?"
She doesn't say anything, and pulls away from his warmth. As soon as the quilt slips from her shoulders, the cold lashes at her skin. She wraps her arms around herself.
Rhett watches her walk to the window. Silent. Still.
She's pale, barefoot, shivering.
She brushes the lace curtain aside and leans in, swiping the fog from the pane with her palm.
Beyond the window, snow lies heavy, undisturbed.
The storm has passed.
Morning leaks through the clouds in bruised shades of violet and amber.
The world looks washed clean, but she feels the tension rising.
Neva exhales, her breath fogging the glass again.
Then arms wrap around her. Rhett presses against her back, face buried in the crook of her neck. She leans into him instinctively.
"Miraeth Island," she murmurs.
Rhett stiffens. "What?"
She clutches his hands. "He said we're from a place called Miraeth.
That we grew up there. Until I vanished. Ten years ago."
"You believe him?" Rhett's voice wavers slightly, but before she can answer—
A low, dreadful growl of engines builds in the distance.
It grows louder—heavier—until it fills the air like an approaching storm.
They both freeze.
SUVs. Dozens. Drawing closer.
Neva's blood runs cold. "Rhett…"
He pulls away and moves to the window. His jaw clenches. "Not again."
Outside, a fleet of dark vehicles slinks up the snowy path, tires cracking ice, headlights cutting through the dawn fog.
She grabs his arm, knuckles white.
He turns to her—Neva's face is pale, rigid with fear.
He cups her cheeks. "Neva. Look at me."
Her glassy eyes shift to his.
"I won't let them touch you," he says, firm as steel.
"Not even a scratch. But we need to move. Now."
She nods shakily.
He brushes his lips over her forehead and rushes to gather weapons.
He grabs his coat, and helps her into it.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Footsteps. Racing up the short stairs to the inn's entrance.
A sharp crack splits the air outside—a gunshot.
Neva flinches, frozen to the floorboards. Her eyes fly to Rhett—wild with terror.
He grabs her shoulders. "Neva, listen to me. We're going to be fine." His lips meet hers in a trembling kiss, his hand at the nape of her neck.
In every gesture, he whispers reassurances, he promises her safety—no one will harm you.
---
Outside, Ishmael sits in the front seat of a black SUV, his face drawn tight, eyes scanning the inn with haunted stillness.
No triumph. No rage. Only cold, sunken grief.
His men fan out, surrounding the inn. Some slip inside, slow and silent.
Then—he hears it.
The distant, angry snarl of a motorbike.
Ishmael's eyes snap to the sound.
Through a slash in the fog, a bike bursts from behind the inn—speeding toward the woods. A girl clings to the driver.
He clenches his jaw.
He doesn't need to see her face to know.
"Follow them!" he roars.
The command cracks the silence.
His men leap into motion.
Engines rev and howl like hounds.
One after another, the SUVs peel away from the inn, chasing the fleeing pair into the morning haze.