Tessa
I wake up to the smell of woodsmoke and the low crackle of a fire. For a moment, I am adrift, forgetting where I am. Forgetting the brand, the rejection, the ice.
Then my body reminds me. A deep, throbbing ache radiates from my shoulder. A hollow emptiness echoes in my chest. My muscles scream from cold and exhaustion. And the memories come rushing back in a brutal, crushing wave.
My eyes fly open. I am still in the cave. The fire in the center is burning steadily, a welcome circle of light and warmth in the oppressive gloom. Across from it, he sits.
Adrian. The Ghost of the Wastes.
He is leaning against the stone wall, a large fur draped over his lap. His eyes are closed, but I know he is not asleep. His posture is too tense, too alert. He is a predator at rest, not a man sleeping. Every line of his scarred body is coiled with a power that makes the air around him feel thin.
I am terrified. My instincts, the ones that have kept omegas safe for generations, are screaming at me. Run. Hide. Make yourself small and invisible. He is an Alpha. A rogue one. Unpredictable. Dangerous. He could kill me with a single swipe of his hand and the world would never know.
But I cannot run. The storm still howls outside, a mournful, relentless shriek. And he let me stay. He gave me a fur. He gave me a salve for my wound.
My shoulder still hurts, but the vicious, searing edge of the pain has been dulled to a deep, angry pulse. The salve is working. It smells of pine and something bitter, like yarrow.
The silence in the cave stretches. It is a living thing, thick and heavy with unspoken questions and the constant threat of violence. I cannot bear it. I cannot just lie here, a broken thing waiting for my fate to be decided.
I push the heavy fur aside and slowly, carefully, sit up. Every movement is a negotiation with pain. Adrian does not move, but I feel his attention shift to me. It is as palpable as a touch.
My gaze falls on the small stack of firewood. It is haphazard, with bits of bark and dirt scattered around it. Without thinking, I crawl over to it. My hands, still clumsy with cold, begin to work. I stack the logs neatly, largest on the bottom, smallest on top. I sweep the debris away with the side of my hand, creating a clean, orderly pile.
It is a small act of defiance against the chaos that has consumed my life. It is an omega’s instinct. To create order. To make a space feel like a home, even if it is a monster’s lair.
“What are you doing?”
His voice, a low rumble, makes me jump. My head snaps up. His amber eyes are open now, narrowed, watching me with suspicion.
“I… it was messy,” I say, my voice a weak whisper. It sounds pathetic, even to my own ears.
“I like it messy,” he growls.
My heart hammers in my throat. I have offended him. I have overstepped some invisible boundary. “I’m sorry. I can… I can make it messy again.”
A strange look crosses his face. It is not anger. It is something closer to bewilderment. He just stares at me for a long moment, as if I am a puzzle he cannot solve.
“Leave it,” he says finally, and turns his head to stare back into the fire. It is a dismissal.
My hands tremble, but I do not stop. I cannot. My body needs to move, to do something useful. I see the furs he uses for a bed, kicked into a disordered pile. I crawl over and begin to fold them. The pelts are thick and heavy. Wolf, bear, deer. The spoils of a very successful hunter. I smooth them out, stacking them into a neat square against the wall.
His head turns again, a silent, intense scrutiny. He says nothing this time. He just watches as I move through the small space, organizing his scattered belongings. A collection of flint and steel, a waterskin, a few carved bowls. I put them together on a flat rock near the fire, a makeshift shelf.
The cave is not large, but by the time I am done, it feels different. The focused energy of my quiet work has changed the atmosphere. It is less a feral den and more a shelter. A refuge.
I finally settle back by the fire, my work done. I have nothing left to do but wait. I draw my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them, trying to hold the broken pieces of myself together.
After what feels like an eternity, Adrian rises to his feet in one fluid, silent motion. I flinch, pressing myself back against the stone as he walks toward the cave entrance.
“Stay by the fire,” he commands, not looking at me.
He pushes aside a heavy hide that covers the entrance, a barrier against the worst of the wind I hadn’t noticed before. A blast of frozen air and swirling snow invades our sanctuary. It is a glimpse into the white hell I escaped. Then he is gone, disappearing into it, and the hide falls back into place, muffling the storm’s cry once more.
I am alone. I could run. Try to find another shelter. But I know it is a death sentence. Out there is only the blizzard and the cold, unforgiving wilderness. In here, there is a monster. And a fire. For now, I will choose the monster.
He is not gone long. Ten minutes, perhaps. When he returns, the cold clings to him like a second skin. Snow is caked in his dark hair and beard. He carries a rabbit, limp and frozen, by its ears.
He does not speak. He moves to the fire, pulling a long, sharp knife from a sheath at his hip. I watch, mesmerized, as his scarred hands work with an efficient, brutal grace. He skins and cleans the animal with a few swift movements, his actions precise and economical. There is no wasted motion. He is a creature of survival, stripped down to the bare essentials.
He skewers the meat on a sharpened stick and props it over the flames. The smell of roasting meat soon fills the cave, a rich, savory aroma that makes my stomach ache with a hunger so sharp it is a physical pain.
We wait in silence as it cooks. The only sounds are the hiss and spit of fat dripping into the fire and the howl of the wind. He never takes his eyes off the flames. I never take my eyes off him.
This is the Ghost of the Wastes. A man who lives alone, hunted and feared. A man who should have killed me or thrown me out. Yet here I sit, about to share his food. It makes no sense.
When the rabbit is cooked, the skin crisp and brown, he pulls it from the fire. He tears a leg off with his bare hands, seemingly impervious to the heat, and tosses it onto a flat stone in front of me.
He takes the rest for himself and retreats to his side of the cave, turning his back to me slightly as he begins to eat. It is not a gesture of companionship. It is the action of a wild animal, guarding its kill even while it shares.
I stare at the meat. It is the first food I have been offered since… before. My hands shake as I pick it up. The heat of it is a shock against my frozen fingers. I bring it to my lips and take a bite.
The taste is explosive. Simple, unseasoned meat, roasted over an open fire. It is the most delicious thing I have ever eaten. It is the taste of life. Of survival. Tears spring to my eyes, hot and sudden, and I quickly wipe them away, hoping he does not see.
I eat every last scrap, my hunger a ravenous beast. I clean the bone with my teeth, oblivious to anything but the food, the warmth, the simple, profound fact of being alive.
When I am finished, I place the clean bone quietly on the stone floor. The silence returns, heavier than before. The meal is over. The temporary truce of shared sustenance is done.
I look at him. He has finished as well and is wiping his hands on a piece of hide. His profile is stark in the firelight, all hard angles and shadows.
I need to say something. The omega in me, the girl who was raised to be grateful and polite, cannot let this pass. But more than that, the survivor in me knows this is important.
“Thank you,” I say. My voice is quiet, but it does not tremble. It rings with a sincerity that surprises even me.
He grunts, a noncommittal sound from deep in his chest. He does not look at me.
“For the food,” I continue, pushing past his dismissal. “And the salve. For letting me stay. You saved my life.”
He finally turns his head. His amber eyes meet mine across the flickering flames. The firelight dances in their depths, making them look like molten gold. His expression is unreadable, a mask of hardened indifference. But I see something else. A flicker. A tightening in his jaw. My words, simple and true, have landed like stones in a still, dark pool.
He holds my gaze for a long moment, an entire conversation passing between us in total silence. I see a deep, ancient pain in his eyes, a loneliness so profound it is a physical presence in the cave.
Then he breaks the contact, looking away, back at the fire. His shoulders seem to tense, as if bracing against an impact.
“Eat,” he says, his voice a rough growl. “Survive. That is all there is.”
It is not a reassurance. It is a statement of fact. A creed for the broken and the outcast. But as I sit in the warmth of his fire, the taste of roasted rabbit still on my tongue, I feel the first, tentative thaw around the edges of my frozen heart. I am in the lair of the Ghost, and for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, I am not entirely alone in the storm.
