Chapter 4: When We First Met
716 Words
The storm outside had slowed, but inside the cabin, something heavier hung in the air.
Rowan hadn’t woken since the moment he collapsed two nights ago, save for a few incoherent murmurs in the middle of the night. Fever had sunk its claws deep into him, wrapping him in heat and tossing his body around like a lifeless puppet.
Aria stayed close.
Not out of obligation.
Not even because she hated seeing people suffer.
She told herself it was guilt. For not noticing the firewood. For letting him go out there alone.
But none of those lies could explain the way her heart hiccupped every time he twitched. Or how she held her breath every time his chest rose, afraid the next time it wouldn’t.
He’d been asleep most of the day, his body barely moving beneath the blankets except to shiver or sweat. She sat in the armchair across from him, knees tucked to her chest, wrapped in the silence of the storm that hadn’t quite left.
Night blanketed the cabin again, shadows flickering against the walls from the fire she’d managed to restart. Aria didn’t realize she’d fallen asleep until a low sound broke through the crackle.
“Aria…”
Her name.
A whisper.
She blinked, slowly, thinking she’d imagined it. But then,
“Aria…”
It came again, this time breathless. Pleading.
She stood, inching toward the couch where he lay, his body twisted under the covers, damp curls sticking to his forehead. His hand reached out blindly, and before she could think, it wrapped around her wrist.
She froze.
“Don’t go,” he murmured.
Aria should have pulled away. Should have reminded herself who he was. What he might’ve done.
But her body had other plans.
She eased down beside him, heart hammering in her chest so loudly she was sure he could hear it, even in sleep. She didn’t plan to stay. Just a minute. Just until he settled.
But his fingers tightened around her wrist and guided her closer. Their bodies met with shocking ease, the heat of his fever radiating against her like fire through fabric.
Her skin prickled.
Every inch of her buzzed like she was made of raw electricity.
She shouldn’t feel this. Not for him. Not now.
But as she lay there, his chest rising and falling, his breath warm against her neck, she couldn’t deny it anymore.
She was attracted to Rowan.
Dangerously.
Undeniably.
Devastatingly.
He began to mutter again, face contorting in discomfort. His body kicked against the blankets, and a fevered groan slipped past his lips. Sweat coated his skin, glistening in the low light. She sat up quickly, reaching for the wet cloth and the bowl of lukewarm water beside the couch.
“You’re burning up,” she whispered.
She peeled back the blanket and hesitated, unsure where to begin. His shirt clung to him, soaked through. So she reached for the hem and gently peeled it over his head.
And that’s when she saw him. Really saw him.
Every line of him was carved from something brutal and beautiful. His chest was broad, chest and arms dusted with ink and fine muscle, veins visible even in the dim light. There were scars along his side, like old stories carved into flesh. His abs, hard and defined, tightened with every labored breath.
He looked like the kind of man who could fulfill her darkest desires.
Strong and Unapologetic.
He was a fantasy.
And she hated herself for wanting him.
Her hand brushed against his ribs as she wiped the sweat away, and that’s when she saw it, something beneath the inked chaos. She leaned in closer.
A name.
One she hadn’t noticed before, hidden amongst the others, almost like it didn’t want to be found.
Aria Monroe.
Her full name. Clear as day. Etched into the skin right below his heart.
Her breath caught. She stumbled back, water sloshing over the rim of the bowl.
“What the hell…”
The cloth dropped from her hand.
Her heart pounded with disbelief, with fear, with something she wasn’t ready to name.
The fire popped in the silence, but it was drowned out by the question screaming in her mind.
‘Why the hell does he have my name tattooed on his body?’
- Writer
