Everything that brought me here was a lie. When Diana refused to go to the hospital, I felt so bad, so fucking bad for her. She was so beaten down and yet so strong. Strength? Bullshit. It was lies. Lies so she could be with that sadistic bastard.

She brought me here for the same damned reason as always. I was her rock. The dependable friend who would be there for her no matter what. Time to go to college? Find one near Casey, so you don’t need to be alone. Can’t shake your ex? Convince Casey to move to a new city with you. Need to escape after stealing a million dollars? Run far, far away … but don’t forget to take Casey. Diana’s security blanket. Diana’s guard dog.

I take a deep breath and look at the path. I don’t want to go back to Rockton. Not yet. I want to do exactly what Dalton is doing. Walk it off out here, in the stillness and the silence, where no one can interrupt and say, “Hey, what’s wrong?” and force me to put on a happy face. I’m hurt and I’m angry and I want to indulge that. For once, I want to indulge that.

I consider searching for the ATV keys, but I’m not even sure where I threw them. I still can’t believe I did that. Completely irresponsible. And I don’t regret it for a second. Fuck all this. I’m going to start being a little irresponsible and immature. I’ve earned it.

That does not mean I stalk off the path. Nor do I head away from town. I’m being reckless, not stupid. Yet I get barely twenty steps along the trail before I see Dalton in the distance, just standing there with his back to me.

I’m cutting across to avoid him, and I know exactly where I’m heading—I’m on the proper angle—when I hear a twig crack behind me. I turn and see a distant figure. It goes still, mostly hidden behind a tree, but I recognize the build and the height and the glimpse of dark blond hair. Dalton.

Asshole.

Yes, following me when I’ve wandered from the trail does not make him an asshole. Under any other circumstances, it’d be a considerate thing to do. But in this mood, I resent the implication that I can’t handle this on my own and change direction, planning to stay off-path a little longer.

Am I hoping to provoke him? Bring him over here, snarling and snapping? Yep, because I’m in the mood to snarl and snap back. When I do immature, I don’t do it by halves.

Except there is a reason I don’t do immature and irresponsible. Because eventually it does cross the line into reckless and stupid. I’m so focused on goading Dalton by staying off-path that I’m not paying nearly enough attention to where I’m going. Then I stop catching those distant glimpses of him, and I’m sure he’s sneaking up—I even hear twigs and needles crackle nearby—so I pick up my pace, weaving through the forest, hell-bent on annoying the shit out of him.

That’s when the noises stop, and they stay stopped, and I walk for a few minutes more before I realize Dalton’s not there. I lean against a tree, waiting for him to catch up. Only he doesn’t, and the woods are silent, and I’m alone.

I head off in the direction that I’m sure will take me toward town. After about ten minutes the terrain changes, growing rockier, which means I’m nowhere near Rockton. That’s when I realize I’m lost.

I mentally call myself a whole lot of nasty names, but I don’t panic. I retrace my steps. Just get back on the path. The problem? I’d been so intent on luring Dalton out that I’d paid little attention to my surroundings, and I have no idea if I’m actually retracing my steps.

Still, I try to be smart about it. I use the tricks Dalton taught me for tracking—broken twigs, impressions in the soft earth, scuff marks in the rocky dirt. I find deer tracks and tufts of fur and that’s it, and I have no idea—

I spot Dalton. He’s twenty feet away, in the shade, and all I can see is the dark jacket and the colour of his hair. Then he pulls back a little, as if realizing I’m watching, and I see his profile—the set of his jaw, the shape of his nose.

I take a deep breath. Then I abandon my pride and call, “Eric?”

No answer.

I start toward him. “Okay, maybe you provoked me, but yes, taking off was stupid. I’ve gotten turned around, and I have no idea where I am.”

Silence.

I keep walking. “You can chew me out later. I deserve it. For now, let’s just get back to town. We’ve had a shitty day, and we’re both out of sorts and making stupid choices. So let’s just—”

I round the two trees … and he’s not there.

“Eric?”

I hear a twig crack one second too late. Hands grab me from behind, one around my waist, the other gripping my chin, as if ready to snap my neck. A body presses against my back and … the smell. God, the smell.

The hands wrench me around, shoving me back against a tree. The cold of a blade presses against my throat, and when I look up at my captor, I see…

Dalton. I see Dalton. His steel-grey eyes. His nose. His jawline. But the dark blond hair falls to his shoulders. A beard covers his cheeks and chin. Yet it still looks like Dalton, and with that I have my answer. I know what’s going on, what’s been going on since last night, when we were on my balcony, watching the northern lights as Dalton told me a story about a fox.

I’m sleeping. I fell asleep on that balcony, and everything that’s happened since—Mick’s death, the fire, Diana’s betrayal, Dalton’s kiss—it’s dream and nightmare woven into one, and this is proof of it.

But this man is not Dalton. I see that now, beyond the hair and beard. His eyes are set deeper. Shaped differently. His cheekbones aren’t as high or as prominent.