Chapter 23 (Anna’s POV)

  The cottage door groaned as Joshua shouldered the last of the supply sling through its frame. For a suspended instant he paused on the threshold, half in lamplight, half in the murk that pooled beneath the porch eaves. I stood three paces behind him, the raw hide?wrapped handle of my short sword still warm in my palm, As I gazed at Joshua, I felt my heart flutter in a way that was both exhilarating and terrifying. He was, without a doubt, the most breathtaking man I had ever seen. His presence was magnetic, drawing me in with an intensity that was almost overwhelming.

  His hair, a rich shade of brown, was styled in a way that accentuated his strong jawline and high cheekbones. The way it swept across his forehead added a touch of ruggedness to his otherwise polished appearance. His eyes, a deep and captivating blue, held a world of emotion and strength that made my knees weak. They sparkled with an intensity that made it impossible for me to look away, and I found myself getting lost in their depths.

  His body was a testament to both power and grace. The white shirt he wore was tailored to perfection, hugging his broad shoulders and toned chest in a way that left little to the imagination. The suspenders he wore added an element of sophistication, highlighting his narrow waist and the way his pants fit snugly around his hips. His arms, visible beneath the rolled-up sleeves, were muscular and defined, hinting at the strength that lay beneath his polished exterior.

  The way he stood, confident and unyielding, with his hands casually tucked into his pockets, made him seem almost god-like. He was a vision of both strength and sensuality, a man who could conquer any challenge and still make my heart race. Every movement he made was deliberate and purposeful, and I found myself imagining what it would be like to have him in my arms, to feel his body pressed against mine.

  His skin, slightly tanned and glowing with a healthy sheen, begged to be touched. my heart pounded in my chest, and a wave of heat washed over me. My mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, all centered around the man who had just left my presence. I couldn’t help but bite my lower lip, a habit I had when I was deep in thought or aroused, as I imagined the pleasures that awaited me once I was alone.

  My body began to heat up, the warmth spreading from my core outward, until every inch of me was tingling with anticipation. I could feel my cheeks flush, a rosy hue spreading across my skin as I thought about the way Joshua’s eyes had lingered on me, the way his presence had made me feel alive and desired.

  My lower regions began to throb, a pulsating need that grew more insistent with each passing second. I could feel the wetness gathering between my thighs, a testament to the desire that was building within me. My breasts felt heavy and sensitive, my nipples hardening into tight peaks that strained against the fabric of my top.

  I imagined running my hands over my body, tracing the curves and valleys that Joshua had admired. I could almost feel his touch, the ghost of his fingers lingering on my skin, sending shivers of pleasure down my spine. I thought about the way he had looked at me, the hunger in his eyes, and I knew that I wanted to feel that same intensity when I touched myself.

  My breath hitched as I imagined sliding my hand into my pants, my fingers finding the wet, swollen flesh that ached for release. I could feel the heat building, the tension coiling in my belly as I thought about the way Joshua’s body had moved, the power and grace that had been on full display.

  I bit my lip harder, a soft moan escaping my lips as I imagined the pleasure that awaited me. My body was on fire, every nerve ending tingling with anticipation. I knew that once I was alone, I would give in to the desire that was consuming me, and I would let myself be swept away by the waves of pleasure that only Joshua could inspire.

  He muttered a farewell—something about “see you after the toll”—but the words were snatched by the predawn wind and shredded into syllables before they reached me as I watched him break into fractiles and the glow of the copper door slowly faded. What lingered instead was memory of the rough percussion of his bootsthudding on the old wood flooring: thunk?grind, thunk?grind, soles scraping loose grit from tread. The sound vibrating through the floorboards, up the studs I had nailed, across the plywood I had scavenged, until it lodged behind my breastbone like a stubborn splinter.

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  Outside, the sky pressed low and purple, the east rim already bruising toward pewter where day would eventually ignite. A raw smell of overturned earth and last night’s rain ghosted through the doorway, mingling with sharper notes—machine oil from his cart axle, the faint metallic tang that clung to the copper door after each transit, and under it all the sour?sweet funk of the city’s slow decay. The cottage tasted of damp pine and stale coffee by comparison; his absence tugged those scents in weird directions, as though the air itself had to rearrange.

  I tracked his silhouette to the gravel path, then leaned my shoulder against the jamb and let memory spool backward—film stripped of its sprockets, frames slipping out of order:

  Flash: The first time I saw him—disoriented, missing a shoe, smelling like fermentation and fear. Roamers hadn’t even noticed him yet; he reeked of another world’s detergent. I’d thought, Easy prey—maybe ransom fodder.

  Flash: A day later, him hacking at a roamer’s neck with that ridiculous scrap of rebar, gagging on bile, apologizing to the corpse even as flies colonized his hair. I’d felt equal parts second?hand embarrassment and a tiny, surprised flicker of admiration when he didn’t run again.

  Two hectic days—forty?eight hours of sprinting alleys, prying pearls, dodging Empire rifles—and the ledger of my opinion flipped end?to?end. Back then I’d ranked him somewhere between “spoiled heir” and “acceptable barter chip.” Now he was the linchpin of a supply chain, the only reason my water barrel brimmed and my antibiotic stash wasn’t down to crumbs. The juxtaposition made me snort softly; amused breath fogged in the chill.

  His footfalls faded beyond the hedgerow, replaced by the sough of wind slipping through barbed wire. Dead leaves scraped shingles overhead—a dry rattling like gnawed bones. Inside, the single lantern hissed; its mantle burned white, flooding the patched?together room with a light too clean for the splintered décor. The plywood smelled faintly resinous under heat, a newborn scent I’d come to equate with safety.

  I closed the door, felt the rebar bolts thunk into the new steel sockets he’d welded yesterday, and ran my thumb across one weld bead—still granular, faintly warm. Joshua’s handiwork. My lips twitched. For a man who once hyperventilated at the sight of a cockroach, he now laid down metal like he meant every molten micron.

  An echo of earlier conversation brushed my ears:

  “fourteen days until the gate opens again,” he’d fretted, pacing.

  “Forteen days there,” I corrected. “Math, city boy.”

  He’d laughed—tight, brittle—then scribbled timings all over his ledger as if anxiety could be balanced by arithmetic.

  I inhaled slowly through my nose, counting stray scents: the singe of kerosene from the lantern, the copper tang of cleaned arrowheads drying on the sill, a whisper of Joshua’s aftershave clinging to the doorway—something citrusy he rationed like penicillin. Underneath lay the darker smells no soap could erase: old blood seasoned into floor cracks, mildew crouching behind baseboards, and the distant miasma of Ruin?York’s open guts.

  Inventory of Noise

  Silence doesn’t exist in this world; it only rearranges:

  The faraway moan of a lone roamer stubbing about the cul?de?sac.

  The creak of Joshua’s overloaded cart wheels grinding across frost?buckled asphalt.

  A sporadic pop—distant gunshot, maybe; maybe a joist surrendering in some neglected house.

  My own pulse, slow now, but heavy in my ears like a bass drum beneath funeral hymns.

  I stayed by the door until the last cart?wheel scrape dissolved into the wider hush. The copper slab behind me felt inert—no glow, no warmth, just the carved relief of annihilated skylines gleaming dully in lantern spill. My reflection hovered faint on its surface: cheek smeared with dust, iris wide in gloom. I wondered if Mirabelle—Joshua’s phantom mother—had ever traced these same engravings, puzzled the same fears. The thought sent a chill along my spine.

  I pressed my forehead to the cool wood of the jamb and whispered a promise the room could keep for him: “Don’t die over there, city boy.” The wood smelled of sap and rusted nail?heads. My breath warmed the grain for an instant, then the chill swallowed it.

  The cottage breathed with me for a moment, settling. The coffee pot on the single burner still steamed; the bitter aroma edged out copper and dust. I lifted it, poured two fingers of black into a tin cup, and tipped it back. Scalding liquid blistered my tongue—perfect. Heat met hollowness, sparked a small core of resolve.

  The only choice was to ensure the walls stayed standing until the next cycle. I rolled my shoulders, grabbed a coil of galvanized wire, and headed for the southern window where the plywood still needed bracing. Work would keep the fear quiet; fear would keep the work sharp. Between those two edges, I would balance until the copper door hummed again.

  Outside, steel?blue daylight crawled up the sky, peeling the purple bruise away. Joshua’s silhouette already belonged to that brightness, cart rattling somewhere beyond sight. I let the wire bite my palm, squared my stance, and began counting nail placements—each one a metronome all my own, hammering beat for beat against the void he left behind.