Clarissa
The cottage finally came into view—a small stone structure almost entirely covered in ivy. It looked untouched, forgotten by time itself—perfect for our needs.
I shouldered open the door, wincing at the loud creak of the hinges. Inside, it was dark and dusty but dry and seemingly secure. I laid Lyla on the small bed in the corner, disturbing a cloud of dust in the process.
"Sorry about the accommodations," I said, attempting a lightness I didn't feel. "I don't know why I have this inclination not to take you back to the pack house. Am I wrong?" I asked over my shoulders.
Lyla didn't respond. She had slipped back into unconsciousness, her breathing shallow but steady.
I moved around the cottage quickly, finding candles and matches in an old drawer. As light filled the small space, I took stock of our situation. The cottage was basic but had what we needed—a roof, walls, a bed for Lyla, and enough distance from the pack house to give us time to think.
