Annelly

We walk back toward the cabin hand in hand, the late-afternoon sun filtering through the trees. The air smells like pine and damp earth, like the woods are exhaling after another long spring day.

My muscles still hum faintly from the lesson—a mix of residual tension, adrenaline, and prolonged focus—but it’s James I’m really paying attention to.

He’s unusually quiet. Not withdrawn exactly. Just… contained. His movements are deliberate in a way that suggests calm, but it doesn’t take much searching to see the truth beneath them. He’s holding himself together by sheer force of will.

His thumb brushes slow, absentminded circles over the back of my hand—grounding and familiar—but even that feels off. 

And I know why.

Tyler.

It’s been two days since Victor’s call. Two days of nothing—no instructions, no exchange point, no next move. Just the echo of his threats hanging over us, a low, constant hum of danger that never quite fades.

James hates the waiting.

I see it in the tight set of his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches whenever the radio crackles. In the way his eyes track every shadow, every movement, like it might suddenly turn into an answer. He’s made it clear—over and over—that he’ll find another way. That he’ll save us both. That he won’t let Victor decide how this ends.

I don’t argue.

I don’t plead.

I don’t tell him what I already know.

When the time comes, I’ll do what needs to be done. Just like I know he would—if our roles were reversed.

So instead, I’ve been doing this. Taking everything in.

Every quiet morning in the cabin. Every shared meal. Every tense-but-meaningful moment with the others, even when the air feels stretched thin with unspoken fear. I linger in the small things—the sound of James’s chuckle in those rare moments he forgets what we’re facing. The way Zeb and Dominick pretend not to watch us while still always keeping an eye out. The comfort of routine wrapped tightly around danger.

I’m building something inside myself.

Memories I’ll need later, when I’m trapped in Victor’s world and desperate for something solid to hold on to.

Even the bittersweet ones.

Like the moment we just shared.

We were packing up the weapons after yet another shooting lesson when James said it—his voice low, threaded with something that stung behind my eyes.

“I’m proud of you, Snowflake. I hope you are too.”

I was. 

God, I was. 

The progress I’d made in just two days surprised us both. But it wasn’t the praise that lodged itself in my chest.

It was the look in his eyes.

Too earnest. Too weighted. Like he was afraid this might be the last time he ever got to say it. Like he knows days like today might be numbered.

And I get it. 

I’m pretending not to feel it too. Pretending we’re not living on borrowed time, even as it ticks down with every step we take.

I squeeze his hand a little tighter, committing the shape of it to memory—the warmth, the strength, the quiet promise of now.

Whatever happens later, this moment is mine. And I refuse to let it slip away without taking note—without adding it to the inventory of memories I’ll carry with me, no matter what comes next.

We’re almost past the lake when I spot them.

At first, I think it’s a trick of the light—two pale shapes drifting where the water opens up, sunlight catching on the ripples of water behind them as they move. 

I slow without meaning to, my steps faltering.

“James,” I murmur, tugging gently on his hand. “Wait.”

He stops instantly. No hesitation. His attention shifts to me like it always does.

“What is it?”

I point.

Two swans glide across the lake, their bodies bright against the darker water, their necks curved in easy symmetry. They move slowly, deliberately, as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist beyond the space they share.

My chest tightens.

Trumpeter swans are rare here. I know that. I’ve lived on the East Coast long enough to understand how unusual this is—how unlikely, given their migratory patterns, especially this far south. They aren’t the kind of birds you expect to see on a whim in the western mountains of Virginia.

Which makes this sighting feel… significant.

Because if they’re here, it’s because this place means something to them.

“They’re trumpeters,” I say softly, afraid that raising my voice might scare them away.

James follows my gaze, something in his posture easing the moment he spots them. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Looks like it.”

“Can we—” I hesitate, suddenly afraid of asking for too much. It’s close to dinner, and I know how much the routine of preparing it matters to him. “Can we stop for a minute?”

“Of course,” he says immediately. No questions. No hesitation. Just a simple yes.

He leads the way to a large boulder near the edge of the lake, worn smooth by time and weather. James settles first, then shifts so I can sit beside him—close enough that our shoulders brush. The stone is cool beneath my palms, solid and grounding, like it’s been waiting here for us.

The lake is impossibly still, broken only by the gentle wake the swans leave behind. They move in tandem, close but not touching, their paths perfectly aligned. When one shifts, the other follows—without effort, without command, without hesitation.

I breathe in slowly.

Out here, the world feels paused. Suspended in a fragile pocket of safety, even as the threat of Victor still lingers beyond the trees.

And yet.

The swans glide on. Unaware. Unbothered. Life continuing unencumbered by fear of tomorrow. Of what could be. Of men determined to destroy beautiful things.

As if he senses the weight settling in my chest, James’s arm slips around me, pulling me close.

I lean into him, letting the silence wrap around us.

“You know they mate for life?” I ask quietly.

James hums beside me, his arm tightening just a fraction around my shoulders.

“Once they choose a partner, that’s it,” I continue, pretending my heart isn’t cracking beneath the surface. “They stay together year after year. Traveling the wild together. Returning to the same places—the same lakes, the same stretches of water. And every spring, they come back to their nesting site. Lay their eggs. Raise their chicks. Over and over, together for a lifetime.”

I pause, watching the pair drift closer to the far shore, unhurried. Unafraid.

“And if one of them dies,” I add more carefully, “the other one mourns. Some of them—especially the males—never take another mate.”

James presses a kiss to my temple. Gentle. Familiar. Exactly right.

“Sounds lonely,” he murmurs. Then, after a beat, “But… I understand it.”

“Me too,” I whisper on a quiet sigh. “But it’s also kind of beautiful.”

His thumb traces slow circles against my upper arm—grounding, soothing. He’s doing everything right. Listening. Responding. Touching me like I matter. Like we’re okay. Like nothing is splintering inside him, even though it’s so obvious to me.

It’s probably why I can’t stop talking.

“They’re also one of the heaviest flying birds,” I say. “They need a long stretch of open water just to take off. Enough space. Enough momentum. They can’t rush it—not even to escape a predator. If they don’t have enough room, enough speed, they don’t make it.”

“That’s… not very reassuring,” he says lightly.

I smile, though he can’t see it. “Yeah. But look at them. They don’t seem too worried, do they?”

He smiles too—I feel it in the way his cheek lifts against my temple before he presses another soft kiss.

“No. They seem pretty chill to me.”

Then he exhales.

Long. Tired.

And it tells me everything.

He’s exhausted. Yet doing and saying all the right things—probably to spare me.

The realization settles heavy in my chest.

I let the silence stretch, because I don’t trust myself to speak without giving something away.

He kisses the side of my hairline and squeezes my shoulder. “You okay?”

Always checking on me. Always making sure I’m alright—even now, when I can feel the strain buzzing just beneath his skin.

I can’t let him carry this alone. Not now. Not when time already feels so fragile.

I draw in a slow breath, steadying myself. Then I turn toward him, threading my fingers through his where they rest against my arm.

“Tell me a story,” I say softly.

He looks down at me, surprise flickering across his face. “A story?”

I nod. “Yeah. Tell me about you and Tyler. About what it was like when you finally got him back.”

His brows knit together, hesitation giving way to something deeper. Something he’s kept guarded for a long time. A place that still hurts. 

He lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in his chest for days.

“Really?” He shakes his head faintly. “It’s not exactly an uplifting story. More like the worst year of my entire life.”

I tilt my face up toward his, offering a small, almost playful smile. “Oh… well. Now you have to tell me.”

For a moment, he doesn’t look at me. His gaze drifts back to the water, to the swans carving slow paths through the reflected sky.

“I’m afraid there’s not much to tell,” he says quietly. “Unless you enjoy stories about angry, rebellious fourteen-year-old boys and immature, clueless eighteen-year-old men.”

“Sounds like my kind of story.”

To my surprise, he chuckles. A real one.

I close my eyes and commit the sound of it to memory.

“Well,” he begins, “when they finally approved it and let him come home with me, I thought our luck had finally turned. We’d been separated almost four years. We talked once a month, maybe, but it had been over three years since I’d last laid eyes on him.” He shakes his head slowly. “In my mind, I was bringing home the ten-year-old version of my brother. The kid who followed me everywhere. Who trusted me. Who laughed easy.”

His chuckle fades, replaced by something heavier.

“What showed up instead was an angry fourteen-year-old who barely spoke to me unless it was to tell me to go fuck myself.”

My fingers tighten around his instinctively. Protective.

“He was pissed at everything,” James continues. “The system. The world. Me. Especially me. He pushed constantly. Broke rules just to see if I’d react. Dared me—damn near every day—to give up on him and send him back.”

His jaw flexes. I can feel the tension humming through him.

“And the truth?” he says quietly. “I was scared to death. I’d just turned eighteen. I had no idea what I was doing. I was barely holding it together myself. Terrified I’d screw him up worse than he already was.”

The swans drift closer, their reflections blurring and reforming with each ripple.

“For almost a year, it was like that,” he says. “Every day felt like a test I was failing.”

I hear it then—the exhaustion beneath his words. The younger version of him. Stubborn. Scared. Refusing to quit anyway.

“And then one day something changed.”

He glances down at me, just briefly.

“I don’t even know what did it. There was no big moment. No conversation. He just came home different. Softer.” James exhales. “Like he finally got tired of torturing me. Or maybe he decided to finally believe I wasn’t going anywhere.”

My chest squeezes as I imagine what that breakthrough must have felt like.

“After that, things got easier. He stopped pushing so hard. Started trusting me. We figured it out—slowly. Became friends first. Then brothers again.” He swallows, emotion thickening his voice. “We’ve been inseparable ever since.”

The words settle between us, heavy and fragile.

“If it’s any consolation,” I say softly, “you did a great job with him. He’s grown into a really good man. I liked him from the moment I met him.”

“Don’t remind me,” James groans. “While you were busy hating me—cutting me off at the knees with your silence and those death daggers you shot my way—you were giving him your kind eyes.” He shakes his head. “It hurt my fucking feelings. First time I ever considered kicking my little brother’s ass.”

I laugh unexpectedly, somehow breaking through the weight pressing down on my chest.

“Christ,” he mutters, smiling sheepishly. “I sound like such a loser.”

“No, you don’t.” I lace my fingers through his. “I really hated that, you know. Having to dredge up all that anger every time I saw you. It was exhausting.” I look away, my voice quieter. “Because deep down, I wasn’t mad.” 

I swallow. “I was just hurt.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. And this time, there’s no armor in it. No deflection. Just truth. “Pushing you away… I think I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

❤️ Can’t wait for more? I’ve got you… 👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead! 

And the best part? Following me there is totally FREE.

Find me at: (https://reamstories.com/arianaclarkauthor)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Tuesdays & Thursdays!!!