Lynx’s Ruin by Saxon James

How do you get yourself into these messes, Sasha?

The second I’m out of Lynx’s view, my whole body deflates with that thought. It’s not like I do it on purpose–how was I supposed to know that tight bend would result in me crashing my car, finding myself in the company of mountain dwellers, and then being stuck here with no way to escape?

I’m supposed to be in Portland by now. Supposed to be safe. If only fucking up and finding myself in danger was a new thing for me.

I scuff my hand through my hair, frustration leaking into my already whirling brain. I wish I could blame my entire life on absent-mindedness or a series of bad luck, but I think I’ve passed that point of delusion. I’m working on another theory for why I always feel on the back foot, but I’m not so sure I like the conclusion I’ve come up with.

In fact, even in my mind it sounds fucking insane.

Before I can follow that train of thought to somewhere that’s going to deepen my bad mood further, I remind myself of Portland. All I need to do is survive out here long enough for them to fix my car and then I can go back to my original plan.

Meet up with my friend.

Change my name.

Disappear into the city.

Start a quiet and boring life.

It’s supposed to be foolproof because I am, in fact, a fool and I needed to future-proof against my own damn self. Wilde’s End is a … detour.

One that will be over soon enough and it’ll be like it never happened.

I reach the crop fields, impressed despite myself. Everything is laid out in neat rows and meticulously labeled, which in hindsight is what got me into this manual labor mess in the first place.

Sure, I stole some food. But I still maintain that I only had to steal it because the people who live here are the furthest thing from approachable that I’ve ever met. Maybe if they’d tried being a little nicer, I would have asked first.

I find the potatoes and kneel down next to their bed, already dreading the feel of dirt on my hands. My fingers are stinging and even with the spade, it’s no help. There’s no way I’m getting this done by sunset.

I dig down around the first potato, mind wandering to Lynx’s threat. What will he do if I’m not back in time?

Something tells me that Lynx isn’t the kind of guy to make empty promises and that … intrigues me. How far will he go? Sometimes he seems more animal than man and I hate how much I want to see that animal side come out.

I’ve thought about the first time we met more than I’d admit to anyone. How scared I’d been. How he chased me. Looking up into his vicious eyes and seeing indecision there. Like he needed to kill me, but didn’t actually want to. I still have no idea if he would have gone through with it if his pet bobcat didn’t save me, and I hate that I don’t have the answer.

I need to let it go. Obviously. It’s not healthy to fixate on something so messed up … except the more I dig, the further into the memory I go.

It’s just the crack of the storm overhead, hair plastered to my face with rain, shivers racking my body from the cold and fear, and Lynx holding me down, features twisted inhumanly.

A dull thump pulls me back to the late afternoon where the rain is replaced by sweat, and my fear is quickly eaten by irritation.

I glance across to figure out what made the noise and find Lynx standing over me. I didn’t hear him approach, which is a worry in itself, but even worse than that is the deep twist in my gut that I get every time I see him.

He’s an … odd looking man. Gaunt cheeks, sharp eyes that remind me of a cat, and that weird hairstyle with his bright red hair shaved on one side and growing wild on the other.

I only realize I’m staring when he drops eye contact and nods to something between us. Following his gaze, I find a pair of gloves sitting in the soil.

“Where are your gloves?” he asks.

I brush my hands off and snatch them up. “I don’t have any.”

“Then why didn’t you ask for some?”

Is he serious? I wait for the gotcha moment that doesn’t come. “Sorry, you don’t exactly scream helpful and accommodating.”

“What does being helpful and accommodating have to do with it? If you need supplies, you need supplies. You can’t provide for yourself if you’re injured.”

“Cute of you to think I can provide for myself when I’m not injured.”

Judging by his scowl, he doesn’t like my answer. So be it. I am who I am at this point. My parents have long since given up on me and while it hurt at first, I’ve come to terms with it. We weren’t compatible.

They wanted me to go to college and get a real job, I wanted to stay in Wayward and have fun. Too bad that fun disappeared quickly.

Lynx huffs suddenly, looking at something over my head. “Bob, I told you to stay away.”

There’s an answering mewl behind me and I turn just as the animal reaches my side. He’s big for a bobcat, with a sweet face, and so much fur I want to bury myself in it.

“Hello,” I coo, offering my hand that Bob sniffs once before head butting it. “Okay, okay,” I laugh, giving in to offer him head scritches. He’s so damn cute, eyes drifting closed, and purr loud enough that it almost drowns out Lynx’s voice.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Petting the little kitty.”