(HELENA)
When Blackwood said he was taking me to a cabin, I had no idea he meant a garden shed because that's the size of it.
Too small.
Way too small for two.
I was already hyper-aware of Blackwood, but as he strolls the perimeter of the cabin/shed, raking his eyes over everything in it? I can barely breathe, much less think.
I stand in the center of the room, my bag still on my back, as I observe him out of the corner of my eye.
"We need wood to start a fire," Blackwood says, his gaze settling on the open fireplace that takes up almost one wall.
He hasn't looked at me once since he led us inside, dropped my hand, and started pacing around me.
Is he feeling as trapped—as restless—in this small space as I am? I think so.
When he swings his head toward me, I realize he's waiting for some kind of response, so I turn to the front door. "Do you want me to—"
He strides toward it. "Offer to get wood and never come back? No, you stay here. I'll get wood."
