Chapter 2: Cabin Fever Begins

Dawn clawed its way through the cabin’s single window in thin, gray blades of light. The air inside still carried the bite of mountain chill, yet the four bodies tangled on the king bed radiated a feverish warmth that had nothing to do with the dying embers in the stone fireplace.

Marcus woke first, heart already hammering. His morning erection lay trapped, thick and insistent, nestled firmly between the plush cheeks of his mother’s ass. Only two thin layers of fabric separated them—her nightgown and his boxers—but the heat of her body burned straight through. Elena lay on her side, back pressed to his chest, one leg slightly bent. She froze the instant she registered the rigid length pulsing against her. For a long, agonizing beat she didn’t move, breath shallow and quickening. Shame flooded her cheeks in a hot rush, but beneath it, between her thighs, an inexplicable slickness bloomed, warm and traitorous. This is your son, her mind screamed, even as her body clenched with a slow, involuntary pulse of need.

She pretended to sleep a moment longer, lashes fluttering against the pillow, then eased away with careful slowness. Marcus’s cock dragged along the cleft of her ass one final time before she slipped free. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second—hers wide with guilt, his dark with the same—before both looked away. Sophia stirred next, murmuring something soft and incoherent, her lithe runner’s frame shifting against Marcus’s chest. Liam groaned on the far side of the bed, stretching lean arms overhead. They untangled in awkward silence, limbs brushing, skin flushing, no one daring to acknowledge the charged air.

Survival mode snapped into place like a switch. Marcus pulled on a faded flannel shirt and stepped outside with Liam to split wood for the stove. The axe felt good in his hands—heavy, balanced. He set the first log on the chopping block, buried the blade just off-center the way his father had taught him years ago, then hoisted the whole piece onto his shoulder. A sharp twist, a grunt, and the weight of the log drove the edge home. The split cracked clean and loud, green wood yielding with a juicy snap. Sweat bloomed across his back and chest within minutes, soaking the flannel dark. Each swing was rhythmic, powerful—shoulders rolling, biceps flexing, the axe whistling before it bit deep. Liam matched him on the second block, their breaths fogging in the crisp morning.

Inside, Elena and Sophia inventoried the meager supplies by lantern light. Two weeks of canned beans, a few packets of rice, dried pasta, and the last of the jerky. Barely enough. They lit the wood stove, the iron belly glowing as they boiled water for weak coffee and a simple porridge thickened with the last of the powdered milk. The scent of woodsmoke and oats filled the cabin, grounding them even as tension coiled tighter beneath every glance.