4 - Kodiak
4
Kodiak
—
I shift restlessly, feeling stiff and out of place in these new clothes. They’re sharp, clean, and nothing like the rough and ready gear I’ve always worn.
Every so often, I look down at myself, startled to see the perfectly sewn seams and unstained leather that feels so strange against my skin.
“How’s the leg holding up?” Frankie’s gaze drifts to my knee, her nurse’s instincts overtaking her anxieties.
I can tell she’s compartmentalizing her fear to focus on me, something she’s always been good at.
The friction burn I got during the crash throbs persistently. It’s been three days, and the skin still feels tight and hot, the damaged layers sensitive to movement and touch.
If I adjust my position too quickly or the fabric of these new jeans rubs against it the wrong way, a sharp sting pulses through the area.
The pain isn’t just physical. It’s a nagging echo in my muscles, reminding me of every jolt of that crash.
Thankfully, the surface scratches that Leo and I received on our faces have already healed.
“It’s manageable.” I don’t want her worrying about me more than she already is with everything else going on.
“Make sure to keep it clean and watch for any signs of infection.”
It’s not just the injury and the new clothes making me uneasy. My eyes flicker to the window, drawn to the unfamiliar world speeding by. It’s all so different from the open, wild landscape where I spent my life. The change isn’t just around me. It’s on me, and it’s a lot to take in.
I lean back, my gaze grabbing hers again, making sure she feels every bit of my presence.
“What?” She flutters those long, sexy lashes, raising my body temperature.
“You’re beautiful.”
“You don’t have to say that anymore.”
“Why the fuck not?” I frown, not understanding.
“I know those months in the cabin took a toll.” She smooths a hand over her hair, catching a red lock between her fingers. “But I’m no longer starving. My confidence will improve as I gain the weight I lost. I’m working on it.”
Anger flares in my chest. Not at her but at the thought that she might believe her worth or beauty has anything to do with her condition.
“Woman.” I bend closer so she can see the sincerity on my face. “You’ve always been beautiful to me. Not because of how you look but because of who you are. Even when things were at their worst, it didn’t change how I saw you.” I reach out, grazing a thumb along her jawline. “You are strength and courage in a world that was falling apart. You’re the fire that warmed the coldest nights and the light in the darkest times. Your beauty isn’t just in your appearance. It’s in your spirit, your resilience.”
She’s quiet for a moment, staring at me. I know she’s processing my words, maybe not fully convinced but affected by them nonetheless.
“Every time I looked at you, even when you were struggling, I saw the woman who challenged the wilderness with me, who fought through every day with a heart full of hope. Do you know how attractive that is? You’re hot as fuck, and I will keep saying it as long as I live because it’s the truth.”
Her eyes soften, moisture gleaming. “Thank you,” she whispers, “for seeing me like that.”
“Why are you thanking me? Resting my eyes on you is a goddamn privilege.”
“I totally want to hump you right now.” She bites her lip.
My cock jerks as I recline in the seat and pat my lap. “Hop on. Or…” I jab a thumb over my shoulder. “We can move to the divan.”
“Not here. But soon.” She lifts a booted foot and nudges it between my legs. “I promise.”
The jet banks, and we turn to the windows.
Below, Anchorage stretches like an intricate, tangled web of concrete, the buildings rising in clustered columns toward the sky. And green. So much green. Not just trees but fields of vegetation I’ve never seen before.
I grip her ankle and remove her shoe. Lifting the other, I remove it, too. With her socked feet on my lap, I massage her delicate arches, feeling her tremble, her anxiety rolling off.
“It’s like watching a living map unfold.” I turn my face toward the window. “Everything is so interconnected. So designed.”
“It’s a different kind of wilderness. One made by humans.”
As the plane cruises higher, I’m mesmerized by the transition between untamed landscape and the structured chaos of civilization. Roads carve through forests. Buildings cluster like flocks of resting birds. Gleaming threads of rivers wind through it all.
I trace the curve of her ankle. “Makes me feel small.”
“Small but not powerless. Part of something bigger.”
The scenery is vibrant, like her eyes, pulsing with life and movement in a way that both thrills and terrifies me.
“We need to learn a lot quickly,” I say, thinking aloud. “Driving, using phones, getting IDs.”
“And therapy.” She lowers her feet and reaches for my hands, her fears momentarily forgotten as she considers our needs. “We’ve all been through so much. We can’t ignore how it’s impacted us. That includes Monty, too.”
If Monty is dangerous to her, he won’t live long enough for therapy. I don’t care that he’s my brother. I’ll kill him myself.
Tanya returns with our drinks. “Vodka and bourbon.” She folds down a table between our laps and sets the glasses on it. “Lunch will be served shortly. May I take your coats?”
We shed our outerwear, and I nod my thanks, not used to this level of service.
Frankie unlatches her seat belt.
“What are you doing?” I reach for my belt, ready to go to her.
She moves with a fluid grace that belies her nerves, slipping around the table to where I sit. Crawling onto my lap, she folds into me with the intimacy of a hundred nights curled together for warmth.
I wrap my arms around her, pulling her against my chest, unable to ignore the sharpness of her bones beneath her skin.
Knowing she’ll have access to proper nutrition and regular meals fills me with immense relief. I imagine her health returning, her figure filling out to its natural, womanly state.
I want to see her not just surviving but thriving, laughing, and lively, her soul as nourished as her body. To see her more freely, without the shadow of hunger darkening her eyes, fuels a deep, burning hope inside me.
You’re going to get better, Frankie. I’ll make sure of it. We’ll have food, shelter, warmth, happiness, and each other. Everything we need.
She peers up, choosing me as her view instead of the sprawling scenery beyond the window. Her presence in my arms, so light yet so profoundly significant, reaffirms my need to watch her flourish, to reclaim the vitality that the harsh life of Hoss stripped away.
Slowly, her breathing grows shallow and even. As I indulge in the sweet scent of her hair against my nose, her eyes drift shut.
Within minutes, she’s asleep.
Careful not to disturb her, I take a sip of the vodka, the clear liquid cool against my lips.
As it glides down, I instinctively critique its profile, comparing it to the batches I distilled under conditions far less ideal than any commercial distillery.
This vodka, likely expensive and well-regarded, hits my palate with an initial smoothness that’s promising, but it quickly reveals its shortcomings.
Swirling the liquid in my glass, I watch it catch the light. It lacks the depth that comes from the meticulous filtering process I used with mine. I always allowed the spirit to mellow through natural charcoal—sourced from peat, wood, and other organic materials—stripping away the harsh notes while enhancing the vodka’s character.
I set the glass down, cataloging the adjustments I would make, the personal touches that would elevate this vodka from merely good to memorable. It’s not just about distilling. It’s about crafting a story in each bottle, a story of survival, of ice, wilderness, and hardship. A story this vodka, for all its refinement, doesn’t tell.
After a while, the faint aroma of heating food drifts through the cabin, stirring something primal within me. My stomach rumbles.
What would they serve on a flight like this? Gourmet meals or something simpler? Certainly not the stark survival fare we’ve been hunting and scraping out of cans all winter.
My mouth waters at the prospect of enjoying a meal I didn’t have to kill or gather myself.
I glance around, detecting movement in the alcove toward the front. It must be a small kitchen area. The scent grows stronger, a blend of savory and unknown spices that are entirely new to my senses.
Leo must smell it, too, because within minutes, he slips out of the cockpit. But he only has eyes for the sleeping woman on my lap.
He approaches quietly as if the very act of walking could disturb her peace, his eyes scanning her features, searching for any hint of pain or fear.
That tenderness in his gaze is new, a softness that didn’t surface until he met Frankie.
Whenever I look at her, I know my face does that melty thing, too.
As he edges nearer, her eyelids flutter open, and a gentle smile spreads across her lips.
“Hi.” Her drowsy voice, barely a whisper, fills the space with warmth.
He bends in, his hand brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. His touch lingers, fingers trailing lightly down the side of her face as if memorizing every detail all over again.
Leaning closer, he kisses her in a careful melding of lips that speaks of missed moments and relief at being together.
“Hi, love,” he whispers against her mouth.
Rather than pulling away, he hovers closer, his forehead resting against hers. In a moment of quiet connection, his hand cradles her face, his thumb gently caressing her cheek. His eyes, when they meet mine, thank me for taking care of her.
“How’d it go with Monty?” I ask.
“We talked about jobs.” He moves away, taking the seat she vacated, his posture relaxed but alert.
“Jobs?”
He steals my vodka and swallows a healthy slug, his mismatched eyes on Frankie as the flavor slides over his tongue.
“Doesn’t taste right.” He pushes the glass back. “What’s missing?”
“You tell me.”
“Wild berries, wood smoke, snow…”
“ The essence of the hills.” She rests her head on my shoulder.
Nodding, I kiss her brow.
I always infused something from the Arctic in my recipes. Those subtle undertones give complexity, making each sip an experience rather than just a drink.
Maybe it’s the pure snowmelt water I used, which this commercial brand could never replicate. Theirs leaves an oily residue on the tongue, probably from being rushed through mass filtration processes that prioritize quantity over quality.
“Monty brought up your vodka recipes.” He sprawls in the seat, a nerve twitching along his jaw. “Read about them in Frankie’s journal. He thinks you should open a distillery, maybe even a bar. Said he would help if you want to pursue it.”
Suspicion, protest, and a million ways to say fuck no pound through my head.
Until I think back to those long winter nights in Hoss that were filled not just with survival tasks but with dreams.
Dreams fueled by the extensive reading I did.
I always imagined turning my makeshift distillery in the cellar into something legitimate, even when I believed I would never set foot beyond those frozen hills.
Among the tattered pages in our library, I learned about the complexities of establishing a distillery, the bureaucracy of obtaining permits and licenses, and the stringent regulations governing the production and sale of alcohol.
An entire manual on the regulatory hurdles explained the need for health inspections, environmental compliance, and safety protocols. Another book covered the capital investment, market analysis, and the economic forecasts necessary for sustaining a business.
I absorbed every word, procedure, and potential stumbling block. Those books weren’t just manuals. They were windows to a world I longed to be part of. I studied them not just out of curiosity, but with fierce dedication, underlining passages, making notes in the margins.
It was theoretical knowledge, gleaned in isolation. Yet I treated it as a blueprint for a future I never dared to hope for.
Now, soaring above concrete cities on a private jet, that knowledge feels less abstract. The possibility of applying it, of navigating the red tape with Monty’s backing, transforms my lofty dreams into tangible goals.
It’s thrilling.
And overwhelming.
“A distillery would be a lot of red tape.” I glance at Frankie, seeking her input. “Why would he help with that?”
“He owns a global consulting firm.” She straightens on my lap, taking the conversation seriously. “They specialize in business development, handling everything from market analysis to regulatory compliance. Helping you set up a business is right up his alley.”
“He mentioned the challenges.” Leo drums his fingers on the table. “Zoning, health regulations, getting a liquor license…It’s a lot, but he’s willing to invest the capital and handle the legal stuff. He would be a silent partner, letting you run it and focus on the product.”
Monty’s offer is a chance to use what I know to build something worthwhile. It could give us something that’s ours, not just a shelter from threats but a real footing in this world.
But it would mean laying down roots in Sitka.
It would make us more dependent on him.
I stare at my unfinished vodka.
His offer sounds promising, but it leaves a bad aftertaste.