Chapter 3
CASSIAN
The wind shifts and I catch it. A sharp note of oil and sweat cuts through the clean breath of the sea, a sour stink that does not belong here.
My teeth clench as I draw it deeper, letting it sink into me.
Poachers. No mistake. They try to cover their stink with fur and smoke, but my nose knows the truth.
They do not belong to this land, and the bear inside me growls for blood at the intrusion.
I leave the nets behind and move silent across the snow, boots sinking deep but soundless to anyone who isn’t listening the way I do.
The air burns my lungs, the stars spread endless above, and every step is a rhythm I have walked for years.
Exile teaches you patience. Exile teaches you silence.
Exile teaches you that some trespasses must be left alone, but this smell will not let me rest.
The tracks are fresh. Broad boots, deep set, too heavy to be fishermen.
They drag a sled, I can tell by the grooves, and something drips faintly along the ice.
Seal blood, maybe, or worse. My hands curl tight at my sides as I follow, breath coming slow and even.
I do not run. Running is for men who fear they will lose the trail. I never lose a trail.
The bear stirs restless, pressing against me. Not yet, I tell him. Not unless they force it.
The tracks veer toward the floes where the ice grows thin. Foolish place to hunt. The water moves under there, restless and hungry, and I’ve seen too many men vanish in a heartbeat because they thought they knew better. My jaw tightens as I push forward.
Then I see her.
At first, I think the poachers have left bait, because what else could explain a woman crouched close to a break in the ice, leaning too far, her curls bouncing as she mutters to herself like the wind is listening.
She has a camera in her hands, its lens glinting in the moonlight, and she’s so intent on her shot she doesn’t notice the crack forming under her knees.
My heart lurches, a sudden jolt that makes the bear snarl. She’s no poacher. She’s too clean, too alive, her scent bright with fear and stubbornness and something warm underneath. She doesn’t belong here either, but not in the same way as those other men.
The ice gives a long groan. She gasps, scrambles back, but her boot slips and the edge crumbles beneath her. One second she’s there, the next she’s plunging forward into the black water.
I’m moving before I think. My body knows what to do, even if my mind protests. The bear roars for me to shift, to tear through this thin human skin and dive, but I grit my teeth and stay man-shaped as I drop flat and thrust my arm down into the hole.
The water swallows her fast. She thrashes, bubbles foaming as she fights, curls plastered to her face.
My hand closes around her jacket, fist tightening in the thick fabric, and I haul back with everything in me.
The ice cracks further, biting into my chest as I strain, but she comes up, coughing and gasping, eyes wide with panic.
I drag her free in one heave, lifting her like she weighs nothing, and lay her hard on the ice. She sputters, coughing, rolling to her side. Her breath comes ragged, her hands clawing at the ice as though it might open again and swallow her whole.
I kneel beside her, silent, watching her chest rise and fall. Her eyes squeeze shut, then open, shining even in the dim light, and she laughs.
It’s a wild, broken laugh, breathless and sharp, the kind that comes when terror breaks and relief rushes in like a tide. She clutches her camera to her chest as though it’s her lifeline, her curls sticking everywhere, and laughs again, softer this time, almost disbelieving.
The sound slices through me. It echoes in places I thought were dead.
I stand.
She turns her head, eyes catching on me. She sees me for the first time, and I know what she sees—tall man in furs, hair unbound, eyes too sharp, body too still. Not a fisherman. Not a rescuer she can thank with words that make sense. Something other.
Her lips part. I see the question forming, but I can’t hear it. I won’t.
I take one step back, then another. Her hand lifts slightly, as if she might reach for me, but I turn and walk away before she can find her voice.
The bear grumbles, unhappy at the retreat, but I shove the sound down. This is not for us. She is not for us.
Behind me, her laughter follows, lighter now, clinging to the wind like smoke. I hate that it lingers. I hate that it makes my chest feel too tight.
By the time I reach the ridge, the poachers’ trail is gone from my thoughts. All I can hear is that laugh, ringing clear, breaking into the silence I’ve carried like armor for years.
When I reach my shack, I throw the door wide and stand in the dark, fists clenched.
The Seal beats once under my ribs, mocking me, reminding me of bonds I’ve sworn to bury.
The bear rumbles low, restless, remembering the warmth of her weight in our hand, the sound of her breath when it came back, the spark of her laugh.
I slam my palm against the wall, hard enough that the wood cracks. “Forget her,” I snarl into the dark.
But the silence doesn’t answer. It only carries her laughter back to me, curling through the ice halls of my solitude, refusing to fade.
I tell myself I’ll forget by morning.
I know I won’t.