Chapter 14 Angie
ANGIE
The sky’s smeared in streaks of fire and frost, all orange and pale violet where the sun scrapes across the edge of the world like it’s fighting to hold on for just one more minute.
The wind picks up harder the farther we go, carving into my cheeks like cold knives, and I can barely feel my nose.
Cassian's ahead of me, long strides that don’t even look human half the time, boots sinking deep into the packed snow but never slowing down.
He hasn’t said more than two words since we left the cabin, and both of them were about the map.
He’s doing that thing again, the one where he pretends he’s carved out of something ancient and untouched, where silence is safer than softness, where walls keep people warm instead of cold.
I want to scream at him that I’m not afraid of what’s underneath.
That I’ve seen it already, raw and bleeding and real, and I didn’t run then and I sure as hell won’t run now.
But I keep moving. Because he’s faster than me even when he’s angry. Especially when he’s angry. I’m not ready to stop walking until he turns around and realizes I didn’t fall behind, I followed him.
The snow shifts under my boots, packed tight from the last storm, and the sled we’re pulling groans under the weight of supplies we don’t even need anymore but neither of us wanted to leave behind.
We’ve got three thermal packs, two rifles, a med kit, a stove, and a duffel full of his old things he won’t talk about.
The dogs bark every now and then like they’re checking in, reminding us they’re still tethered and listening.
Then I see him slow.
His shoulders tense. He stops moving. Just stops like he heard something I didn’t. My breath fogs as I catch up, chest heaving from the climb. “Cassian, what—”
He lifts a hand, sharp and fast, and I shut up.
The air changes. It's the weirdest thing. One second it’s just wind and snow and breath, and the next, it’s thick, like something invisible has stepped into the world and decided we’re not welcome anymore.
Cassian lowers his hand to his side, fingers twitching toward the knife strapped across his back. He doesn’t draw it. Not yet. Just stands still with that eerie stillness that doesn’t belong to people anymore. It belongs to predators. The kind that hunt in silence. The kind that don’t miss.
Then I see them.
Shadows moving out from behind the ridge to our left. Big figures in pale winter gear, heads covered, guns drawn. The first one’s already raising his weapon, too fast to mistake it for anything friendly.
Cassian doesn’t wait.
He lunges forward so fast I barely catch the movement.
His body collides with the front man, and the sound it makes is brutal, like bones hitting stone.
The man’s rifle goes skittering into the snow, and Cassian doesn’t pause—he pivots and slams his elbow into the second hunter’s throat before the third can get a shot off.
“Down!” he shouts, voice rough and sharp, and I throw myself behind the sled, breath catching hard in my throat.
Shots ring out. Quick. Loud. Too close.
Cassian’s already tangled with the next one, their bodies locked in this vicious, vicious rhythm of fists and claws and blood.
One of the mercs makes the mistake of trying to flank him, but Cassian twists, grabs the guy by the front of his coat, and throws him like he weighs nothing, like he's paper in a storm.
And I see it. His eyes.
Golden.
Not just light-catching or reflective, but lit from within, burning with something wild and ancient and not quite human. The edges of his face shift, just barely, like his bones want to push through the skin and remind everyone here that he’s not one of them.
He’s more.
The last merc tries to run, turning tail like he’s seen enough, but Cassian’s there in an instant, a blur of motion. He doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t have to. He steps in close, and the man falls backward into the snow, hands up, weapon forgotten.
Cassian stands over him, breathing heavy, fists clenched, and his whole body vibrating with the force of holding something back. His jaw’s locked, veins taut in his neck, and his teeth—God, they’re sharper now. Longer. Like the bear’s trying to claw its way to the surface.
But then he stops.
Just stops.
He takes a step back. Breathes in hard. And lets it go.
The merc scrambles to his feet and runs, slipping and falling twice before disappearing behind the ridge, not daring to look back.
Cassian stays still, chest heaving, shoulders trembling like he’s just barely on the edge of losing everything.
I crawl out from behind the sled and push myself up, boots slipping on the ice as I run to him.
“Hey,” I say, grabbing his arm. “Cassian. Look at me.”
He doesn’t.
“Cassian. Please.”
He turns, finally, and those gold-flecked eyes lock on mine. There’s sweat beading on his brow despite the cold, and the color’s already draining from his irises, fading back to that pale storm-gray that’s somehow always felt like home to me.
He opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out.
I don’t care.
I grab the front of his coat and yank him down with all the force I’ve got, which, to be fair, isn’t much compared to him. But he lets me.
We fall together into the snowbank beside the trail, tangled and breathless and pressed close enough that I can feel his heart pounding through every layer between us.
He doesn’t move. Neither do I.
The wind howls over the ridge, the dogs bark behind us, but for a long moment, it’s just us. Just the sound of his breath against mine and the slow, steady fade of the golden light in his eyes.
“You stopped,” I whisper. “You could’ve torn them apart. But you didn’t.”
His voice is rough, ragged. “I almost did.”
“But you didn’t,” I say again, firmer now. “You chose to stop.”
He swallows hard, eyes closing like he’s ashamed of that, like holding back is something to hide instead of something to be proud of.
I lean in and press my forehead to his. “That means something. You’re not what they think you are. You’re stronger than it. You’re stronger than your fear.”
His hands are still clenched, but they’re not shaking anymore. I slide mine over his, fingers fitting between his knuckles, scarred and calloused and real.
“I’m not going to let you drown in it,” I say. “In the silence. In the shame. In the things they tried to turn you into.”
He finally meets my gaze, and there’s something breaking open in his expression—something raw and soft and terrifying.
“I have no idea how to stop carrying it,” he says. “The weight. The guilt. It’s all I know.”
“Then we carry it together,” I whisper. “That’s how we make it lighter.”