Chapter 4
Garruk
Ava looks so small and delicate in my bed.
But she's not small. Not fragile. She’s fierce and stubborn and bright as firelight. Yet wrapped in my furs, ankle bound, steam curling from the cup in her hands… she looks like something I must shield.
From the storm.
From the cold.
From myself.
The bond hums under my skin. Insistent. Wanting. Reaching.
I ignore it.
She's human. She may not accept.
I won't take what she doesn't freely give.
I busy my hands—tending fire, checking shutters, adjusting herbs hanging from beams. Anything to keep from staring.
But I feel her eyes on me. Curious. Warm. Brave.
"Fire okay?" she asks, trying for casual and missing.
"It’s going strong." My voice sounds rough. "The cabin will stay warm."
"That’s good." She clears her throat. “You have a nice cabin.”
I glance over. She's looking at the wall of tools, jars of dried berries, the carved bowl on the table. My home. Built for me alone.
But now she's here.
"It's simple," I say.
"It’s perfect," she counters softly.
Something moves through me. Hope. I crush it down.
She takes another sip, holding the cup with both hands now that she can feel them. Her hair—damp from melted snow—curls slightly near her temples. Cheeks flushed with heat. Lips soft again instead of pale.
So alive.
Relief hits hard enough that I exhale slowly, quietly, so she won't hear. She could have died tonight. Then I never would have found my mate.
"You keep staring," she says suddenly.
I freeze.
She lifts a brow. "Something wrong?"
Everything. And nothing.
"You're warm again," I say. Not an answer, but true. "Your color has returned."
"Oh." Her fingers pause around the cup. "Yeah. Thanks for that. I guess I really did need help, after all.”
I can tell that the admission doesn’t come easily to her. My little warrior likes to do things on her own and take care of herself.
Silence blooms, soft, thick, pulsing with something that makes my chest ache.
She sets her cup aside, shifts, winces faintly as she adjusts her ankle. Then she looks at me in a way that feels like scrutiny and an invitation at the same time.
"Garruk. Earlier you said you'd give me answers when I'm warm." She swallows. "I'm warm now."
My pulse thunders.
She's not afraid. She's asking. Choosing to ask.
Still, I’m not ready. If she rejects me now, she will still have to stay until the storm passes and that will be too much to bear. So, why rush?
"You should rest," I say.
She narrows her eyes. "That's not an answer."
"It's what I can give. For now."
I turn away. Coward's move. But the truth sits heavy in my throat. Her reaction will decide more than she knows.
She could leave in the morning.
Reject the bond.
Walk back to her world and never look at me again.
"I'm not made of glass," she says behind me. "You don't have to tiptoe."
My hands curl against the table edge. "I'm not tiptoeing."
"Really? I've seen louder snowflakes."
I turn then, because I can't help it. She draws me the way heat draws breath. She's leaning back slightly on her hands, watching with open curiosity, ankle wrapped, hair a dark halo against my furs.
Beautiful.
Dangerous.
Mine.
If she chooses.
"Ava," I say, her name rough on my tongue. "There are truths that once spoken can't be forgotten."
"So tell me one," she challenges softly.
I step toward her. Three steps. Two. The bond pulls. Steady. Sure. She doesn't retreat. Just looks up at me, chin tilted, breath softening.
Her heartbeat is faster. Not from fear. Something else.
I kneel beside the bed so we're eye-level.
Her pupils widen.
My voice is almost a whisper. "You're not afraid of me."
"No," she says instantly. "Should I be?"
"No." The word leaves me like a sacred pledge. "Never. Not while I draw breath."
Her breath catches.
Heat sparks between us. She leans in a fraction. Just enough that I feel the warmth of her skin. Just enough that instinct roars, urging me to close the distance.
I brace a hand on the bed frame instead.
She notices. "You're holding yourself back."
"Yes."
"Why?"
There are a thousand answers I could give, but only one is true.
"Because if I touch you," I say softly, "I won't trust myself to stop."
Her eyes flare with something that makes my pulse stutter. Interest. Awareness. Want.
"Garruk…" she whispers.
I lean in—slow as the spring thaw—giving her time to pull away.
She doesn't. She breathes me in, lips parting, pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.
Our foreheads almost touch.
My voice rasps. "Ava. If you want me to stop, say it."
She swallows. Her breath brushes my mouth. My hands tremble where they grip wood.
Then…
A sharp crack outside, followed by the heavy thud of snow sliding from a branch. The cabin shifts slightly in wind.
Ava startles.
The moment breaks.
I pull back first—because if I don't, I'll cross a line she hasn't fully invited me across.
Her cheeks are flushed. Breath uneven. She stares at me like she's trying to reconcile reality with whatever that just was.
My heart is a jackhammer in my chest.
"You stopped," she whispers. Almost confused.
"Had to." The words scrape out. "You're cold, exhausted, injured. And you don't yet understand what I am." I gesture between us. “What this is.”
Her voice is thin. Breathless. "And when I do?"
I meet her eyes—golden to brown—and let her see the truth for just a heartbeat.
"Then I won't stop."
Her breath shivers out.
I stand quickly, turning away before instinct takes control.
She's quiet for a long time. Finally she says, "Garruk?"
"Yes."
"I'm not afraid of the truth."
I close my eyes.
I am.
Tomorrow, when the storm has passed and she has strength again, I'll give her the truth.
And pray she doesn't run.