Chapter 3
Mazie
The first thing I feel is heat. A solid, all-encompassing warmth that seeps into my bones and makes them ache in relief. The pain is almost worse than the cold was, fire burning through frozen limbs as sensation returns.
The second thing I feel... is not the ground.
I blink, squinting at rough-hewn rafters above me, logs stripped and notched together with expert precision. Then I roll onto my side, and the movement sends pain lancing down my shoulder where I must have hit a rock in the river. I groan softly, the sound loud in the quiet space.
My coat is gone. My clothes are gone. My skin is covered by a thick fur draped over me like a bear pelt—which it might actually be, based on the size and weight of it.
My camera is nowhere in sight. Neither is my backpack. For a moment, panic flutters in my chest, the journalist in me mourning lost equipment and footage.
But he's here.
He sits by the fire, massive shoulders hunched forward, carving something small and delicate from a piece of wood.
His tusks glint in the light, catching and reflecting the flames.
He's wearing rough clothes that look handmade, leather pants and a loose shirt that does nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders.
His long dark hair is tied back with a strip of leather, revealing the strong line of his jaw and the tribal tattoos that curve up his neck and disappear beneath his collar.
Not a dream. Not a trick of the snow. Not hypothermia-induced hallucination.
I saw him. He saved me. And he's real.
"You're awake."
His voice is deep enough to rumble in my chest, to resonate in my ribs like I'm standing too close to a bass speaker.
"Guess so," I manage, clutching the fur tighter around me. My voice comes out rough. "Unless this is a very weird hypothermia hallucination. Are you going to turn into a talking rabbit or something?"
He glances over his shoulder, and I get my first clear look at his face in the firelight.
Strong features, sharp but not cruel. His skin is a deep forest green, darker than I'd seen through the snow, with undertones that shift between emerald and olive depending on how the light hits him.
His eyes are gold—true gold, like shining coins—and they fix on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
"You nearly drowned," he says simply, turning back to his carving.
"Yeah. Thanks for the rescue, by the way." My voice cracks on the last word, emotion threatening to overwhelm me. I could have died. Would have died, if not for him. "I owe you my life."
"You owe me nothing."
The words are flat, dismissive. I push myself upright, ignoring the way my head spins and my muscles protest. "You're—uh. You're not exactly what I expected to find out here."
"Then leave," he says simply, his knife never pausing in its rhythmic work.
I swing my legs over the side of what looks like a handmade bed frame, thick logs lashed together with rawhide strips that still have fur attached.
The craftsmanship is remarkable, each piece fitted together with precision.
"Just like that? No introductions? No questions about why I was half-frozen in a river? "
He doesn't answer, the only sound the scrape of blade against wood and the crackling of the fire.
Fine. Two can play that game. I stand on shaky legs, keeping the fur wrapped around me, and edge closer. My boots are drying by the hearth, propped up on stones to keep them from scorching. My camera sits nearby on the table, wiped clean of mud and carefully placed where it won't be damaged.
He didn't destroy it. Interesting.
I edge closer, drawn by the rhythmic scrape of his knife against wood, and peer over his shoulder. "What are you making?"
"It’s just a habit," he says without looking up.
"Not an answer," I mutter, but I step around to his side anyway, curious despite myself.
The carving is beautiful—rough but intricate, each line deliberate. A mountain peak rises from the base, all sharp angles and weathered stone. An animal crouches on a ledge, small and detailed. My heart twists when I look closer. It’s not an animal. It's me.
Or close enough.
My own nose, slightly too large. My wild hair captured in a few deft strokes. Even the shape of my parka, rendered in miniature.
I suck in a breath. "That's me."
Finally, he looks up. His eyes catch the firelight, turning molten gold, and I feel the weight of his gaze on my skin. "It was you before I knew you."
I don't know what that means, but something inside me goes very, very still. The air between us feels thick, charged. I glance at the room, spotting other carvings. Some are of flora and fauna, beautiful mountain landscapes. But there are lots of a woman.
A woman who looks like me.
"Who are you?" I whisper.
He hesitates, his knife pausing mid-stroke. “Varn."
"Varn," I repeat, testing it on my tongue. It feels right somehow—strong and solid, like the mountain itself. "I'm Mazie."
The fire pops, sending sparks up the chimney. Outside, wind moans through the trees, a sound like wolves howling in the distance.
"Do you want me to leave?” I say softly, watching his face for any reaction.
He pauses his work again. "Yes."
I cross my arms, the fur slipping slightly before I catch it. "Then you probably shouldn't have saved my life."
That gets a reaction. His head lifts, eyes flashing with something wild and unreadable. Gold reflects in his irises, making them glow in the dimness.
"Don't test me, human," he growls, and the sound vibrates through the floorboards beneath my feet.
The sound should scare me. It should send me running for the door, hypothermia be damned. Instead, it sends heat skittering down my spine, pooling low in my belly in a way that has nothing to do with the fire.
"I'm not afraid of you," I whisper, and realize it's true. I should be—he's massive, powerful, clearly dangerous. But fear is the furthest thing from what I'm feeling.
He goes perfectly still, every muscle tensing.
Then he sets down the knife and the carving with deliberate care, rising to his full height.
He's enormous—easily seven feet tall, maybe more—towering over me in a way that should be intimidating.
His shoulders are broad enough to block out the firelight, casting me in shadow.
"You should be," he says, and his voice has dropped to something barely above a whisper.
But the way he says it... it sounds more like a warning to himself than to me.
I take a step closer, emboldened by something I don't understand, drawn by a pull that feels as natural as gravity. "Why? You saved me. You brought me here. You're carving my face from memory." Another step. "Those aren't the actions of someone I should fear."
"You don't understand what you're doing." His hands curl into fists at his sides, and I can see the tension in every line of his body.
"Then explain it to me."
The fire crackles between us. His eyes track across my face, searching for something. Outside, snow begins to fall again, soft flakes drifting past the window.
"You should rest," he finally says, but he doesn't move away. "You're still recovering."
"I'm fine." I am, surprisingly. Warm and steady and more alive than I've felt in years. "Tell me why you carved me before you knew me."
He closes his eyes, jaw clenching. When he opens them again, something has shifted—a wall coming down, a decision made.
"Because I've been waiting for you," he says quietly. "My whole life."