Chapter 6
BENJAMIN
Why did you let her drive away?
The voice rumbles low in the back of my head, a feeling like claws dragging against my ribs. He’s never been this persistent before.
“What other choice did I have?” I mutter, stomping through the barn, boots crunching over the thin layer of straw dusting the packed dirt floor.
My palms run along the cold iron latches of each gate, checking and rechecking, making damn sure they’re secure.
Last year’s blizzard nearly blew one clean off its hinges when Nathan forgot to lock it, and I’m not about to deal with loose livestock on top of everything else.
You could’ve convinced her to stay. Convinced her to wait out the storm.
“She’ll be halfway down the mountain before it hits,” I argue, though the words feel brittle, like I’m trying harder to convince myself than him. “There’s a good chance she’ll be ahead of it.”
A humorless laugh slips out as I shove open the barn doors and step into the wind.
The temperature has dropped even lower in the fifteen minutes since she pulled away.
I tilt my head back, studying the sky. Dark, iron-heavy clouds press low and tight, blotting out the last trace of daylight—the kind that mean trouble.
A few flakes drift lazily down, landing cold and wet against my cheeks before vanishing on contact.
Here comes the storm.
You shouldn’t have let her drive back. Especially with those tires.
Guilt twists hard in my gut. He isn’t wrong.
I saw them—those bald excuses for tires—when I helped tie the tree onto that little rust bucket she calls a car.
They didn’t belong on this mountain road in clear weather, let alone a storm.
And she sure as hell didn’t have snow chains tucked under that sweater or anywhere else in her car.
Not unless she’s better at magic than I thought.
“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” I lie, grabbing the ax from my belt. The weight is familiar, grounding. “She doesn’t even know what we are.”
But she’s ours.
The growl vibrates through my bones, low and possessive, and I grit my teeth.
“She’s not ours.”
Benjamin.
I ignore him, dropping a log onto the old stump, its surface scarred from years of work.
The ax swings heavy and true, splitting the wood clean down the middle.
The crack echoes across the clearing, sharp as gunfire.
I toss the halves onto the growing pile and set another log down, swinging again and again until sweat beads at my brow and soaks into my shirt despite the cutting wind.
Chop. Toss. Chop. Toss. Anything to drown out the gnawing ache in my chest.
But then it hits—a sudden, sharp pang right beneath my ribs, stealing the air from my lungs. My grip slips, the ax head glancing wrong. The log rolls, clattering off the stump and into the snow.
She needs us.
The words are a snarl in my head, fierce and undeniable.
“It’s indigestion. Overwork,” I grumble, stooping to grab the log again, though my hand shakes just enough to betray me.
The pang slams into me once more, sharper this time. Not indigestion. Not anything I can shrug off. A tether pulling taut, dragging me toward the direction she went.
“Fuck.”
I hurl the log aside and stalk to the back door, boots crunching over the icy ground.
My hand hovers on the knob. I should tell them—Mom, Dad, Nathan, even Gran.
They’d want to know where I’m going. But then they’d want to know why.
And what the hell would I say? That I let some stubborn, pretty stranger drive off into a snowstorm with bald tires and now my bear thinks she’s in trouble?
Mom would’ve dragged her straight into the kitchen the second she smelled the storm in the air. Offered her stew, tea, maybe even one of the spare bedrooms. The woman would’ve been wrapped in warmth and flannel by now instead of rattling down the mountain road with a tree twice the size of her car.
She should’ve stayed.
“She wouldn’t have accepted.” My jaw tightens. I can still see her standing in the snow, chin lifted, eyes flashing, swearing she could handle herself. “She didn’t even want to believe a storm was coming.”
Hazel is ours, whether you believe me or not. And she’s out there. Alone. Our Hazel.
The name rumbles through me again like thunder.
“Fine,” I snap, letting go of the knob and spinning around.
The wind roars, icy and merciless, slapping wet snow against my face and chest. My damp flannel sticks cold to my skin, and I curse under my breath as I make for the truck. Every instinct in me is on edge now, driving me forward. My bear growls low, satisfied.
I slide into the cab, slamming the door harder than necessary. The familiar scent of leather and pine fills the space, but it does nothing to quiet the storm in my chest. My hands rest heavy on the steering wheel, unmoving, while the wind rattles the frame.
“Am I really doing this?” I mutter to the empty cab. To myself. To him.
What I don’t get is why you’re being so reluctant.
I exhale through my nose, long and sharp, and turn the key. The engine rumbles to life, a steady growl that matches the restless pacing in my head. For a long second, I just sit there, staring at the line of snow gathering along the windshield, watching it thicken.
“She’s probably fine,” I tell myself, shifting into reverse and backing out of the drive. The tires crunch over gravel, kicking up a dusting of snow. “She’s already on the highway. Probably singing along to damn Christmas carols and dreaming of decorating her tree.”
You don’t believe that.
The voice digs in, low and insistent.
“She’s stubborn. She’ll fight her way through anything to get that tree home.” My hands tighten on the wheel until my knuckles pale. “Besides, she made her choice.”
And you made yours. You let her go.
I grit my teeth, jaw working. “What was I supposed to do? Ask a complete stranger to stay for dinner? Tell her we’re fated to be a perfect match? Lock her in the barn until spring?”
You could’ve kept her safe.
The words claw through me, raw and accusing.
The headlights sweep over the trees as I turn down the dirt road that winds through the forest. Towering pines flank either side, their branches groaning under the weight of new snow.
The flurries that had seemed harmless back at the barn are heavier now—fat flakes slanting sideways in the wind, catching in the beams until it feels like I’m driving through static.
I ease off the gas, squinting through the windshield as the wipers fight to keep up, grateful for my keen shifter sight. Something the witch doesn’t have.
“She’s fine,” I whisper, though my pulse betrays me, thudding loud in my ears. “She’s fine.”
She’s not.
A muscle jumps in my cheek.
“She’s a stranger,” I bite out, the words harsh in the small space. “I don’t know her. Don’t owe her anything. My family comes first. Always.”
And yet here you are.
The cab is hot now—too hot—the heater blasting my damp shirt until sweat trickles down my back. I roll the window down an inch. Freezing air whips in, biting my skin, carrying the sharp scent of pine and the iron weight of the coming storm.
I grip the wheel tighter, eyes locked on the snowy road. I should turn around. Head back. Forget the way her eyes had flashed when she looked at me, the way something inside me had shifted, like I’d been waiting for her without even knowing it.
Newsflash: because she’s ours.
The deeper I drive through the woods, the heavier the snow falls—and the heavier the weight in my chest grows.
By the time I hit the stretch of road that feeds into the highway, the anxious feeling twisting inside me dulls to a quiet ache. The change is unnerving, and I press harder on the gas to cover more ground.
Miles pass in an endless stream of asphalt and snow until, up ahead, a tiny sliver of yellow. I lift my foot off the accelerator. It has to be her.
The truck coasts to a stop behind her unmistakable yellow car.
I hop out, boots crunching in the snow as I approach.
My gaze catches on the little mound of snowballs next to the car.
Had she tried to magic her way out? Her shivering figure is visible inside, curled up in the front seat behind the frost-coated windows.
“Need some help?” Hazel jumps as I knock on the glass. Her eyes fly open, shifting from relief to annoyance. A muscle in my jaw ticks as I clench my teeth. Here I am, going out of my way to rescue her, and she’s not happy to see me.
Be gentle with her.
“What are you doing here?” she asks through clattering teeth, opening her door and hugging her arms tighter around herself. “Don’t you have some big, important lumberjack business to attend to?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” I lean back on my heels, crossing my arms over my chest. “Are you going to sit here arguing with me, or are you going to grab your creature and get into the truck’s cab so I can take you home?”
“Take me home?” Her face scrunches into an adorably confused look.
“Yes, unless you’d rather wait out here in the cold and dark until morning?” The cold is already creeping through my boots and thick wool socks. I’ve got half a mind to toss her over my shoulder, but I’m trying to control my temper.
I wouldn’t mind that.
“I… thank you,” she stammers, clambering out of her car. “But what about my car—and the tree?”
That damned tree.
“I have the equipment to tow your car. Just get whatever you need while I reposition the truck.” I head back and line up the flatbed trailer with her bumper. Thankfully, I’d left it hitched from my earlier delivery, and her car’s small enough I should be able to push it up the ramp.
Hazel stands watching me, despite the cold seeping through her clothes and boots, the wind whipping her scent toward me—sweet perfume mingled with the sharp freshness of snow.
“The cab’s unlocked. I’ll be just a minute,” I say, voice gruff as I lean into her car and shift it into neutral before walking to the front.
Placing my hands on the cold metal, I brace my feet and work the tires free of the snow.
I reach deep, letting my bear rise just enough to give me the strength I need.
“Oh I didn’t catch your—” Hazel voice cuts off with a cry as she slips in the snow. I rush to her side, the car forgotten as she curls into a ball, clutching her left ankle.
I’m there in a heartbeat. She whimpers as I scoop her up. She feels so small in my arms.
“What happened?” My eyes move from the tears brimming her lashes to her boots, then to the tiny hedgehog poking its head out of her pocket.
“I just turned to get in the cab, and my boot must’ve caught in the snow—or on a root.” Her eyes squeeze shut, teeth clenched. “It hurts.”
“Shh, I know,” I murmur, carrying her to the passenger side of my truck. I gently set her down and start unlacing her boot, but she swats my hands away.
“Please don’t,” she whimpers, and my chest constricts at the sound.
“I know it hurts, sugarplum, but if I don’t get this boot off, I won’t know the extent of the damage. And if it swells, it’ll be harder to remove later—and could cause more damage.” I move slower this time, my fingers as gentle as they can be with my bear raging inside me.
“Just… do it,” she says through gritted teeth, her fingers curling into the leather seat beneath her.
She sucks in a sharp breath as I pull the boot off and peel away her sock. The ankle is slightly swollen, a faint bruise already forming. I make a makeshift pillow out of the tarp from the back seat—one I use to cover trees—and rest her foot gently on it.
“Now don’t move or break anything else while I get your car strapped down.” The wind has slowed, and the snow falls in soft, wistful flakes, but I sense it’s only the beginning of the storm.
“And the tree?” she asks, twisting in the seat.
“It’s strapped down tight, so it’s coming with us,” I reply before shutting the door. This female and her damn tree.
Our female and her tree, you mean.
With one shove, her car rocks out of the snow and onto the trailer. I make quick work of looping straps through the tires, grateful I’d left all the equipment loaded. It’s not the ideal setup, but it’ll get her car home in one piece.
“Let’s get back on the road.” I glance up at the truck and see her eyes closed, face pinched in pain. Without thinking twice, I strip off my flannel, scoop it full of soft snow, and open the passenger door.
“What are you—” she starts, but I lift her foot and wrap the snow-filled flannel around her swollen ankle.
“The ice, compression, and elevation will help the swelling. In fifteen to twenty minutes, take it off so you don’t get frostbite,” I say, reaching over to buckle her in before shutting the door.
Hopping into the driver’s seat, I turn the radio on low, soft Christmas music filling the cab, then pull out onto the main freeway.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her fingers curling around the hem of her sweater.
“It’s Benjamin.” My hands relax on the steering wheel. My bear is quiet now. Content.
“Thank you, Benjamin.”
I feel her eyes on me, but I keep mine trained on the road.