Chapter Sixteen
NASH
I haven't moved in an hour, and that hasn't happened in a decade.
Usually, I'm up before the light. I'm out of the bag, brewing coffee, checking the perimeter, and organizing the day's logistics before my clients even roll over.
Today, I haven't moved an inch.
Aris is asleep on my chest. Her hair is a chaotic halo of dark waves spread across my shoulder, and her breathing is a slow, steady rhythm that I can feel against my ribs.
One of her legs is tangled with mine in the sleeping bag, and her hand is resting flat over my heart, as if checking to make sure it's still beating.
It is. In fact, it's beating harder than it has in years.
I look down at her, tracing the line of her spine with my hand under the heavy down of the bag. The memory of last night—the heat, the desperation, the surrender—hits me, and I feel a fierce, possessive tightening in my chest.
We didn't just step over the line; we erased it.
Technically, this is a disaster. She's a client. I'm supposed to be her professional guide. We're miles from civilization, surrounded by a wolf pack that has already shown an unusual lack of fear, and we have no satellite phone. My focus should be 100% on the environment.
But looking at Aris, all I can focus on is how soft her skin is and how much I want to wake her up and do it all again.
You're in trouble, Hollister, a voice in my head warns. Deep, deep trouble.
Aris stirs. She takes a deep breath, her lashes fluttering against my skin, and then she goes still. I can practically hear her brain booting up, loading the memories of the broken antenna, the soldering iron, the sex.
She lifts her head slowly, blinking in the orange light. Her eyes meet mine. There's a second of vulnerability, a question mark hanging in the air.
"Morning," I rumble.
She searches my face, looking for regret. When she doesn't find it, the tension leaves her face all at once.
"Morning," she whispers.
She props her chin on my chest. "So. We're still here. The world didn't end."
"Not yet," I say, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Though the day is young."
She laughs, a soft sound that vibrates against me. "You're a pessimist."
"I'm a realist. And realistically …" I glance at my watch, "… we have about four hours of direct sunlight to charge the solar array. We need to check the antenna fix. And we need to find Waldo."
The mention of the caribou brings the outside world rushing back in. I feel her body tense slightly. The scientist is waking up.
"The antenna," she says, sitting up and pulling the sleeping bag around her shoulders. "Do you think it held?"
"Only one way to find out."
I sit up too, the cold air of the tent biting at my bare skin. I grab my thermal shirt from the pile of clothes in the corner, the clothes we shed in such a hurry last night.
"I'll get the stove going," I say. "You check the gear."
The transition from "lovers" back to "partners" is smoother than I expected, but different.
As we dress, there's no modesty, but there is a lingering electricity.
When I hand her the fleece, my fingers brush her arm, and she leans into the touch.
When she passes me the thermos, she holds my gaze a second longer than necessary.
It's distracting. It's dangerous. And I love it.
We move outside. The air is crisp, biting, but the sky is that merciless winter blue.
Aris sets up the telemetry receiver on one of the cases we saved. She connects the Frankenstein antenna, the ugly, taped-up thing we pieced back together yesterday. Her hands are steady.
"Powering up," she announces.
She flips the switch. Static.
I hold my breath, pouring the coffee.
Ping.
It's faint, but it's there.
Ping.
"He's moved," she says, her eyes glued to the signal strength meter. "The signal is weaker than yesterday. He's heading north, toward the jagged peaks."
"The High Basin," I say, handing her a mug. "That's rough country. Steep. Lots of scree."
"Why would he go there?" She takes the coffee, blowing on the steam. "The grazing is terrible up there."
"Security," I say, scanning the tree line. "He knows the wolves are in the valley. He's taking the herd to high ground where they can see threats coming."
"Strategist," she murmurs. "He really is."
"We need to move," I say. "If he gets into the rocks, we can't take the snowmobile. We'll be on snowshoes. It'll take us half the day just to get to the base."
"Okay," she says. "I'll pack the optics."
We break camp with an efficiency we didn't have a week ago. We don't need to talk; we just move around each other, striking the tent, lashing the sled.
I'm tightening the straps on the fuel canister when I see it.
At the edge of our campsite, maybe twenty feet from where the tent stood, the snow is disturbed.
I walk over, my boots crunching in the crust.
Tracks, large and distinct, are stamped into the snow.
I crouch down. They aren't yesterday's tracks. The edges are sharp, not softened by the wind or the sun. These were made last night. Or early this morning.
"Nash?" Aris calls from the sled. "Ready?"
"One second."
I follow the tracks. They circle the camp. They stop behind the spruce tree where we hung our food bag (high up, out of reach). Then they move closer.
They lead right up to the spot where I pissed before bed.
There's a yellow stain in the snow where the wolf marked over my scent.
It's a message, loud and clear. This isn't your territory. It's mine.
I stand up, looking into the dense timber. I don't see anything. No gray shapes. No yellow eyes. The hair on my arms stands up under my layers.
They were here while we were sleeping. While we were tangled together in the tent, completely oblivious to the world, they were twenty feet away, watching. Waiting.
"Nash?" Aris is walking toward me now, concern on her face. "What is it?"
I step between her and the tracks, instinctively blocking her view. I don't want to scare her. Not after last night. But she's smart. She sees the tension in my shoulders.
"Wolf sign," she says flatly. "Fresh?"
"Fresh enough," I say. "He marked over my scent."
She pales slightly, her eyes darting to the tree line. "That's aggressive behavior."
"It's dominant behavior," I correct. "He's testing us. Seeing if we'll run."
"And if we don't?"
"Then he escalates."
I walk back to the sled and pull the rifle from the scabbard. I check the action, chambering a round. The metallic clack-clack sounds impossibly loud in the silence.
"We keep the rifle out today," I say. "On your back or mine, at all times. No wandering off for better reception. No splitting up."
"Understood," she says. She looks at the gun, then at me. "Nash, are we safe?"
I look at her. I want to lie, to tell her that I'm the best guide on this island and that nothing can touch her while I'm here. I want to wrap her in that confidence I wear like armor.
But we crossed the line. I owe her the truth.
"We are intruders, Aris," I say quietly. "We're safe as long as we're smart. But we are not in charge out here."
"And you should have had this before now," I say. "The morning you climbed for the antenna, there were fresh tracks at the edge of camp. I scuffed them out before you woke up. I told myself I was managing the risk." I make myself hold her eyes. "I was managing you. It won't happen again."
She goes still. I watch her decide something, and it costs me less than I deserve. "No," she agrees. "It won't."
She nods, swallowing hard. "Okay. Smart. Let's go find Waldo."
We mount the snowmobile. I fire up the engine, letting it idle for a second. Aris climbs on behind me. Her arms go around my waist, tight and secure. She presses her face against my back.
"I've got you," she says, her voice muffled by my parka.
It's the same thing I told her yesterday when she was crying.
"I know," I say.
I gun the throttle, and we shoot out onto the river ice, heading north toward the jagged peaks.
The wind hits my face, cold and clean. The engine roars. Behind me, the woman I'm falling in love with is holding on for dear life. Somewhere ahead, a genius caribou is leading us into the rocks. And somewhere behind, a wolf with a grudge is following our trail.
It's a hell of a morning.
And despite the danger, despite the odds, despite the yellow snow marking our death sentence … I find myself grinning.
Because for the first time in a long time, I have something worth fighting for.