Chapter Twenty-Eight
NASH
Adrenaline is a liar. It's a seductive, chemical con artist that whispers you can run forever, that you can fight wolves with your bare hands, and that the laws of thermodynamics don't apply to you.
It tells you that twenty degrees below zero is just a number, a suggestion rather than a biological ultimatum.
But when it leaves, it doesn't just fade; it evacuates. It takes the heat, the strength, and the hope with it, leaving a vacuum that the cold rushes to fill.
By the time Aris and I stumble down the final rocky incline to the shoreline below the ridge, the physiological debt has come due.
My legs don't feel like muscle and bone anymore; they feel like bags of wet sand dragging through the deep drifts.
The cold, which I managed to ignore during the firefight and the long descent, is now biting through my layers with a vengeance.
It finds every seam, every tear in my parka, seeking the sweat on my skin to turn it into ice.
My hands are stiff claws inside my gloves, frozen into the shape of the shotgun stock I no longer hold.
Aris stumbles on a patch of slick, tide-washed shale, her boot skidding on the black rock. Her weight hits my side hard. I catch her, but just barely. I'm swaying, too, the horizon tilting dangerously.
"We're … there," I wheeze. The air burns my throat, tasting of copper and frost. We're alive, but we're wrecked.
She doesn't answer. She leans her head against my shoulder, her breath coming in shallow, white puffs that crystallize instantly on her eyelashes. She is fading, the shivering that has racked her body for the last hour slowly stopping. That scares me more than the wolves.
Then I look up, and there she is, holding station in the dark water right where Reid swore he'd put her, and the sight of her warms me faster than a shot of straight whiskey.
The Kingfisher.
It holds station against the dark current, looking completely out of place and absolutely beautiful.
Forty feet of battered aluminum, dents, and attitude, its twin diesels are idling with a deep, throat-rattling burble that vibrates in the soles of my boots.
The spotlight mounted on the cabin cuts through the spindrift blowing off the ridge, a beam of artificial hope in a gray world.
Reid noses the bow gently against the rocks, holding it steady with a touch on the throttles that borders on surgical. The boat rises and falls with the swell, the metal groaning as it kisses the stone.
Standing beside Reid on the foredeck is his twin, and the two of them are currently in the middle of a shouting match over the wind.
"You scraped the keel," Rhys shouts, jabbing an accusing, gloved finger at the waterline. "I heard it grind, Reid! Thunk. That was the sound of your insurance premium going up."
"I did not scrape the keel," Reid counters, waving a flare gun around like a conductor's baton. "I was aggressively parking. It was a tactical maneuver, Rhys. And anyway, look at the paint job. It adds character. It tells a story."
"It adds drag," Rhys snaps, leaning over the rail to inspect the aluminum. "You're burning fuel like a cruise ship."
"Stop whining about the fuel! We just saved lives! We're heroes!" Reid throws his arms wide, the neon yellow of his suit searingly bright against the black water. "Heroes don't worry about miles per gallon, Rhys! Batman doesn't check the gas gauge on the Batmobile!"
I stop at the edge of the water, the spray hitting my face. The absurdity of the scene, the domestic bickering juxtaposed against the blood and terror we've just survived, makes me want to laugh, but I don't have the air for it.
"Hey!" I croak. My voice is wrecked, a raw scraping sound from a day of shouting at wolves and wind.
The twins stop arguing instantly. They turn in unison, a synchronized movement born of three decades of sharing a face. They have the same dark hair as Finn and me, the same sharp Hollister jawline that looks cut from granite, but their energy is diametrically opposite.
Reid, Yellow Suit, Chaos Incarnate, breaks into a grin that could power a lighthouse.
Rhys, Green Parka, Order and Metrics, visibly sags with relief, though his eyes immediately narrow, scanning us for blood, broken bones, or missing limbs.
"Well, look who it is," Reid shouts. He vaults off the bow, bypassing the gangplank entirely to land on the slippery rocks with a reckless thud that makes Rhys wince. "The Revenant and his damsel. You guys look terrible. I mean, really, really bad."
"Good to see you too, Reid," I manage to say.
Reid doesn't wait for permission. He closes the distance in three long strides and pulls me into a hug that knocks the last remaining wind out of my lungs. He smells like diesel fuel, fish scales, and stale coffee.
It's the best smell in the world.
"You hailed on the emergency channel," Reid says into my ear, slapping my back hard enough to bruise.
He pulls back, gripping my shoulders. "Before you got your second word out, I told Rhys, 'That's Nash in trouble.
' Rhys says, 'Nash is never in trouble. The man alphabetizes his bullets. ' But I knew. I felt it in my gut."
"I did not say that," Rhys says. He's extending a hand to help Aris aboard the boat with significantly more dignity. "I said, 'If Nash is using the emergency frequency, something is burning.' You okay, Aris?"
"I'm cold," she whispers, her teeth chattering.
"Get them in the cabin," Rhys orders. "I have the heater maxed out. Finn is waiting at the town dock with the sleds."
We climb aboard the Kingfisher, the metal deck ringing under our boots. Stepping into the wheelhouse is like walking into a blast furnace. The air is thick, hot, and smells of engine grease, but to my frozen skin, it feels like paradise.
The cabin is pure Reid: a chaotic nest of fishing lures hooked into the upholstery, empty soda cans rattling in the cupholders, a hula girl shimmying with every rev.
The one exception is the chart table, which Rhys has clearly annexed by force at some point—organized charts, labeled switches, a logbook squared to the edge of the desk like a protest.
Rhys guides Aris to the captain's chair, practically pushing her into the worn vinyl. "Sit. Don't touch the red switch; it kills the generator. Do you want coffee or water?"
"Coffee," Aris says, her shoulders still shaking as the warmth hits her. "Please."
Reid doesn't wait for us to settle. He slams the door shut, sealing out the wind, and shoves the throttles forward. The boat lurches backward off the rocks with a churn of white water.
"Hold on! We're making a tactical retreat!" Reid yells over the roar of the engines. "Next stop, Port Promise!"
The boat makes town in twenty minutes that pass like five. For the duration, I sit on a plastic cooler, too tired to move, watching Aris. She holds the mug with both hands, letting the steam bathe her face, the color slowly returning to her cheeks.
Reid is at the helm, driving with one hand and gesturing wildly with the other as he tells a highly exaggerated story about navigating the ice floes to get to us. Rhys stands beside him, holding onto the grab rail, fact-checking him in real-time.
"So I drifted the stern around the bend—" Reid shouts.
"You oversteered," Rhys corrects.
"—and I saw the signal flare like a beacon of hope—"
"It was a faint glimmer at best."
It's chaotic. It's the Hollister dynamic in full swing.
And for the first time in weeks, the crushing weight on my chest begins to lift.
I don't have to be the guide right now. I don't have to be the protector, the sole line of defense, the one who watches the perimeter.
My brothers are here. The pack is engaged.
When the lights of Port Promise appear around the headland, it looks like a metropolis compared to the dark wilderness we've just left. The harbor lights spill across the snow, guiding us home.
Reid eases the boat into the main commercial slip, slotting the forty-foot vessel between two trawlers with an ease that belies his erratic personality.
Finn is waiting on the wooden pier beside two wide-track touring snow machines idling in the dark, their headlights cutting twin paths through the gloom.
We tie off, and Mags is running down the ramp before the engines even cut out.
"Nash!" Mags yells, her voice shrill, cutting through the wind. She practically tackles me as I step onto the dock. "We saw the flare over the ridge! And then the marine band went crazy!"
"We're fine," I say, holding her upright on the slick wood. My knees buckle slightly when I hit the solid ground, but I stay standing. "Leg's chewed up, but stable. Aris patched me up."
"And the wolves?" Finn asks, reaching out to grip my arm. He doesn't hug me, but the pressure of his hand is grounding. He scans the tree line behind the harbor, checking my pupils with a quick look.
"Scattered," I say. "Aris took out the Alpha. Reid scared off the rest with the flare gun."
"I also looked very cool doing it," Reid adds, leaning out of the wheelhouse window. "Like a mythological figure. A god of fire."
"You looked like a banana with a firework," Finn corrects. "Let's get them home. They need heat, not stories."
We load up. The transition is swift, as natural as breathing for people who call this island home. Aris rides behind me on Finn's sled, wrapping her arms tight around my waist. I feel her shivering against my back, even through the layers of down and Gore-Tex.
"Hold on tight," I say, shouting over the idle of the engine.
"I'm not letting go," she promises, her voice muffled against my parka.
Mags rides with Finn. The twins stay behind to secure the boat.