Chapter 6 Korrak #2
The restlessness clawed at Korrak’s insides like a living thing, demanding action, demanding movement, demanding anything other than the suffocating stillness of his cabin.
He’d tried sitting by the fire, attempted reading territorial reports, even considered reorganizing his weapon cache—but nothing dulled the sharp edge of need that had been building since he’d dropped Winslet off at the outpost.
This is what I always do, he told himself, pulling on his heaviest winter gear with movements that betrayed his agitation. When control slips, I patrol. When focus wavers, I secure the perimeter.
The morning air bit deep when he stepped outside, sharp enough to freeze breath in his lungs and sting exposed skin. Perfect conditions for a long patrol—the kind that would exhaust his body and quiet his mind through sheer physical demand. The kind that had always worked before.
Before her.
Korrak set a punishing pace across the snow-covered terrain, his boots crunching through the crystalline surface as he followed the invisible boundary lines he’d memorized years ago.
Every tree, every outcropping, every potential shelter or hazard was cataloged in his mind like entries in a tactical manual.
The storm had left its mark—fallen branches scattered across game trails, fresh snow drifts that altered familiar landmarks, ice formations that created new obstacles. He noted each change with methodical precision, his Alpha instincts automatically assessing threats and opportunities.
Focus on the territory, he commanded himself. Not on the way she looked in your kitchen wearing nothing but your shirt.
But even as he forced his attention to patrol duties, his polar bear snarled beneath his skin, unsatisfied with the distance from their mate. The beast wanted to turn around, to track Winslet’s scent back to the outpost, to ensure she was safe and protected.
She’s fine, Korrak growled under his breath. Ellie’s competent. The outpost is secure. She doesn’t need me hovering like some lovesick fool.
The words rang false even as he spoke them. His polar bear knew better, and so did he.
Hours passed in relentless movement. Korrak pushed himself harder than usual, covering ground with the single-minded determination of a man trying to outrun his own instincts.
He checked perimeter markers, investigated unusual tracks, cleared debris from emergency supply caches—anything that required focus and left no room for thoughts of dark hair and green eyes.
By midday, the cold had seeped through even his enhanced shifter constitution, biting deep into his bones with the promise of frostbite for any human foolish enough to attempt this pace. But instead of the usual satisfaction that came from testing his limits, Korrak felt only hollow exhaustion.
The ache should be fading by now, he thought, pausing near a wind-carved ice formation that marked the eastern boundary. Distance should dull the edge.
Instead, the mate bond thrummed in his chest like a second heartbeat, steady and insistent and impossible to ignore. If anything, the separation had sharpened his awareness of what was missing, like a phantom limb that ached with phantom pain.
The pattern continued for three days. Dawn brought the same restless energy, the same desperate need to move that sent him ranging across his territory like a wolf tracking prey that always remained just out of reach.
He buried himself in clan logistics, reviewed security protocols, inspected supply caches with obsessive thoroughness—anything that demanded command rather than reflection.
Each evening, he returned to his cabin drained and hollow, hoping exhaustion would grant him peace.
Instead, he found only reminders of her presence.
The faint trace of jasmine that clung to his sheets despite multiple washings.
The way his kitchen looked empty without her barefoot figure moving through it.
The silence that felt oppressive rather than comforting.
This will pass, he told himself each night, staring at the ceiling while his polar bear whined in the depths of his mind. All disruptions fade with time. All distractions lose their power.
But the mate bond didn’t weaken. It sharpened further.
By the fourth morning, Korrak lay in bed watching pale sunlight filter through his windows and finally stopped pretending this was temporary.
The mate bond was not a fever that would break with enough willpower.
It was a fundamental shift in his reality, as permanent and undeniable as the Arctic landscape itself.
She matters, he acknowledged silently, the admission settling in his chest with the weight of stone. Her safety isn’t abstract anymore. Whatever danger she’s hiding from—and there is danger, I can smell it on her like smoke—it’s my problem now.
The realization didn’t bring peace. It brought clarity. And clarity stripped away the comfortable lies he’d been telling himself.
Korrak rose from bed with purpose, his movements sharp and decisive. The polar bear stirred with satisfaction, recognizing the shift from denial to acceptance.
She needs guidance, he reasoned, pacing to the window to stare out at the frozen expanse. The Arctic doesn’t forgive ignorance. One mistake—exposure, getting lost, misreading weather patterns—and she’s dead.
The thought sent ice through his veins.
“Practical skills,” he muttered, his breath fogging the glass. “Fire safety. Ice recognition. Territory awareness. Basic survival protocols.”
The justification was thin, and he knew it. But it gave him what he needed—proximity without surrender. A way to be near her that didn’t require admitting the truth he wasn’t ready to voice.
Professional instruction. Nothing more.
Even as he told himself that, his polar bear huffed with dark amusement. The beast knew better. Every step closer to teaching her his world would be a step toward something irreversible, toward the bond his body and instincts had already claimed.
Korrak exhaled slowly, watching his breath cloud against the window as he prepared for the delicate balance he was about to attempt. Close enough to protect and guide her. Distant enough to maintain the illusion of control.
This isn’t impulsive, he decided, turning away from the window with predatory grace. This is inevitable.