Chapter 11
Ellie
The wind screamed past us, a relentless howl that seemed determined to rip us from the sky.
I pressed myself tighter against Rickon's chest, grateful for the solid warmth of him even as the cold bit through every layer I wore.
Bass Pro Shop's finest cold-weather gear—the kind that promised survival in Arctic conditions—felt like cheesecloth against the wind.
I'd never been so cold in my life.
Below us, even in the darkness, I could make out the landscape. Endless white punctuated by the dark silhouettes of trees bent nearly horizontal by the gale. We had to be close to Minnesota now, maybe already over the border. Everything looked the same: snow-covered, hostile, unforgiving.
Rickon's wings beat steadily, cutting through the storm like it was nothing more than a mild breeze.
He flew like he'd been born to it which, I supposed, he had.
The wind that threatened to freeze me solid didn't seem to hinder him at all.
If anything, he seemed more alive here, more in his element.
I glanced up at his profile, stoic and strong against the night sky, my gaze falling to his lips without conscious thought.
God, that kiss. It was fabulous. The best kiss I could remember in.
.. I couldn't even remember when. The heat of it, the intensity, the way he'd held me like I was something precious and dangerous all at once.
My lips still tingled with the memory of it, even through the numbness creeping across my face.
But he'd been all business since then. Professional. Distant, even. Like it had never happened.
I wanted to kiss him again. I wanted to do more than kiss if I was being honest with myself.
The thought sent a flush of heat through me that had nothing to do with the cold weather gear.
But things felt awkward and complicated.
I was the President of the United States, and he was well, technically, he was more or less one of my Secret Service agents.
Even if he was an alien warrior. I'd spent my entire career being careful about things like this, being above reproach.
But I hadn't been this attracted to anyone in a very long time. Maybe ever. I'd loved Dalton with all my heart, and our sex life was more than wonderful, but Rickon gave me a flutter deep in my belly that I didn't remember having with anyone else.
The wind picked up even more, catching the duffle bag hanging from the rope at his waist and slinging it about like a deranged pendulum. Rickon's flight pattern shifted, his wings adjusting their angle. He was descending.
"We need to land," he said, his voice somehow cutting through the wind. "The wind is too rough. It's not safe to continue."
I wanted to argue that we needed to keep moving, that the longer Declan pretended to be me, the worse it could be for the country.
Plus, it was still dark. We had hours before dawn.
But I could barely feel my face anymore, and my fingers had gone from pins and needles to terrifyingly numb beneath my gloves.
"Okay," I managed through stiff lips.
He found a small clearing amid a stand of pines, the trees forming a natural windbreak that cut the worst of the screaming gusts.
My feet touched solid ground for the first time in what felt like hours, and my legs nearly buckled.
Rickon steadied me with one hand, the other already working to undo the harness and untie the duffel bag from his waist.
"Stay close to the trees," he said. "I'll set up the tent."
I wanted to help, but my fingers were too numb and clumsy. Instead, I watched as he worked, driving stakes into the frozen ground with his bare hands like it was made of butter instead of permafrost. The tent went up in minutes, the fabric snapping and popping in the wind.
"I'll get firewood," he said, already moving toward the tree line.
"The axe is in the bottom of the...."
The crack of splintering wood cut me off. I turned to see Rickon gripping a pine tree—easily a dozen inches in diameter—in both hands. His muscles flexed, and the tree snapped like a twig. He broke it again. And again. Each crack echoed through the trees, sharp and decisive.
I should have gotten used to it by now. But watching him reduce trees to firewood with nothing but his bare hands sent a different kind of heat through me.
It was arousing. God help me, it was incredibly arousing.
He moved to another tree, this one thicker. The muscles in his back and shoulders bunched and shifted as he gripped it, and I found myself unable to look away. The way his body moved, all that controlled power and rippling muscles. It made my mouth dry despite the cold.
Another crack. Another armload of wood added to the growing pile.
I was Eleanor Barrington Bradford, President of the United States, standing in a frozen forest in the middle of nowhere, getting turned on watching an alien warrior break trees with his bare hands.
My life had gotten strange as fuck. But for the life of me, it didn’t seem strange, but somehow right… natural.
And I couldn't deny what I was feeling. Not any longer. The attraction I felt for Rickon had been building since that kiss, maybe even before that. Okay, definitely before that. And now, watching him work, watching the casual display of strength that would have been impossible for any human man....
I was in trouble. Deep, complicated trouble. And the growl that sounded from my flank indicated I was possibly in more trouble than I realized.
I turned slowly, my breath catching in my throat.
Three wolves stood at the edge of the clearing, their yellow eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my blood run cold.
They were massive. Bigger than any wolves I'd seen in documentaries or nature programs. Gray and white fur rippled in the wind, and their breath came out in visible puffs of steam.
They weren't looking at Rickon. They were looking at me.
I wanted to scream. God, I wanted to scream so badly. But my throat seized up, whether from terror or the cold, I couldn't tell. And even if I could force sound past my frozen lips, would Rickon even hear me? The wind was bellowing like a banshee, drowning out everything else.
I took a step backward, trying to move toward the tent without making any sudden movements. My boot caught on something—a root, a rock, I didn't know—and suddenly I was falling, my arms windmilling uselessly as I went down hard on my back.
The impact knocked what little air I had left from my lungs.
The largest wolf saw its opportunity. It lunged, powerful legs propelling it across the snow with teeth bared.
I threw my arms up instinctively, a pathetic defense against several hundred pounds of muscle and fang.
But the impact never came.
One second, the wolf was airborne, death incarnate, hurtling toward me.
The next, Rickon was there—I hadn't even seen him move—his hand catching the wolf mid-leap by its throat.
The animal let out a choked yelp as Rickon pivoted and hurled it away like Nolan Ryan throwing a baseball.
The wolf hit a tree with a sickening thud and crumpled into the snow.
The other two wolves snarled and circled, more cautious now but not backing down.
Rickon positioned himself between them and me, and the sound that came from his chest made every hair on my body stand on end. It wasn't quite a growl, it wasn't quite a roar, it was something deeper, more primal.
He moved forward, and the wolves actually retreated a step.
The first wolf had recovered and was back on its feet, but it was limping now, favoring one leg. It growled, but there was uncertainty in the sound.
Rickon took another step forward, and this time he bared his teeth.
Another of those bone-deep sounds rumbled from his chest, and he spread his wings wide, making himself even larger, more threatening.
I had to wonder whether the wolves saw his human facade or saw past the camouflage to the alien beneath.
The wolves exchanged glances—they actually looked at each other like they were having a conversation—and then, as if by mutual agreement, turned and bolted into the trees. The injured one brought up the rear, casting one last look over its shoulder before disappearing into the white wilderness.
Rickon stood there for a long moment, watching the tree line, making sure they were really gone. Then he turned to me, and the fierce warrior's expression melted into concern.
"Ellie." He was at my side in an instant, lifting me with hands that were unerringly gentle despite having just thrown a wolf like a ragdoll. "Are you hurt?"
"At least it wasn't Cujo," I quipped, hoping a bit of levity would slow my heart rate. The thing was hammering so hard I thought it might break through my ribs.
He checked me over anyway, his hands running over my arms and shoulders, looking for injuries. "You're shaking."
"I'm fine," I finally managed, though my voice came out thin and reedy. "I'm okay. You—thank you."
His jaw tightened. "I should have been paying closer attention. I was too focused on the wood. I didn't sense them until…." He cut himself off, his hands stilling on my shoulders. "You could have been hurt."
"But I wasn't. You saved me." I gazed at him, at this alien warrior who had just fought off three wolves without breaking a sweat and felt that bone deep fluttering heat from earlier return with a vengeance. "You're always saving me."
Rickon lifted me into his arms, and within two strides we were inside the tent. He settled me on my sleeping bag and left only long enough to return with an armload of wood.