16. Evander
EVANDER
In the evening, we've moved the evidence into the shelter a hundred yards from the wreck, a concrete box the track crews built for nights exactly like this one.
Somebody stocked it decades ago and forgot it existed: a woodstove furred with rust, two folding cots, a shelf of canned soup gone soft with age.
I get a fire going while Camille clears the workbench and lays out everything she carried off the mountain.
Photographs, maintenance logs, and a map worn soft at the folds.
"Okay," she says, tapping a cluster of red marks. "Warren signed off on every one of these components inside a six-week window. Then he backdated the inspections so nothing lines up. He wanted regulators to see a railway falling apart on its own schedule."
"He's not smart enough to design this."
"No. He's the hands. Northstar's the head." She straightens, pressing her knuckles into the small of her back. "Whoever built this understood exactly how an investigation like mine reads a failure. They fed me a story and expected me to sign it."
"And instead they got you."
A tired grin tugs at her mouth. "Bad luck for them."
We've been working through the evidence for about two hours, darkness is settling in fully outside and the stove turns the shelter almost comfortable.
I watch her circle the bench, chasing threads that most people wouldn't see, and I finally admit what I’ve pretended I don't feel. I want her here, not just tonight, not just until the storm clears.
"Can I ask you something that isn't about the railway?"
She glances up. "That depends on how personal it's getting."
"Fairly."
"Then yes." She sets the pen down. "Go."
"I've kept people at arm's length, outsiders especially." The fire crackles. "Everyone who gets close becomes somebody I'm responsible for keeping alive. It's easier to stay alone, fewer names on the list."
"So you decided I was a liability the second I arrived."
"I decided you were a problem," I admit. "Then you turned into a different problem entirely."
Her smile fades into something more careful. "There's a difference between protecting a partner and managing one. You keep doing the second thing and calling it the first."
"I know."
"Do you?" She crosses to me. "Because every time I climb into a dangerous spot, you act like I've personally insulted you."
"That's fear, not doubt."
"I believe that." She stops close that I feel the heat coming off her skin. "But fear that decides for me isn't love, it's a leash."
My lion shoves at the inside of my chest, wanting to argue, wanting to gather her up and put a wall around her. I hold still instead.
"You're right," I say. "Now tell me your version. You run before anyone can ask you to stay."
"That obvious?"
"You've said it in different ways since we met without ever actually saying it."
She exhales slowly. "I leave first. If I'm already gone, nobody gets to decide they're done with me." Her voice drops. "It's a coward's system, but it works."
"So what happens," I ask, "if neither runs from this one?"
She doesn't answer with words, she reaches up, curls her hand behind my neck, and pulls me down to her.
This is nothing like the shelter above the pass.
There's no avalanche roaring in my ears now.
There's only her mouth on mine, unhurried, deliberate, a decision instead of a reflex.
I let her set the pace, and push my jacket off, her palms map bruises that have already faded to nothing under her fingers.
"You heal too fast," she murmurs against my throat. "It's genuinely unfair."
"Complaints go to management."
"I am management."
I laugh, low, and she swallows the sound.
When I lift her onto the workbench her knees bracket my hips, hands tight in my shirt until I strip it off for her.
Firelight sparkles over her collarbone, over the pulse jumping at her throat.
I take my time with her. I let myself want this one thing purely for my own sake, without sparing a single thought for who I'm supposed to be guarding.
"Van." She catches my chin, tips my face up. "Stay with me. Don't disappear into your own head."
"I'm here," I mean it more completely than I've meant anything in years.
I slide my hands under the hem of her shirt and lift it straight over her head.
The fabric catches for a second on her wrists before it falls away.
Firelight moves across her bare skin. I unhook her bra and drag the straps down her arms, letting it drop.
My mouth finds the slope of one breast, and I close my lips around her nipple and suck hard, tongue pressing flat against it.
She arches into me, and I switch sides, teeth grazing the other peak before I soothe it with slow pulls.
Her hands work my belt open, and she pushes my pants down far enough to free my cock.
Her fingers wrap around me and stroke once, firm and deliberate.
Heat spikes through me, and I push her back until she lies flat on the bench.
I yank her pants down along with her in one pull and toss them aside.
She's open to me now, thighs parted, pussy already wet.
I drag two fingers through her, spreading the slickness.
Then I push them inside her. She clenches around the intrusion.
I curl them upward and work a steady rhythm while my thumb circles her clit.
My other hand pins her hip to the wood so she can't rock away from the pressure.
I lean down and take her nipple between my teeth again, biting a little that makes her gasp.
The dual sensation pulls a low sound from her throat, and I keep the pace relentless until her legs tremble and her pussy pulses hard around my fingers.
"Fuck…" she moans, and comes with her head tipped back, and her breath breaking.
I pull my fingers free and lick them clean, and I hook my hands under her knees and drag her to the bench edge so her ass hangs just off it.
I free my cock fully, kicking my pants away.
The head nudges against her entrance, and I push in slow, watching every inch disappear.
She's tight and hot, walls gripping me as I pull back and forth.
I feel her adjust as I thrust in each time.
I drive back in and every time I go harder. The bench creaks under us, and her hands fist the wood. I lean over her, bracing one palm beside her head, and fuck her with steady power. I shift the angle, tilting her hips higher so every stroke drags against the spot that makes her cry out.
I keep the rhythm hard, but not quite losing control yet.
She lifts her head and watches where we're joined.
The sight of my cock sliding in and out of her pushes me closer.
She reaches and presses her fingers to her clit, rubbing, matching the pace of my hips.
Her thighs tighten around my waist, and she stares into my eyes.
I groan, and lean down kissing her as she plays with herself and fuck her.
Her throat lets out a cry, then goes silent as another orgasm hits her hard. Her pussy clamps down, pulsing in waves that try to pull me over with her.
I fuck her through it, thrusts turning rougher as the last of my restraint slips.
My free hand grips her hip hard which will likely leave marks.
I drive deep and stay there for a beat, grinding, then pull almost out and slam in again.
The pleasure in my gut coils tight. I can feel the edge coming.
I drop my forehead to her shoulder and chase it, cock pounding into her without mercy now.
"Camille." I groan, low against her skin.
My cock jerks hard inside her in thick pulses, and I keep moving through it until my knees I have no choice but to slow.
I stay inside her a moment longer, breathing hard against her neck.
Then I ease out carefully. My legs unsteady, and I help her sit up and pull her off the bench.
We sit against the side of the workbench, shoulders touching, both still trying to get our breathing under control.
Camille tips her head back against the wood and closes her eyes, a tired smile pulling at her mouth.
I reach for her discarded shirt and hand it over, then drag my own clothes closer with one foot.
We don’t immediately bother getting dressed.
We just sit there in the firelight, knees bumping, warm and spent and ridiculously pleased with ourselves.
"When the mountain's safe," I say into her hair, "I want to find out what this is. No explosions, no wreckage. Just us, figuring it out like regular people."
"We're not regular people."
"You know what I mean."
She turns in my arms until we're face to face. "I want that too, but I'm not going to promise you I'll move to Stonehaven, or quit my job, or rebuild my life just yet. I want to make the choice."
"Okay." The strange part is how little it costs me to say it. "I'm not asking you to decide tonight. I'm asking you not to run before you've decided at all."
"That," she says softly, "I can do."
I could hold onto this exact minute forever. That's how I know it won't hold.
The wind shifts against the shelter, and it drags something under the clean cold of the snow, oil, scorched metal, and beneath both a chemical bite I recognize from the blast site above the tracks. Every muscle in me pulls tight.
"Van?" Camille sits up. "What is it?"
"Get dressed."
I'm already moving, hauling my clothes on, the human part handing the reins to the lion before I've finished lacing my boots. "Stay inside. Bar the door behind me."
"Evander…"
"Please."
I step out into the storm and let the shift take me, four paws punching into snow, the world unfolding into scent and sound.
The tracks read plain even under fresh powder.
Multiple men, heavy loads, the particular drag of demolition gear I've hauled myself on rescues.
They aren't climbing up from Stonehaven, they're descending from the ridge, angling toward the wreck with the patience of people that intend to finish a job.
I circle back, shift, shoulder through the door. Camille reads my face before I get a word out.
"They came back," I tell her. "They're going to trigger another avalanche down on the train, the passengers, the evidence. Likely bigger than the last, and this time they mean to make sure nobody's left alive to investigate."