My jaw works, clenched too tight. I don’t want to say it. I don’t want her to carry it. But the wind doesn’t care for comfort, and neither does the truth.
"That monsters are real," I say.
She flinches like I struck her, and I hate that. I hate how her breath catches, how her eyes flicker with something that’s not quite fear, but close. I look away, chest tight, the bear snarling inside like he wants to tear the world for letting her hear that word in my mouth.
"You’re not a monster," she says, voice shaky but rising. "You saved me. You fought for me. You haven’t hurt me, not once."
"Not yet," I snap, sharper than I mean to. "You think you know what I am because I didn’t shift and shred those men to pieces in front of you? You think restraint makes me human?"
She steps closer, stubborn fire flaring in her eyes. "I think it means you’re more human than most men I’ve met. You controlled it. You stayed. You didn’t run."
I shake my head, voice low and bitter. "I ran a long time ago, Angie. You just didn’t see it. I ran from blood, from oaths, from the brothers who trusted me. I ran so deep into the ice I forgot what warmth felt like."
She grabs my coat. Her hands shake, but she doesn’t pull back. "And now? You’re not running now, are you?"
I want to say yes. I want to lie to her face and vanish before the next shadow comes knocking. But I can’t.
Because her scent clings to me like a promise, and her eyes look straight through every wall I’ve ever built. Because even now, I know the moment I leave, she’ll be alone, and that means she’ll be hunted.
"I should leave you here," I say, voice like gravel. "Safer for you. Let them come for me alone."
She doesn’t cry. Doesn’t plead. Just says one thing that shatters everything I tell myself about who I am and what I deserve.
"I’d rather stand beside you than be safe."
The wind swirls around us, tugging at her coat, scattering snow like ash. Her eyes hold me like nothing else has in years, maybe ever. Not chains, not duty. Just choice. Just her.
I exhale, long and low, like I’m releasing every breath I’ve held since exile began.
"Pack light," I mutter, voice stripped bare. "We’re going north."
She blinks. "What’s north?"
"Deeper ice. Old trails. Places even Syndicate tech can’t trace. And a cave system no map remembers. If I take you there, we won’t be found unless I want us found."
She hesitates, only for a second, then nods once. No questions. Just trust.
She turns to gather her things. I watch her move, quick and precise, her fingers steady even though I know she’s shaking inside. Her courage isn’t loud. It’s the kind that roots deep, grows wild, and survives storms. The kind that might break me wide open if I let it.
By the time we strap down the last crate to her sled and double-check the dogs’ harnesses, the sun’s low on the horizon. That weak northern dusk, where the world glows blue and gold like it’s holding its breath.
She stands beside me, one hand on the sled, the other tightening her hood. "So what laws are we breaking?"
I grunt. "All of them."
She grins. "Cool."
We take off without looking back.
The ice groans beneath us as we ride, sled runners hissing across powder, dogs barking with excitement. The wind chases us, but it doesn’t catch us. Not yet. We move fast, between ridges and through frozen gullies, past cairns built by hands long gone. No GPS. No signal. Only instinct and memory.
The bear is quiet now. Watching. Waiting.
He knows what I’ve done. That I’ve shattered the final rule of exile. That I’ve let someone in, let her see the truth, and now she walks beside me by choice.
The silence between us isn’t empty. It’s alive. Her breath hitches when she sees the glacier rise ahead of us, glowing faint in the dusk, ice curling like waves frozen in time. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask what waits in the cave mouth yawning at the base.
She just rides beside me, fearless in her own way.
