I guide the dogs toward the pass, heart beating like it’s trying to break free.
I’ve broken the rule.
But I’ve never been more certain that it needed to be broken.
We ride into the deeper ice together, and whatever waits beyond, I’ll face it with her.
10
ANGIE
It starts with a sound that doesn’t belong.
Cassian’s been chopping wood outside for the fire, each swing of the axe measured and controlled, like he’s working through thoughts he won’t say out loud. The dogs are tethered nearby, dozing with their noses buried in snow, quiet and calm as always. I’m inside the cabin we found tucked behind a glacial ridge, a place too old and too sturdy to make sense, half-buried and forgotten, probably built back before the world realized this ice wouldn’t last forever.
I’m sorting through supplies, trying to keep busy, trying not to look at him every three seconds like a love-struck idiot with a death wish. But then I hear it, this low crunch, not Cassian’s steps or the wind pushing snow off the roof. It’s different. Careful. Deliberate.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles, and I freeze mid-motion, my hand still halfway into the bag of bandages.
Then I hear it again. Outside, the dogs let out a bark, short and sharp. Not panic. Alert.
I move fast, shoving the flap closed, grabbing the small hunting knife Cassian insisted I carry. My fingers tremble around the handle, but I grip it tight and step to the door.
The second I throw it open, cold air slaps me in the face and my breath fogs like a warning signal.
Cassian’s already moving. He’s tossed the axe, his hand going to the long knife strapped across his back, his body low and ready. I see the tension in his shoulders before I see the men—three of them, dressed in snow camo that’s too clean to be local. Their rifles are slung low, but the way they’re walking says they’re not here to ask for directions.
Cassian doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t shout or demand they leave. He doesn’t waste breath.
The man closest doesn’t even get his rifle to his shoulder before Cassian barrels into him. One arm wraps around the barrel, the other slams into his jaw, and the man goes down hard, the gun spinning off into the snow. The second fires too late—Cassian’s already out of the line of fire. The third goes to radio something, but Cassian yanks him back by the parka, fist connecting with his gut, then his throat, and he folds like wet paper.
The second man fires again. I hear the shot crack and feel the air shift as the bullet slams into Cassian’s side.
He doesn’t fall.
Doesn’t make a sound.
Just turns with this feral calm and stalks toward the shooter, blood soaking through his coat, his eyes glowing that eerie stormlight color. The man backs up, trips over his partner’s leg, and that’s the end of it. Cassian knocks the rifle away, grabs the front of the guy’s jacket, and hurls him into the ice wall with enough force that the impact thunders like an avalanche starting.
I’m running before I know it, heart in my throat, boots skidding in the snow. The fallen men are groaning, one unconscious, one coughing blood, and the last twitching where he hit the wall. None of them try to get up.
Cassian’s already bleeding out onto the snow like it doesn’t matter.
“Inside,” I say, trying to shove my shoulder under his arm even though he could still carry me like a sack of flour if he wanted. “Now. You’re not dying out here. Not in front of me.”
“I’m fine,” he grunts, but his voice is raw and tight, and when I push harder, he lets me.
I drag him into the cabin, fumbling the door shut behind us. The wood creaks, the fire crackles, and his blood leaves a trail across the floor. He stumbles as he shrugs off his coat, and I see it: the bullet lodged near his ribs, not deep, but enough to scare the hell out of me.
“You’re not fine,” I snap, dropping the bag beside him. “You’ve got a bullet in you, your eyes are glowing, and you’ve got that ‘I’d rather chew nails than admit I’m hurt’ look again.”
He grits his teeth but doesn’t argue. I think the pain’s starting to catch up with him.
“Off,” I say, tugging at his sweater. “Shirt. Off. Now.”
He hesitates like modesty suddenly matters, which would be funny if there wasn’t blood soaking through the wool. “I’ll handle it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, already pushing the fabric up. “Are you a trained field medic in addition to being a part-time guardian and full-time brooding glacier? Because if not, shut up and sit back.”
