“Well, technically the camera did,” I say, trying to breathe through the knot in my chest. “But yeah. I guess I did.”
He turns to look at me then, and for a second I think he’s about to say thank you. That would’ve been nice. Maybe even sweet.
Instead, he growls, “What the hell were you doing walking the perimeter alone?”
The heat in his words snaps something right through my exhaustion, and I straighten, hands on my hips, heart still pounding but now with something a little hotter than fear.
“Excuse me?”
“You could’ve been blown to pieces,” he bites out. “You’re not supposed to scout without backup. That’s not your job.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, voice rising now. “I must’ve missed the part where I was supposed to sit quietly by the fire and hum lullabies while the big bad shifter handled everything. Is that the plan now? I just stay tucked away and let you bleed for us?”
He steps in close, taller, broader, radiating fury and something too wild to name, and I don’t back down. I never do, not with him.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” I fire back. “You keep acting like you’re the only one allowed to be brave around here. Like I don’t get to make choices. Like I didn’t already choose you.”
He breathes hard through his nose, chest rising and falling like he’s holding something back. The snow creaks under his boots.
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“I know,” I say, softer now. “But protecting me doesn’t mean locking me in a cage made of silence and fear. You’re not a weapon. You’re a man. And I am not your weakness.”
He exhales, long and rough, and the fury drains from his face like water slipping through stone. The wind howls through the trees again, colder now, like it wants to cut between us and try its luck, but I stand my ground.
He looks down at the tripwire, then back at me, and something in his gaze shifts. The fight in him doesn’t vanish, not entirely—it never does—but it bends a little. It sees me.
“Not weakness,” he says quietly. “Never that.”
I nod, reaching out to press a hand to his chest. “Then stop treating me like I’m one wrong step from shattering.”
He covers my hand with his, holding it there, anchoring us both.
We disarm three traps before sunrise. Cassian moves like a storm, efficient and brutal and silent, his breath thick in the air like smoke from a slow burn. I follow behind, pointing out the shimmer only the camera catches, his fingers doing the rest. There’s no more arguing. No more posturing. Just us, moving like we’ve done this forever. Like our bond isn’t just emotional anymore—it’s strategic. It’s sharpened. It’s real.
At one point, crouched near a pile of twisted branches where another pressure plate waits hidden, he glances back at me and says, “You were right.”
It’s not loud. Not dramatic. But it lands like a vow.
I smile, heart skipping. “Told you.”
By the time we sweep the outer perimeter and return to the ice hall, the sky is bruised with dawn, and my bones feel heavy from the cold, but I don’t care. I feel steady. Seen. Not just tolerated. Chosen.
Cassian pours boiling water into the mugs, passes me one without a word, and when our fingers touch, his linger. His eyeshold mine a beat longer than necessary, and finally since this whole mess began, I see something in him that isn’t just fury or guilt or fear.
I see pride.
“Next time,” I say, wrapping my fingers around the mug, “you trust me to watch your six without growling about it.”
He grunts. “We’ll see.”
But the edge of his mouth twitches, and that’s enough for me. Because tonight, under frost-bitten stars and sabotage, something shifted between us.
Something forged and unbreakable.
23
