Anger rises. "You don't know what I can do."
His jaw tightens. "I know storms, and I know what they can do to those who don’t take them seriously."
I hate that he's right. I hate that I'm swaying. I hate that his hand on my arm is the only thing keeping me upright. And Ireallyhate that some part of me doesn't want him to let go.
"What's your name?" he asks.
The question throws me. "What?"
"Your name." As if he has all the time in the world for pleasantries and we aren’t in the middle of a snowstorm. "If I'm to carry you, I'd know who I'm saving."
"You arenotcarrying me."
Another gust of wind slams against me, and my ankle folds. His grip tightens, hauling me closer.
My chest hits solid muscle. My nose brushes his cloak. He smells like the forest itself.My favorite smell.My brain goes blank.
"Ava," I hear myself say. "My name is Ava."
He says it back like a promise. "Ava."
The way it sounds in his voice sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the snow swirling around us.
"And what do I call the giant who thinks he knows what's best for me?" I ask.
His lips twitch into a small smile. "My name is Garruk."
Garruk.
Another blast of wind cuts through us. My whole body trembles. I barely feel my fingers.
His eyes narrow. Decision settles over his features.
"Enough," he says. "Fight me later, Ava."
"Fight you—hey!"
He shifts, arm sweeping behind my knees. Suddenly I'm up, off the ground, cradled against his chest like I weigh nothing.
My hands clutch his shoulders, fingers digging into thick muscle under fabric. "Put me down."
"No." He tucks me closer, turning so his broad back takes the brunt of wind. His cloak falls around me, offering shelter from the wind.
The fight leaks out of me. Stolen by exhaustion and warmth and the relentless pull of his presence.
He starts walking. Sure-footed. Steady. Like the storm is inconvenient but not threatening. Every step jolts my ankle, but the pain dulls. The way he holds me, careful and protective, like I'm something breakable.
I'mnotbreakable. I've spent years proving that. In a male-dominated field, I’ve worked so hard to show everyone that I’m just as tough as the men. Just as capable.
So, why does it feel good to let Garruk carry me?
I tip my head just enough to see his jaw. The stubborn line of it. Snow stuck in rough stubble. Wind snarls his dark hair. Gold eyes scan the slope, always watching for danger.
A strange thought slides through my mind, soft and terrifying.
I don't feel alone anymore.
I should be terrified. Of him, of the storm, of letting a stranger with tusks and green skin and impossible eyes haul me off in a blizzard to God-only-knows-where.
