Wind shrieks one last time as I step behind the rock outcropping shielding my cabin. The sudden drop in force of the wind hits Ava. She inhales sharply.
"Wind break," she says. "Smart."
I nod, cross the snow-packed clearing, and shoulder the door open.
Warmth rolls out. Woodsmoke. Dried herbs. Banked coals still glowing. The quiet inside smooths the storm out of my bones.
"Oh,” Ava breathes. “This is actually quite cozy."
My chest warms at her compliment. "Sit. Then I'll check injuries."
"I can walk."
"You cannot."
"I can try."
"You'll fall."
I set her gently on the bed platform before she can argue. She gives a soft hiss as her ankle pushes against the fur blankets.
Her pride is strong. I respect that. But pride doesn't thaw frozen fingers or bind sprains.
I kneel in front of her—close enough to feel the faint tremble of her legs—and unfasten her pack straps.
She watches. Wary. "You're surprisingly gentle for someone who could bench-press a moose."
"I don't bench-press wildlife." I pause. "Often."
Her mouth twitches.
Victory.
I set her pack aside, peel off her wet outer jacket. My touch stays careful. Her breath stutters when my fingers graze her wrist through damp fabric.
Not fear.
Attraction.
I swallow it down and focus.
"Your ankle. Let me see."
"Pretty sure it's a sprain," she mutters, trying to sound casual even as pain flickers over her face. "I can wrap it myself."
"You'll wrap nothing. Your hands are half-frozen."
"They're fine."
I take one gently.
Her skin is ice. Her fingers tremble. She looks away fast, like she doesn't want me to see how much she hurts.
My grip softens. "Ava."
She looks at me then. Really looks.
Her brown eyes are tired but bright.Brave.She met a stranger in a blizzard—a stranger with tusks and golden eyes—and did not cower in fear.My mate has a warrior’s spirit.
