Her eyes widen. “Mak—what?—”
A shape emerges between the trees—massive, hulking, moving with a purpose that has nothing to do with curiosity.
Grizzly. A sow, and behind her, two small cubs.
“Holy—” Roxy swallows the word. “Mak.”
The bear huffs, head lowering, ears flattening. She’s too close. Far too close. Of course, the one thing not in my tactical kit is bear spray. A 9mm wouldn’t kill a grizzly, and I wouldn’t want to even if I had something stronger.
I step in front of Roxy without thinking, planting myself between her and the bear. My body goes rigid, arms slightly out to make myself appear larger. I don’t blink. Don’t breathe.
“Stay still,” I murmur.
Her hand fists in the back of my jacket. The sow rises onto her hind legs and gives a deep, guttural chuff. Roxy gasps. I feel her tremble through the fabric between us.
“Easy,” I say softly, unsure whether I’m talking to her or the bear.
The sow drops back to all fours and takes a step toward us, claws tearing into the earth. A bluff charge or warning. Hard to know.
Roxy’s breath catches in her throat, a soft, helpless sound, and it hits something deep in me.
I shift my weight, grounding myself. “Back away slowly,” I say. “Don’t turn your back.”
She nods, though I can feel her shaking.
Another tense moment passes—then the bear snorts, shakes her head, and nudges her cubs away into the undergrowth. Branches rustle. Then she’s gone.
Roxy exhales all at once, knees buckling. I grab her before she hits the ground.
Her breath is uneven, her pulse racing under my hand. I press a steady palm between her shoulder blades. “It’s over.”
“I thought—it was going to—” She can’t finish.
I pull her closer without meaning to, her forehead brushing my collar. “I know.”
For a long moment we stand like that, the sunlight dappling through the leaves, her breath warming my chest. Something inside me eases—a tightness I didn’t realize I’d been carrying loosens under the simple proof that she is alive.
Then a branch snaps behind us.
We turn.
Dima steps into the clearing, eyeing us, then the retreating bear tracks.
“You let it go?” he asks, disappointed. “Did you fight it? No?” He sighs dramatically. “Wasted opportunity.”
Roxy chokes on a laugh that’s half hysteria, half disbelief.
I glare at him. “Dima.”
“What? I am just saying—think of the story. You versus bear?—”
“Leave.”
He shrugs and heads back toward the men.
Roxy sags against a nearby tree, still shaky. I stay close, watching her color return, watching her breathing even out. When she finally meets my eyes, something unspoken hangs between us—something that feels dangerously like understanding. Or trust.
“We’re going home,” I say quietly.
