“You ever think about a DNA test just to see what exactly we are to each other?” Brock surprised himself by asking the question.
“God, no. The government doesn’t get another shot at my DNA. We gave it up in the service, and I think they should destroy any samples after we get out.” Christian scratched a bruise across his wrist. “Besides, we’re brothers. That’s all that really matters, right?” The question held weight.
Brock nodded. “Yeah. That’s all.”
“Is that why you won’t be the sheriff?”
Brock paused with his drink halfway to his mouth. “No.”
“Right.” Christian dropped his feet to the floor. “You hear from Damian?”
Brock took another gulp before answering. “No, but Christmas is in a few weeks. He usually tries to call around that time if he can.”
“It’s time he came home. It’s time we all did,” Christian mused.
Brock’s eyebrows lifted of their own accord. “You going to rejoin the land of the humans and stop being a nomad?” Even as a kid, Christian liked his solitude. Hank had to bribe him to jointhe local hockey team, where he excelled at defense, of course. “What’s going on with you, C?”
“You have a week, Brock.” Christian stood silently, and somehow, the pup heard him and stretched to his feet. Man, they moved in perfect sync with each other. How intriguing that they shared dual-colored eyes.
Brock stood. “A week for what?”
The wolf-dog looked from one to the other of them.
“To get Ace to Smitty for help.” Christian strode to the doorway and pulled on his boots, the pup following him.
“Or what?” Brock asked, tipping back the rest of his scotch.
Christian shrugged into his jacket and turned to face him. While always muscled, he’d filled out even more in the last couple months while braving the elements or whatever the hell he’d been doing in the wilderness all by himself and now with his wolf. “Or I’m taking Ace to dry out where he has no choice, regardless of the consequences.”
The two would probably kill each other.
Brock placed his glass down and then straightened. “Getting him help might mean talking about Hank’s death. You ready to do that?”
Christian’s expression slid away faster than an avalanche off Meyer’s Peak. “Anytime, brother. Are you?”
Was he? Brock wasn’t sure.
“That’s what I thought. See you at daybreak.” Christian slipped outside into the storm as if he belonged there. Maybe he did.
CHAPTER NINE
Terror slashed like knives through his veins as he ran through the snow-covered Alaskan forest, gasping for air. The claw marks on his face burned as if they’d scoured straight to the bone. Blood seeped from the wounds, hot at first, then cooling into icy trails. Tears leaked from his eyes, blurring his vision as he veered left in the sheer darkness, feet slipping out from under him in the heavy snow.
He hit the ground hard, tumbling and rolling until he came up covered in snow, a raw patch, barely visible in the night, of red marking where his face had hit the frozen earth. Pain flared in his arm—broken, useless—but he pushed through it. The wind shoved him forward, fierce and relentless, driving him deeper into the wilderness. Above him, clumps of snow fell from the trees, crashing down like warnings.
He groaned and blinked against the swirling snow. His brain screamed at him to stop, to lie down and give in. Just a few seconds of rest. But instinct, stronger than reason, shoved him forward. His boots punched through layers of snow, each step heavier than the last. The sound of his own ragged breathing filled the empty forest, but somewhere behind him—closer than before—a branch cracked. His pulse spiked. He wasn’t alone.
This isn’t happening. It couldn’t be. Why the hell did he come to Alaska? He could’ve stayed in California, safe beneath the sun, where things like this didn’t happen. But he’d wanted adventure—something different. Now, he would’ve sold his soul for warm sand beneath his feet.
Another snap echoed through the darkness. Panic licked up his spine as he stumbled again. The biting cold gnawed at his bones, but the fear was worse. The woods pressed in on him, silent witness to his desperation.
The trees thinned ahead, their outlines swallowed by the night. His heart pounded as he thought he caught a glimmer of movement in the shadows, but he refused to look back. There wasn’t time. He forced himself to focus on his goal—the river.
His only chance was to dive in and let the current take him down to Knife’s Edge, if he didn’t freeze. Hypothermia was his last concern right now. He’d rather die in the river than on the unforgiving ground.
Pain coiled like a vise around his broken arm, sending sharp shocks of agony through his body until his vision blurred. The river wasn’t close—not yet—but it had to be near. It had to be. The faint memory of rushing water tugged at his fraying mind, but the only sound pounding through his skull was his own hammering heartbeat. The fear of dying out here—alone, hunted—gnawed at the edges of his sanity like teeth sinking into flesh.
His foot snagged on something—a branch, a root, who the hell knew? He went down hard, his body skidding across the snow-crusted ground. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, and the sharp metallic taste of blood filled his mouth as he bit down to keep from screaming. Panic surged hot in his veins, but he swallowed it back.
