Sitka blurs around us, rows of sleepy storefronts with hand-painted signs and amber windows casting golden pools onto the pavement.
A dog barks from a porch.Wind whistles past my ears as we zip down the main road, fast enough to blur past cameras and the stalker monitoring them.
The scent of cedar and sea brine wraps around me, a balm that isn’t cold for once.It’s alive.The salty tang from the harbor mixes with the musk of pine and damp earth as we speed past the edge of town, streetlights giving way to shadow.
I tighten my grip on Wolf, surrendering to the impulse to feel him against me.
His body is a furnace.Lean muscle, wild heat, and too much restraint.My chest presses to his back, and I feel everything.Every inhale.Every twitch of his shoulders as he leans into the curves.The strength in his core as he controls the bike like it’s an extension of himself.
We’re flying now.Past the last of the houses.Past the tree line.Past logic.
He accelerates as the road opens up.Rural, unlined, and kissed by the moon.No headlights in the distance.No brakes.Just us.
The wind tears at my coat and helmet, and I hold on.My thighs cling to the seat.My hands curl against his stomach.The engine’s vibration rises through me, slow and hot and steady.
It’s obscene, the way I feel.Not just the speed.Not just the risk.
It’s him.
This man.This beautiful, battered man wrapped in heat and secrets.
I rest my helmet between his shoulder blades, trying to inhale the scent I’ve come to crave, the waft of smoke and something primal.Something mine.
A growl rumbles from his chest as I shift against him.I can’t tell if it’s frustration or pleasure.
His hand leaves the throttle for a second to find my thigh and squeeze.A question.
I answer him by sliding my fingers under the hem of his jacket.Over his shirt.Against the pattern of scars that torment my thoughts.
For twenty-four years, he was held captive by a psychopath in the Arctic Circle.He’s only been in civilization for six months.
I’m too scared to ask for the details.Too scared he’ll refuse to tell me.
Too scared he’ll expectmysecrets in return.
We ride like that, past the river, past the craggy cliffs where spruce trees bend like old men in the wind.The moon guides us.The world disappears.
And I feel it.
Not fear.
Not guilt.
Not the gnawing ache of survival.
But freedom.
Real, gut-deep, full-throttle freedom.
With him.
Wolf pulls off onto a gravel shoulder where the trees fall away, and the sky opens wide.The bike slows, coasting to a halt beneath a stretch of moonlight that spills across a rocky overlook.
I slide off his back, remove the helmet, and plant my boots on the ground, breath fogging in the crisp air.
The view is staggering.
Below us, Sitka glimmers like a constellation curled against the dark curve of the bay.Golden specks of porch lights, streetlamps, and late-night diners flicker against the black velvet ocean.Beyond that, the islands slouch under a shroud of mist.
