I keep her pinned. I wrap both my arms around her, burying her face in the warmth of my chest. I drop my chin to the top of her head.
"Rest," I whisper into her dark hair.
The quiet violence inside me paces endlessly. The tease was a temporary measure. It did not quench the fire; it only poured gasoline on the embers. I am fully obsessed. I will never let her walk away from me.
We stand there in the dark. The heat of her body warms the tiny space. My heartbeat slowly begins to decelerate, the raging adrenaline tapering off into a low, thrumming hum of territorial satisfaction.
Then, the wind drops for half a second.
A sound cuts through the stillness.
It is low. Guttural. A heavy, rolling growl echoing just beyond the bark wall of our shelter.
The hair on the back of my neck stands straight up.
Another growl answers from the right. Then another from the left.
The wolf pack did not just track us.
They have surrounded the shelter.
5
Reese
Low,guttural snarls roll through the slabs of bark forming our makeshift shelter. The sound is ancient and vicious. It hums in the marrow of my bones. Yellow eyes flash in the narrow gaps between the wood. Paws scrape against the frozen earth just inches from my boots.
The wolf pack has found us.
Without making a sound, Santi shifts in front of me, placing his body between mine and the gaps in the bark wall. He is not trapping me. He is blocking what is outside. The heavy wool of his sweater scratches against my cheek. His familiar scent cuts through the panic.
A snout shoves into the lower crack of our barricade. Teeth snap. Foam flicks onto the snow.
Santi raises the Glock. He does not aim wildly. He tracks. His gaze follows the movement of the largest silhouette outside our frail walls.
The gun fires.
The suppressed shot cracks through the small space. Fire flares from the muzzle, illuminating the sharp, aristocratic lines of his face for a fraction of a second. The scent of burnt powder overpowers the smell of damp pine and wet fur.
A sharp yelp echoes outside. Scrambling paws tear at the icy ground. The shadows scatter, retreating into the howling fury of the incoming storm.
The silence after the shot hits harder than the sound.
Smoke curls from the barrel of the Glock. Santi lowers the weapon with slow, terrifying precision. He doesn’t shake or turn right away. He stares at the gap in the wood, his chest rising and falling in a slow, measured rhythm. He is unshakeable, undisturbed by the fact that we were just seconds away from being torn apart.
My ears ring. The terror of the wolves sends a sharp, sobering spike through my system. The blistering arousal from what he just did to me minutes ago is suddenly eclipsed by pure survival instinct.
Santi lowers the Glock, keeping his finger off the trigger. He tucks it away. Slowly, he turns to face me.
The space is too small. There is nowhere to retreat, even if I wanted to. His frame blocks out the thin gray light leaking through the storm.
Santi reaches out. His rough hands cup my face. His thumbs swipe over my cheekbones. He reads my face like a map, searching for panic.
He won’t find it. I’m not a wilting flower. I’m a pilot. I survive crashes. I manage emergencies. I don’t panic.
But I am shaking.
"You’re cold," he says. His voice is rough, unused. The first words spoken since the wolves.
