The squall vanishes as suddenly as it started, and I sigh in acknowledgement. The mountain is not done with me yet. Iforce my leaden feet to continue on until I reach the frozen waterfall that marks the threshold of my solitude. It looms before me, caught in eternal stillness, its surface so smooth and clear that my own reflection stares back at me.
A beast looks out from the ice.
Snow clings to the thick white of my fur. My silver eyes are hollow, empty pools in the face of a creature who no longer knows himself. I have never looked more like a monster. I bare my teeth as if to snarl at my own reflection. But there is no one to witness my rage. No one to hear my grief.
I am alone.
A single tear falls from the eye of the beast who stares back at me. I wrench my gaze away from the pathetic creature and continue toward the cave, its darkness yawning open to swallow me whole. Inside, silence presses in, thick and suffocating. My home, once a sanctuary, now feels like a grave.
The fire is still warm from the night before. The furs on the bed still hold the ghost of her body, her shape pressed into the soft pelts. Her scent remains, winding through the air like a spirit refusing to leave.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, curling my hands into fists against my thighs to keep from gathering the pelts into my arms, desperate to be closer to where she had been, where the traces of her still linger.
I can still feel her here—the way she fit against me, the way her fingers traced over my skin as though I were something sacred. The way she looked at me—not with the fear of a monster, nor the reverence of a guardian, but with recognition. Of something more. Someone more.
She sawme.
A shuddering breath rips from my lungs, and I press my hands to my face. For an ancient and wise guardian, I have been a fool. I should not have let her touch me. I should not have let her in. She was never meant to stay.
I knew this, even as I let myself believe otherwise. Even as I let my hands roam her skin, as I whispered her name into the hollow of her throat, as I claimed her like she was mine.
But she was never mine.
I lurch to my feet, shoving the thought away. I move through the caverns and tunnels, the places that once felt like shelter. Now, they are only prison walls.
The darkness presses in, but my hands know the way. My fingers skim the rough stone, seeking something I should not reach for, but I do. The place where I traced the ochre lines of my past. My grief, carved into stone.
I let my forehead rest against the wall, the cool rock grounding me even as my thoughts spiral. I have carried this loss for decades. It should not feel new. It should not hurt.
And yet, it does. Because for a moment, I let myself believe I could have it again. I let myself believe in her. In us.
I turn from the paintings, my claws pressing into my palms as I clench my fists, grounding myself in the pain. The past does not matter. My duty has not changed. I am the guardian of these mountains. The keeper of the balance. I exist to protect, not to want.
I tell myself this, over and over, as I have for centuries. But as I step outside once more, the wind biting at my skin, I find myself looking toward the village. Toward her.
The sky has cleared, the storm has passed. And yet, the path before me is no clearer than the day I lost everything. Because no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise?—
I am not sure I can survive losing her, too.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Dahlia
Afew days later, I wake to the pale grey light of winter leaking through the window and the muffled sounds of voices outside.
For a moment, I burrow deeper under the covers, chasing the last fragile wisps of dreams where I am not hopeless, not alone. Where silver eyes still watch over me and strong arms still wrap around me like I belong. Like I am his.
But then—a voice.
Every muscle locks into place, my breath turns to ice in my lungs. My body is already processing the danger that my mind is slowly coming to realize. I know that voice. And it has no place here.
“Ben,” I hiss. I bolt upright, my heart scrabbling against my ribs like a caged, frantic thing bent on escape. No. It’s impossible. But even as I think it, I already know the truth.
I throw off the blankets and stumble to the dresser, yanking out clothes with shaking hands. The room is freezing, but the chill barely registers. Adrenaline has wiped away the last tracesof sleep, leaving me hyper-aware, my mind a frantic mess of questions.
How is he here? Why is he here? And how thehelldid he find me?
I pull on thick socks, gloves, my parka—layering up as if armor could protect me from whatever is about to happen. But no amount of fabric can guard against the sickening, crawling dread twisting in my stomach.
