"Well, look who it is," Reid shouts. He vaults off the bow, bypassing the gangplank entirely to land on the slippery rocks with a reckless thud that makes Rhys wince. "The Revenant and his damsel. You guys look terrible. I mean, really, really bad."
"Good to see you too, Reid," I manage to say.
Reid doesn't wait for permission. He closes the distance in three long strides and pulls me into a hug that knocks the lastremaining wind out of my lungs. He smells like diesel fuel, fish scales, and stale coffee.
It's the best smell in the world.
"You hailed on the emergency channel," Reid says into my ear, slapping my back hard enough to bruise. He pulls back, gripping my shoulders. "Before you got your second word out, I told Rhys, 'That's Nash in trouble.' Rhys says, 'Nash is never in trouble. The man alphabetizes his bullets.' But I knew. I felt it in my gut."
"I did not say that," Rhys says. He's extending a hand to help Aris aboard the boat with significantly more dignity. "I said, 'If Nash is using the emergency frequency, something is burning.' You okay, Aris?"
"I'm cold," she whispers, her teeth chattering.
"Get them in the cabin," Rhys orders. "I have the heater maxed out. Finn is waiting at the town dock with the sleds."
We climb aboard the Kingfisher, the metal deck ringing under our boots. Stepping into the wheelhouse is like walking into a blast furnace. The air is thick, hot, and smells of engine grease, but to my frozen skin, it feels like paradise.
The cabin is pure Reid: a chaotic nest of fishing lures hooked into the upholstery, empty soda cans rattling in the cupholders, a hula girl shimmying with every rev. The one exception is the chart table, which Rhys has clearly annexed by force at some point—organized charts, labeled switches, a logbook squared to the edge of the desk like a protest.
Rhys guides Aris to the captain's chair, practically pushing her into the worn vinyl. "Sit. Don't touch the red switch; it kills the generator. Do you want coffee or water?"
"Coffee," Aris says, her shoulders still shaking as the warmth hits her. "Please."
Reid doesn't wait for us to settle. He slams the door shut, sealing out the wind, and shoves the throttles forward. The boat lurches backward off the rocks with a churn of white water.
"Hold on! We're making a tactical retreat!" Reid yells over the roar of the engines. "Next stop, Port Promise!"
The boat makes town in twenty minutes that pass like five. For the duration, I sit on a plastic cooler, too tired to move, watching Aris. She holds the mug with both hands, letting the steam bathe her face, the color slowly returning to her cheeks.
Reid is at the helm, driving with one hand and gesturing wildly with the other as he tells a highly exaggerated story about navigating the ice floes to get to us. Rhys stands beside him, holding onto the grab rail, fact-checking him in real-time.
"So I drifted the stern around the bend—" Reid shouts.
"You oversteered," Rhys corrects.
"—and I saw the signal flare like a beacon of hope?—"
"It was a faint glimmer at best."
It's chaotic. It's the Hollister dynamic in full swing. And for the first time in weeks, the crushing weight on my chest begins to lift. I don't have to be the guide right now. I don't have to be the protector, the sole line of defense, the one who watches the perimeter. My brothers are here. The pack is engaged.
When the lights of Port Promise appear around the headland, it looks like a metropolis compared to the dark wilderness we've just left. The harbor lights spill across the snow, guiding us home.
Reid eases the boat into the main commercial slip, slotting the forty-foot vessel between two trawlers with an ease that belies his erratic personality.
Finn is waiting on the wooden pier beside two wide-track touring snow machines idling in the dark, their headlights cutting twin paths through the gloom.
We tie off, and Mags is running down the ramp before the engines even cut out.
"Nash!" Mags yells, her voice shrill, cutting through the wind. She practically tackles me as I step onto the dock. "We saw the flare over the ridge! And then the marine band went crazy!"
"We're fine," I say, holding her upright on the slick wood. My knees buckle slightly when I hit the solid ground, but I stay standing. "Leg's chewed up, but stable. Aris patched me up."
"And the wolves?" Finn asks, reaching out to grip my arm. He doesn't hug me, but the pressure of his hand is grounding. He scans the tree line behind the harbor, checking my pupils with a quick look.
"Scattered," I say. "Aris took out the Alpha. Reid scared off the rest with the flare gun."
"I also looked very cool doing it," Reid adds, leaning out of the wheelhouse window. "Like a mythological figure. A god of fire."
