"No," she says. "Let's go."
We step out into the blue-gray twilight.
The cold hits us like a slap. The air is still, frozen solid at twenty below zero. My breath plumes out in a white cloud.
The yard is empty. The dead Alpha is gone, dragged away by his packmates during the night. The only sign he was ever there is a smear of red on the snow and the smell of death that lingers in the crisp air.
"Eyes up," I whisper. "Scan the shadows."
We move toward the tree line. I take point. Aris stays five paces behind, scanning the rear, the rifle steady in her hands.
We hit the first line of trees. The shadows deepen.
Snap.
To my left.
I swing the shotgun. Nothing but spruce boughs heavy with snow.
"I see movement," Aris whispers. "Three o'clock. Parallel to us."
"Keep moving," I say. "Don't stop."
We hike. It's a grueling pace. The snowshoes bite into the crust,crunch-crunch-crunch, a rhythm that seems deafening in the silence.
Mile one passes. The adrenaline starts to burn off, replaced by the deep, grinding fatigue of vigilance. My calf registers every step now, sullen and hot under Aris's wrapping. She watches my gait more than the tree line. I don't tell her it's bad. She doesn't ask, which means she knows.
"Nash," Aris says softly.
"Yeah?"
"Tell me about the boat."
"What?"
"The boat," she says. "Reid's boat. Tell me the poker story again. Distract me. My brain is trying to calculate the bite force of a gray wolf, and I need it to stop."
Something like a grin tugs at my mouth. "It's called the Kingfisher. It's a forty-foot aluminum heavy-hauler. Reid won it in a poker game in Anchorage."
"Tell it like I haven't heard it."
"He went in with a pair of boots and came out with a boat. He spent a year welding it back together. It's ugly as sin, unpainted metal, dents everywhere, but it's got twin diesels that sound like the end of the world. Reid loves it more than he loves most people."
"And Rhys?" she asks. "Does he have a boat?"
"Rhys has a fleet," I say, stepping over a fallen log. "But they're all clean, painted, and properly insured. Rhys hates Reid's boat. He calls it 'The Liability.'"
"I think I like Rhys," she says. "He sounds organized."
"Rhys is the foundation," I admit. "Everything else stands on him. Finn is the glue. He keeps the rest of us from drifting apart. Kane's the roof, the oldest, the one who took the weight when we were kids and never once set it down. And Reid … Reid is the fire."
"And you?" she asks. "What are you?"
"I'm the anchor," I say. "I stay put. I hold the ground."
"Not anymore," she says. "You're moving pretty fast right now."
"I'm moving because I have you," I say. "Anchors are useless if the ship leaves."
