Page 171 of These Tears

They find me.

The tension around his mouth eases. His shoulders settle.

And my nerves cinch tight.

With the waning day in his hair and firelight caressing his face, he looks more like someone who might have grown from this place instead of someone who had imprisoned me in it.

But regardless of that, he is still out of place.

To my left, a hand slips into view and takes one of the half-full mugs.

‘Takk,’ a woman says softly.

Turning, I come face to face with a blonde around my age, thick braid over one shoulder and eyes so blue they look almost offensive in the twilight. They’re not Elias-blue. His make me think of ice beneath a clear afternoon sky. Hers are a brighter kind, clearer, set in a face that would probably photograph beautifully.

‘I’m Inga,’ she adds.

I grunt out an answer, pair it up with my name, try for a smile, and hope I don’t look like an undomesticated ferret.

She gives one of her own back. Nothing smug – polite enough to make the fact that I have absolutely no reason to dislike her even more irritating.

Naturally, I do.

I know it’s ridiculous – she has done nothing save for looking like she belongs here in the way that I do not. But she has the accent, the ease, the familiarity with this place – and with Elias – that makes my borrowed-fiancée act suddenly feel painfully obvious.

Her gaze drifts past the table and towards the fire. Towards him.

I pull in a deep breath, but it sticks high to my chest.

Brilliant.

Captive. Traumatised. Possibly developing Stockholm syndrome, and now jealous of a woman with northern cheekbones who knows him better than I do.

I look back at the mugs and pour the next coffee with unnecessary focus.

Her mouth parts as though she wants to say something to me.

I stop pouring, lock eyes with her, wondering with indignation whether all Norwegians came with ice in their eyes or whether there was a government-issued supply somewhere.

Her accent is lighter than Sunna’s, polished enough that I barely hear the Norwegian in some words. ‘Jakob used to do that when he was a kid, too.’ She points a finger briefly.

My hands still around the coffee pot.

Kid.

It ricochets between my temples and softens the picture of Elias Crane. As if the bear-man had ever been allowed to be one. A kid.

‘Do what?’ I ask, managing something close to pleasant.

She knew him when he was small. She has some version of him tucked away in her memory that I don’t. In her mind’s eye, there’s probably a boy with scraped knees, cold hands and a name that isn’t chained to a concrete floor.

I’ve only ever known him as dangerous.

Inga nods towards him. ‘He keeps away. Makes himself look busy enough that people leave him alone.’

The smile I give her feels tight at first, but as I look over, the irritation evaporates in an instant.

Two men have approached Elias by the flames. One claps him hard on the back, the other pulls him briefly into a one-armed embrace.