Page 268 of These Tears

‘It’s not a Sámi tradition,’ he reminds me, raking a hand through his hair until the curls tousle deliciously. ‘It’s my mother’s family’s twist on the old courtship stories and reindeer-herding trials. It became a Halvorsen family ritual. Anders isn’t Sámi – the old beliefs never attached to him, so Sunna never got to experience it, which is why she agreed to participate.’

I shift away, frowning, incredulity souring into embarrassment. The more he explains, the more made-up this whole thing sounds – and the more foolish I feel for having believed I was being hunted by something darker.

‘So your family invented ritualised abduction and blamed the spirits.’

He narrows his eyes ponderously. ‘More or less.’

I stare.

‘Right,’ he says, sensing everything that doesn’t come in the shape of words as he pulls me back into him. ‘“Custom is the principal magistrate of man’s life.”’

‘Please do not tell me that’s Nietzsche.’

He chuckles briefly. ‘Francis Bacon.’

I sit up and he follows. His arms close tightly around me until I can feel his heartbeat, and the hard waistband of his jeans scrapes at the base of my spine. ‘In the old days, two families chose a pair they wanted joined. The couple were separated, tested and expected to find one another through hardships and trials of the night. If they completed the trials, everyone called it fate and gave them permission to marry.’

‘So I’ve been told,’ I echo, glancing over my shoulder at him with a cocked brow. ‘So kidnapping and catastrophic judgment run in your family.’

He laughs softly, pinching my thigh.

I let out a squeak as I squirm, but he doesn’t let go – just pulls me tighter still, his chin resting atop my shoulder.

‘It’s an old tradition. It stopped with my mum.’

The last trace of amusement leaves his voice. His hand slips from my thigh and settles on the floor.

I twist and look up into his eyes as they flick towards the candles. Turning and straddling his hips, I wind my arms around his neck when his shoulders prove too broad to wrap around fully.

Somehow, the more I learn about him, the louder a memory resounds: People always said I’m more of a big scruffy bear.

‘Your cousins told me a little bit about her,’ I hazard, dragging my mind away from harsh beginnings.

His gaze drifts past me to a place in memory I can’t reach.

‘When we’re young—’ His focus travels across the floor to the bear fur beneath his hands, fingers closing slowly around it. ‘—we live in the illusion of things. Things we want. Things we are made to believe.’

My ribs pull taut. I hear the age he gave me during the gathering at Anders’ house. Sixteen.

His gaze remains on the floor, but one hand has closed more tightly around the fur.

Whatever his eyes are showing him is not the family Hunt.

‘We were all stupid once,’ I say. ‘Age has nothing to do with it.’

He looks at me then.

‘Whatever you were made to believe, that wasn’t your stupidity. You know that, right?’ I add.

His eyes hold me for several breaths, then he inclines his head.

A single curl falls over his brow.

I reach up to tuck it back, but it dances furiously away from my fingers.

Suddenly his face darkens as he averts his eyes and fixes them on Brute, whose mild snoring startles Menace. But it’s not the sound that drags his attention away.

‘You’re going to see Inga tomorrow?’ he asks.