A Night by My Fire

“You’ve seen my face.” That’s all he said.

She knew what he implied.

And if he was trying to rationalize whatever made him look at her as if ready to rip out her throat, it wasn’t going to fly. Offering a wink and a smirk she gave her honest opinion of said face. “It ain’t nothing to write home about, pretty boy. I like my men a bit more roughed up and craggy.”

No reply was offered; she pointedly resumed reading her book.

When her eyes were back on the page, the man felt the need to say, “You believe you are superior to me.”

Annoyed he was interrupting her reading again, she muttered, “You think you’re the first renegade I’ve found skulking around these woods? I know your type, ex-military who think they can go it alone under the impression they’re so badass. You can’t. This place will kill a fool unwilling to understand just how dangerous it can be. So, yeah, out here I’m better than you.”

“My survival skills are excellent.”

Laughing was flat out mean, but by God, she couldn’t hold it in. The book went to her lap and she gave the idiot her full attention. “You’re delusional! You had no weapon, not even a knife... were dressed improperly for this environment, dumb enough to have considered walking anywhere without basic supplies. If I didn’t know better—if I hadn’t seen half a dozen men like you trying to go it alone as Mr. Survivalist—I would say someone dumped you in the wilds to die.”

And they had, she saw it written on his face.

Fuck. All those little red flags she’d hoped was pure paranoia waved fast and furious in through her thoughts.

Rubbing her lips together, unsure why she understood that unguarded look in his eyes so well, River leaned back in the old recliner. “I never could figure them out, you know. People.”

It was long minutes before a hoarse question came. “Is that why you live like this?”

“No.” The wicked teasing, her smile, she toyed with him. Because, why not? At this point, what did it matter? Poke the bear, see if it roars. “I’m on the run from the law.”

And then she went as deadpan as he, River completely disinterested in digging for details. He could keep to his brooding silences. They could call it a wash. She didn’t want to know anything. She just wanted him gone.

“River,” he tested her name on his tongue.

Nodding, aware he didn’t recognize that using that name was the first step he’d taking in humanizing her. Which had to mean something, right?

It wasn’t an olive branch, but it was enough to encourage her to make the next move. “There is a herd of caribou... I saw their tracks while I was looking for your gear. We’re going to need meat to get us through the coming storm. Tomorrow, you will help me carry back a kill.”

His ankle was still a pulped mess, swollen and ugly. In unison, they both looked to it.

She offered more. “I’ll manage most of the weight, give you a staff to lean on, but you need to find your footing.”

“Do you always talk like this, in layers? It is exceptionally irritating.” And irritated he did look. Either that or utterly confounded.

“Your accent keeps slipping. English isn’t your first language. Perhaps you misunderstand and hear what you want?” White teeth flashed against dark skin, River grinning as she laid it out in the way all men needed to hear. “You looking to be nurtured or are you looking to survive? I gave you a night to laze by my fire, the rest you’ll earn.”

***

Stephen had not been nurtured a goddamn day in his life. No, he’d been honed into what Mikhailov saw fit. To be offered succor from this scamp. This dirty woman… led to a swell of unfamiliar fury. “I don’t need your help!”

“You damn well fucking do.” Overly long braids in disarray, body cocooned in ugly rags, his would-be rescuer settled back, tired, her book cast aside so she might ignore him and sleep.

But he was not tired. He still had words to share. “Your vulgar language is completely repellent.”

River peeked out of one eye, nodding. “There’s the spirit! Feel free to call me ugly and disparage my clothes next. Get it all out, big guy.”

“Women are supposed to be clean and soft spoken! You stink of the burned fish you mutilated with your lack of cooking skills. I have never seen a free thing so low... so mud caked and unconcerned. Of course no one wants you! I DON’T NEED YOUR CHARITY!”

Her black eyes went languid through his rant—patient, calm as still waters—until he raged to the point he shot from his seat to tower over her. Practically chewing off his lips, howling so severely at her lack of anything reeking of humanity, the horrid notion crossed his thoughts that he might cry. As he had as a child when beatings followed failure.

When instructors found fault in his form.

When Mikhailov looked at him