Total pages in book: 194
Estimated words: 187754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 939(@200wpm)___ 751(@250wpm)___ 626(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 187754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 939(@200wpm)___ 751(@250wpm)___ 626(@300wpm)
“Bruce?”
That’s when Thorin tells me we’re in the den of the surly bear who nearly disemboweled him and who currently adorns their living room floor.
“So, you moved into his territory, and when he tried to protect his home, you killed him?”
“No. We left his territory—or, at least, thought we did.” Pointing to his torso, he says, “I found out the hard way when Bruce tracked us down miles away that bears are highly territorial and don’t easily forgive a threat. The three of us had no idea what we were doing when we decided to live off the grid, so I’ll bear the responsibility. No pun intended.” When I just glare, Thorin sighs, his breath a white cloud billowing in the cold air. “The bear gave me no choice, Aurelia. It was him or me. Do you believe me?”
Remembering the wolf I killed and the second one I injured with the axe from the plane while they fed on Cassie’s entrails, I nod. It hadn’t mattered to me that she stumbled upon their den while looking for other survivors. Cassie and those wolves died because of my mistake. I had no business judging Thorin. “I do.”
“Good.”
“Did you have to turn him into a rug, though? That’s kind of mean.”
Thorin shrugs as he sheds the long, heavy overcoat he’s wearing as if it’s not negative two hundred degrees out here. “So was trying to eat me. Besides, Bruce was already dead. I didn’t think he’d mind.” When I purse my lips in disapproval, he sighs. “You look at him and see a decoration, but to me he’s a reminder that in order to survive out here, we needed to become apex predators ourselves. We needed to be as untamable as these wilds we call home.”
“Well, you clearly succeeded.”
Looking up from his pack that he’s crouched over, he gives me an amused look. “Apparently not, wolf.”
My cheeks are suddenly warm, so I’m grateful for the oversized hood that currently hides them from view. “Are you going to teach me to hunt, Thorin Thayer, or are you just going to flirt with me?”
“I’m an excellent multitasker.” Rising from his crouch, he walks over to me while strapping some kind of hip quiver full of arrows to his leg. He then takes the bow that’s lighter than it looks from my hand. “This weapon is called a compound bow. When I first saw you, you were filthy, bruised, and broken. It’s the vertical cousin of the crossbow. And I still thought you were the most stunning creature I’d ever seen. There are some key differences between the two bows though. Your voice is like a fist around my heart, tugging and squeezing until all I want to do is rip my heart out of my chest and give it you. The compound requires more skill and strength to kill effectively. I know I don’t deserve it, but I hope one day you’ll sing for me. It’s also slightly more accurate than the crossbow, but only if you know what you’re doing. I’ve never known anyone like you, Aurelia George. I hope you stay.”
“Stop that,” I scold without any of the command needed to let him know I meant it. I’m palming my cheeks under my gloved hands because…God, they are so warm. Warmer than they should be out here. I feel Thorin’s “flirting,” which feels more like a declaration of love, all the way down to places he shouldn’t be able to reach. My heart speeds up and slows down like it’s searching out his and trying to match its rhythm. “You might be great at multitasking, but I’m not. I can’t focus when you say things like that to me.”
Thorin doesn’t look cocky or mug at knowing he got to me. A contemplative expression crosses his face as he studies mine. I don’t know what he sees that makes him inhale deeply, but he lets me off the look.
“Let’s get started.”
“I’m not a good student,” I warn Thorin because I’m already regretting asking him to teach me to hunt.
“We’ll see,” he returns, and my eyes widen as he starts showing me all of the parts of the compound bow—the limbs, arrow shelf, grip, bowstring…
Ughhhh!
Et cetera.
Once Thorin’s done listing and pointing out all the components, he makes me repeat them. We continue doing this for ten minutes in the freezing cold, despite my whining and complaining until I finally get them all right.
Only then does he pluck a bow from the quiver and show me how to load it onto the shelf. His movements are smooth and confident, but when it comes time for me to mimic them, I fumble with the arrow until it slips from my fingers. The yellow arrow is bright against the white snow as I stare down at it.
“Are you going to pick it up?” Thorin quizzes with an impatient sigh.