Holly’s Grizzly (Monster Relations Bureau #4)

1

Holly

Running away to the woods for a winter backpacking trip may not have been the best thing for a broken heart.

My heavy hiking boots slip over a patch of ice-covered ground, and I bite out a harsh curse. It’s at least the fourth time I’ve almost gone sprawling onto my ass in the last ten minutes as I make my way down from an exposed, rocky ridge into a densely forested valley between two peaks. It might be beautiful here under normal circumstances, but I don’t have any time to enjoy it while I press onwards, headed as fast as I can safely manage back to my car.

That aforementioned broken heart is firmly lodged in the back of my throat, and if I thought this trip was going to do anything at all to patch it back up, those illusions evaporated hours ago.

No healing to be found here, nothing but growing dread and certainty that this whole cursed trip was a monumental mistake.

In theory, it seemed great.

I’ve been expanding my horizons over the last year. Learning to survive on my own in every sense of the word, finding myself after Cody, my ex, walked out and didn’t look back.

It’s become a bit of an obsession, trying to excise that relationship—or, maybe more accurately, excise who I became in that relationship—by any means necessary. Physical, mental, spiritual—if it’s aimed at cleansing myself of negative energy and starting fresh, there’s a good chance I’ve tried it.

Over the past six months that’s meant getting out of Seattle, unplugging from technology and connecting with nature, and out of all the things I’ve tried, backpacking seems to have stuck better than most. Something about the peace, the fresh air, the solitude, has gotten me in and out of my head all at the same time. Focusing on the trail, tuning in to my body, and pushing myself out of my comfort zone scratches my restless mental itch in the very best way.

I’ve been all over the Pacific Northwest on hiking and backpacking trips, and I’ve even started toying with the idea of taking a summer off to do the whole Pacific Crest Trail.

Winter backpacking was supposed to be no big deal. I’ve done the research, bought the gear, and even took a primer weekend trip a few weeks ago with a trail buddy. She showed me some of the finer points of setting up camp in the snow and keeping myself alive when the temps are below freezing.

It was exhilarating, a whole new challenge to tackle, and I thought I’d been ready to strike out on my own.

What I didn’t count on?

A weather forecast that’s proven to be so far from accurate, I’m seriously considering suing.

Suing who exactly, I’m not sure, but there’s got to be something criminal about the meteorologist announcing all we were supposed to expect over the Christmas holiday was a few inches of soft powder, when in reality a system of heavy, pelting, freezing rain passed right over the mountain I’m hiking on.

Snow wouldn’t have been such a big deal, but this mess?

This is awful.

And freaking dangerous.

All that rain eventually changed over to snow, but the damage is done. Beneath the layer of fresh powder, the ground is completely coated in ice. It makes every step treacherous, and my muscles ache and shake from the effort of keeping my feet under me through each slip and slide.

Even worse, the weather didn’t set in until I was more than halfway through my in-hike to the spot I was supposed to be camping tonight.

When I realized how dangerous it had gotten, I made the executive decision to turn back, but that was only an hour ago, and I’ve got at least two more until I make it to my car.

I don’t even know if bailing was the right choice, but there’s nothing to do now but keep moving, even as the same condemnation rings through my head with each uncertain step over the slippery ground.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I could be warm and safe right now, getting ready to spend the holiday with my friends. Nora invited me to the celebration she’s hosting, and Kenna would have been there, too.

I should have just gone.

I shouldn’t have given Nora a half-assed apology about having this trip planned for months when, in reality, I decided to go just a few weeks ago. I should have sucked it up and not let the idea of being the single friend showing up to spend Christmas with my joyful, content, blissfully partnered friends bother me as much as it did.

Not that it matters now.

Now, it doesn’t matter that I’m sad, single Holly trying to eat, pray, love my way into patching up my broken heart. All the affirmations and zen in the world won’t get me out of this mess.

I’m the only one who can save me now.

On my next step, my foot slides and my knee buckles. I barely stop myself from going sprawling onto the ground, but can’t do anything to prevent the terrified sob that rips out of me.

It’s loud enough to startle me, the depth of my frustration and anxiety cresting over the top of all the mental guardrails I’ve put in place. Over my focus and control, over the calming breaths and rationalizations.

Losing control is only going to make all of this even more dangerous, and I do everything I can to push it back down.

I breathe in, then out.

I focus on the trail, and picture the safety of my car waiting for me at the trailhead.

I’m not thinking about the way the frigid winter air bites my nostrils.

I’m not thinking about the way it curls down my throat and into my lungs, putting an icy stab of dread squarely in the center of my chest and threatening to unravel my control completely.

“Enough,” I mutter, biting down on the inside of my cheek to ground myself back into reality. “Focus.”

I press on, over the rocky, icy, snow-strewn ground. My feet stay under me and my legs stay steady. No more of that overwhelm escapes from the place I’ve got it buried.

At least until I get to the river crossing that marks the approximate halfway point back to my car.

The “bridge” over this section of trail is nothing more than a fallen tree with one end resting on each bank. It’s wide and sturdy enough that in good conditions it would be no big deal to cross it, but right now its worn bark is coated in a thick layer of ice like everything else in this forest.

Below, the river it crosses runs swollen and fast from late-season rains.

I pause on the bank, watching those waters.

My eyes blur on the churning, dark, freezing depths, and I almost lose my nerve completely.

But finding another route would add hours to my journey, and even now I’m at least two hours from making it back to the trailhead and my vehicle.

So I make another judgment call.

Dropping into a crawl, I get my bearings on the log. Arms and legs wrapped awkwardly around the thick trunk, I inch forward. I probably look like a graceless mess, but there’s no one around to see, and I’m not taking any chances crossing on foot.

Inch by inch, I make my way across the trunk, growing more and more confident with each bit of distance gained.

That confidence, however, lasts only as long as it takes my eyes to stray to the river below.

In the middle of the log, over the deepest, fastest portion of the river, the black water roils angrily, and my heart leaps into my throat.

Letting that panic get the best of me is my first mistake.

My second is trying to speed up my slow, awkward crawl.

Suddenly overcome by the desperate need to be anywhere in the world but on this log, I make a mad grab to move faster. The other bank is my salvation, and every single second I’m not on it feels like my lungs are getting smaller and smaller. Muscles shaking, another broken sob climbing the back of my throat, I reach forward to drag myself closer to safety.

But it’s not enough, and my haste makes me reckless, careless, abandoning all those carefully laid plans and all the caution I’ve spent so many months cultivating.

My hand slips from the gnarled knot I meant to grasp, and the fumbled momentum throws me to one side.

The next few moments happen in slow motion.

On my back, the heavy pack I’m wearing wobbles to the side, pulling me right along with it. My hands scramble over the ice- coated tree trunk, flailing uselessly. There’s absolutely nothing for me to grasp to keep myself from sliding off the log and into the icy river below, and I let out a scream of pure terror as I fall, the churn of the river rising to meet me.

The water hits me like falling into a bed of knives.

Stabbing against my face and throat, rushing in through the top of my jacket and up the legs of my pants, over the tops of my gloves to engulf my hands. It sucks all the breath from my lungs, though I get a few gasped mouthfuls as I surface, then plunge, surface, then plunge.

Instinct takes over completely.

There’s nothing left but the need to survive this, no thoughts about what comes after or what might be the smartest thing to do in this situation.

All I need to do is live.

My pack is soaked through, weighing me down, and I instinctively shrug it off. Anything to keep me from going under again.

As I surface once more, my eyes fix on the bank closest to me. Land, safety, something real and solid I can aim for.

My muscles scream with every stroke through the water. Churning rapids threaten to tug me down into their depths, but whatever adrenaline is keeping me alive right now stops them from swallowing me completely.

With every last bit of strength I can muster in my shocked, shaking body, I pull myself out of the river.

Grasping at tree roots, shrubs, whatever I can reach, I haul myself up and out, rolling a few times to put as much distance as I can manage between myself and the horror of that freezing black water.

As I come to a stop at the base of a towering pine and tuck myself into a dry patch of needle-covered ground, a brief wave of triumph washes over me. Triumph for surviving, for not letting that fucking river claim me.

That triumph, however, shatters into a million glittering, icy shards when reality comes crashing back in.

I lost my pack.

I’m soaking wet.

I’m miles away from my car.

And even if I could make it back, my keys are probably already fifty yards down the river along with my shelter, food, spare clothes, and tools for making a fire.

Right alongside the sinking dread of those realizations, the bitter cold makes itself known again. Worse, this time, with my wet clothes, cutting me all the way to the bone.

It’s hard to breathe right, and my limbs start to tremble in rough, jerking motions that go way beyond shivers.

My thoughts stutter and slow, strangely warped and twisted with the cold and the panic pounding through me, but I try to snap out of it, willing myself to focus.

I’ve prepared for emergency situations. I’ve made plans and backup plans. I know how to handle myself and keep myself safe.

I close my eyes.

Think. I have to think.

But the only thing left is the cold and the softly falling flakes and the gentle whoosh of a slight breeze through the pines. The splash of the river, much less ominous now that I’m not in it, lulls against my ears like a gentle whisper to rest.

My struggling mind slows even further, and that deep trembling slows, too.

Bad. I think that’s bad.

I should be shivering, shouldn’t I?

I should get moving. I should try to get my blood pumping. I should… I should…

Staying here might be nice, too.

Wrong. I know that’s wrong.

It’s the cold talking, the quiet left after the storm of adrenaline burned itself out. I need to go… need to stand… need… need…

A sudden noise from the forest pierces the sluggish haze of those thoughts. I turn to look, and my rapidly slowing heart jumps right back into my throat.

I blink, then blink again, but the image doesn’t change.

A grizzly, huge and terrifying, emerges out of the woods, headed straight for me.

My thoughts are still slow, scrambled, coated in ice, but in some far-away, rational corner of my brain, I know I’m afraid. It’s deep, instinctual, and, driven by that animal instinct, my body makes a valiant attempt to propel itself upward.

But my mind isn’t cooperating with the rest of me all that well right at the moment.

My limbs twitch uselessly in an effort to… what? Make me appear smaller? Curl up in a defensive little ball? Like that’s going to do anything.

Dimly, I remember I didn’t even bring any bear spray on this trip.

Nevermind that if I did, it would be floating away down the river with the rest of my gear. Bears are supposed to be hibernating right now, and having one approaching me, head down as it chuffs and lumbers its way through the snow, is one last terrible, macabre joke.

Will anyone even find my body, or will I end up as a cautionary tale about a woman who wandered into the woods and never came out again?

The morbid thought rips a whimper from my throat, and I snap my eyes shut.

I can’t move, can’t run. I’m frozen by fear and the ice clinging to my clothes and skin, piercing its way into my bones, and I really don’t want to see my own death coming right toward me.

A few more heavy footsteps echo through the stillness of the forest, and my thoughts careen wildly.

Was any of this worth it? Or have I only been fooling myself?

Did it matter? Did I accomplish anything in my short life, or was it all just a waste? What will they put on my tombstone?

Here lies Holly Petersen. Heartbroken. Lost. Searching and searching for something she couldn’t have explained even if you’d asked her.

I guess I’ll never know.

None of this is going to mean a damn thing when I’m eaten by this—

“Hello?”

My eyes snap open.

There, where the bear had been just a moment ago, is a man.

A tall, broad, hairy, naked man.

Through the frost clinging to my lashes and my scatter-brained shock, I can only make out little bits and pieces of him.

Thick dark hair and a full bushy beard. Rich brown eyes under a brow furrowed with concern.

And his body.

This bear-man is huge .

A broad chest and lumberjack arms. A soft layer of padding over his muscled abdomen. Thighs like tree trunks. All covered in coarse, dark brown crinkles of body hair, like even in his human form, he’s still more than a little bit grizzly.

“My name is Irving. I’m not going to hurt you. Is it alright if I come closer?”

I nod.

Or, well, at least I think I nod.

It’s hard to fully wrap my mind around what my body’s doing right now.

Somehow, though, it doesn’t even occur to me to feel surprised or afraid of this man standing in front of me.

Nora is mated to a shifter. Kenna is, too, and having one here, now, makes some sort of sense in my cold-addled brain.

He’ll help me. Yes, of course he’ll help me.

“My name is Holly,” I manage to choke out.

“Hi, Holly,” he says, his voice a quiet rumble in the falling snow.

It’s almost peaceful now, but that could also be the hypothermia setting in. Thick flakes stick in Irving’s hair and beard as he moves closer and crouches down next to me, and somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind the word beautiful flicks in, then out, then disappears completely as he speaks again.

“I’m going to pick you up,” he says, still so low and gentle. “Are you hurt anywhere? Anything broken?”

I shake my head. Not that I really have any idea if anything is hurt or broken, but it doesn’t feel like it. I’m just cold as hell and ready to get inside somewhere.

Even if that somewhere is with a naked bear shifter who just appeared out of the forest.

Stranger things have happened, right?

Maybe not.

Maybe this is all some hallucination my brain cooked up to keep me from realizing I’m about to freeze to death, but I’m not going to question it.

“Alright.” He tucks his arms beneath me, lifting me into a bridal-style carry with absolutely no apparent effort. No struggle, no caught breath or grunt of difficulty, just a smooth rise and a gentle jostle as he tucks me into the furnace of his chest. “Easy, now.”

I can’t help it, I moan. Nuzzling my face against the thick mat of hair and nestling into the incredible warmth of him, the sound slips out before I can stop it.

Irving freezes. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” I whisper, and my voice comes out in a broken rasp, the single word an effort as relief crashes over me and I truly realize for the first time that I might not die after all. “No. You didn’t hurt me.”

He grunts his acknowledgment as he starts moving, snow crunching underfoot.

The warmth of him, the strength, the steady hold of his arms, and the undeniable sense of safety that wraps itself around me like a warm blanket is suddenly too much. Tears prick hot and embarrassing in the backs of my eyes.

I’m not going to die.

I don’t have the faintest idea where he’s taking me, and maybe it’s just the cold and the fear playing havoc with my sense of self-preservation, but… I feel like I can trust him. He told me he wouldn’t hurt me, and whether or not it makes me an idiot, I believe him.

All those emotions lodge themselves in my throat, and a small, pitiful sob breaks free.

“It’s alright,” Irving soothes, shifting his arms to press me more firmly against him. “You’re alright, Holly. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

The forest passes swiftly as Irving carries me to wherever it is we’re going, and I let myself close my eyes. His feet are sure and his stride steady, the warmth of him chasing away the biting cold.