Page 4 of Property of Prophet

Words stick in my throat. It’s been five years since I’ve had a real conversation. Oh, I speak to Bear in short commands and meaningless observations. He’s learned to read my wants from my hands.

I find my voice again. “You’re badly injured. I need to get you to shelter.” The words came out harsh and clipped. Professional distance is the last wall I have left.

Don’t engage.

Don’t connect.

Just provide medical care and figure out how to contact his people, his club, whoever would come to collect him, and return me to my solitude.

“The wolves...”

“They left.”

Something passes across his face, relief, maybe, or gratitude. His hand finds mine, gripping with strength that shouldn’t exist in someone this broken. “Thank you. For not... for staying.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You might not survive the trip down.”

“I’ll survive.” That impossible blue gaze holds mine.

“You sound very sure.”

“I have to.”

Behind me, Bear whines.

I look down at the stranger’s hand still wrapped around mine. I should pull away, but I don’t.

Five years without letting another person close enough to matter. Five years building a life where nobody could reach me, need me, or hurt me.

Then a bleeding biker falls out of the sky and takes my hand.

His thumb moves weakly against my skin.

And for the first time since I came to Alaska, I have the distinct feeling the wilderness isn’t the most dangerous thing in my life anymore.

Chapter Two

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Lily

The trek down from the ridge tests every muscle I own. Prophet is the name stitched into his vest, so it’s the one I’ll use. He weighs more than I judged from above, and even with the makeshift travois I’ve rigged from pine branches and paracord, every step drags at my shoulders. Bear pulls beside me and the harness strains, his breath freezing white in the air.

Alaska watches us struggle and offers nothing, the wind picking up to scatter snow across our path. Every step feels a degree colder than the one before. My cabin materializes through the twilight gloom, smoke no longer rising from the chimney. The fire died while I’ve been gone. Another problem to solve, another task to complete, another reminder that out here, survival requires constant attention to a thousand small details.

I drag the travois to the covered porch, muscles screaming in protest. Bear collapses immediately, sides heaving, tongue lolling. The dog has earned his rest. I haven’t, not yet.

Inside, the cabin holds cold that bites deeper than the outside air, the kind that settles into walls and floors during winter. I need heat and light, and I need to assess his injuries properly instead of the rushed examination I did in the crater.

The wood stove takes priority. My hands move through familiar motions. I crumple paper, arrange kindling in a careful pyramid, and strike a match with shaking fingers. The flame catches, holds, then grows into orange light, pushing back shadows while heat begins its slow work of reclaiming space from winter’s grip.

Only then do I return to the porch for Prophet.

Getting him inside requires leverage, determination, and a complete disregard for proper lifting technique. Medical school taught me how to protect my back. Alaska taught me that sometimes you do what needs to be done, regardless of textbook recommendations. I drag him across the threshold, the travois scraping against wood, and position him near the stove where warmth will reach him fastest.

The bivvy comes off first, then my coat wrapped around his torso. Beneath both, his vest remains, that impossible material that absorbed impact no human-made fabric should withstand. I hesitate, fingers hovering over the leather, over those patches proclaiming Kings of Anarchy MC, Alaska Chapter, Prophet, Chaplain.

This vest represents evidence of something, perhaps membership in an organization or a connection to people who will come looking. However, it also covers injuries I need to examine.