Page 23 of Yasmin and the Yeti
Stars glittered like shards of ice against the black sky. The three moons cast enough light to paint the snow in shades of silver and blue. His breath formed clouds of vapor that dissipated quickly in the still air.
He silently followed a familiar path, senses alert for any sign of danger. The land was quiet, most creatures sheltering from the cold. Even the wind had died down, and the only sound was the soft crunch of his footsteps on the snow.
Then he caught it—a scent on the wind that made him freeze mid-stride.
Faint but unmistakable. A scent he knew as well as his own.
Broc.
His heart plummeted, a cold dread seeping through him that had nothing to do with the temperature. Broc never ventured this deep into the wilderness. Not since the day Rhaal had chosen to go into exile, carrying the weight of Ayla’s death and Broc’s hatred on his shoulders.
He moved toward the source of the scent, his steps careful now, deliberate. He circled wide, approaching from downwind. Near a rocky outcrop that overlooked his cave, he found tracks in the pristine snow.
A single set of footprints. One deeper than the other, with the telltale drag mark of a staff between them.
Broc had been here. Standing on this outcrop, looking down at Rhaal’s cave. Watching.
He crouched, examining the tracks. They were fresh—made within the last day. His mind raced, trying to make sense of this intrusion.
This was no chance encounter, no random patrol that had strayed too far. Broc had come here deliberately, had sought out his sanctuary on purpose.
But why? Was it a test? A warning? A judgment?
The thought of Broc observing his interactions with Yasmin, witnessing their growing closeness, filled him with a cold, protective fury. He knew how Broc saw him—as a broken thing, a failed protector who had let Ayla die. The bitter irony that Broc now stood in judgment of another female under his protection was not lost on him.
He rose, the wind whipping his fur as he stared at the tracks. His public claim had already changed everything between him and Yasmin, but this discovery solidified something in his mind.
His self-imposed exile was no longer a viable shield. It had been a coward’s solution—running from his past, hiding from his failure. But now his past was actively encroaching on his present, threatening the fragile happiness he had found with Yasmin.
He could no longer just hide and survive. If he wanted any kind of future with her, he would have to turn and face the ghosts he had been running from for years.
The realization settled in him like a stone, heavy and solid. He lifted his head, looking back towards his cave where Yasmin waited. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to think of Ayla without immediately retreating from the pain.
His sister had been fierce, vibrant, full of life even in the early stages of her pregnancy. She wouldn’t have wanted this for him—this half-life of shame and isolation. She would have wanted him to find happiness, to be whole again.
And Broc… His jaw tightened. Broc had loved Ayla with every fiber of his being. His hatred of Rhaal had been born of that love, of the unbearable pain of losing her. Perhaps, after all these years, it was time they both confronted that shared grief.
He took a deep breath, the cold air filling his lungs as he looked up at the stars and at the silent, watching moons. Then he turned and began making his way back to the cave, to Yasmin.
He moved with purpose now, no longer fleeing from his desire but walking steadily towards a future. The path ahead would not be easy. Confronting Broc, facing his past, allowing himself to fully claim Yasmin as his mate—each step was fraught with risk and pain.
But for the first time since he had held Ayla’s lifeless body in his arms, he felt something like hope stirring in his chest. A fierce, protective determination that went beyond mere survival.
As he neared the cave, he caught Yasmin’s scent on the wind—sweet, warm, alive. He instinctively responded to the scent but it was no longer a desperate, clawing need. It was something deeper, more fundamental.
A recognition of what she had become to him. Not just a female he desired, but the center of his world. His future. And ifprotecting that future meant confronting his past, then so be it. He would no longer run. He would stand and fight—not just for her, but for the life they could build together. For their chance at a future.
The fire had burned low, casting the cave in soft, amber light. She lay curled beneath the furs, her dark hair spilling across the furs. At the sound of his entrance, she stirred, lifting her head to look at him.
The warmth in her eyes nearly undid him. How had he earned such a gift? How could he possibly be worthy of it?
But as he stood there, snow melting from his fur, he made a silent vow to become worthy. To be the protector she deserved, the mate she had chosen. To face his demons, confront his past, and build something new from the ashes of his grief.
For her. For both of them.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Yasmin knelt in the snow, her new fur-lined boots keeping her feet warm as she plucked the small, vibrant blue berries from the bush. No large trees grew on Hothrest but the bushes provided a pleasant contrast to the endless white. The bitter cold that had once felt like an enemy now wrapped around her like a familiar blanket. She breathed deeply, savoring the crisp, clean scent of the snowy air.
