Free Ice by Sarah Beth Durst Page A

from the sinking of the mattress) climbed into the bed beside her. She remembered the last time he’d climbed into bed with her—on their wedding night. “Touch me and it’s back to the axe,” she said.
     
    She heard him sigh. “I would never hurt you, not intentionally, not ever. You should know that by now.”
     
    “I don’t taste as good as a seal.”
     
     
    “You do not have enough blubber,” he agreed.
     
    She felt the mattress shift as he settled into his pillows. Flat on her back, she lay as rigid as ice.
    “Don’t snore.”
     
    “Your wish is my command.”
     
    She snorted. “Cute.”
     
    “Good night, Cassie.”
     
    “Night.” Clutching the sheets to her chin, she listened to him breathe. It sounded like a gentle wave.
    Gradually, his breathing slowed. Could he be going to sleep? She prodded him. “You awake?”
     
    “I am now.” He rolled over, and she felt the mattress dip down toward him. He was facing her, she guessed. Her skin felt hyperaware. At least a thirteen-foot polar bear did not make a thirteen-foot man, she told herself. He was, at most, seven feet tall.
     
    “Talk to me,” she said. “Tell me a story.”
     
    “As you wish,” he said. “Once upon a time, there was a little wallaby . . .” She smiled. “Wallaby?”
     
    “Yes, wallaby. And this wallaby lived . . .”
     
     
    * * * * *
     
     
    She was smothering in sheets. Cassie kicked. Her foot contacted something solid. She heard a grunt.
    Bleary, she blinked awake. Walls did not grunt. “Bear, that you?”
     
    “Hmm.”
     
    She kicked harder.
     
    “Ow!”
     
    Served him right. He was sleeping in the middle of the bed. She yanked the covers back and curled with them on the pillows.
     
    “Thief,” he said. He tugged on the sheets.
     
    She grunted at him.
     
    “Was I snoring?” he asked.
     
    “You don’t snore,” she told him. It was a definite plus.
     
    “You do,” he said. “It is like a cat purring.”
     
    She kicked the covers away. “Too hot,” she said. “Is it morning?” Crawling out of bed, she found her flashlight. She turned it on.
     
    She saw a sudden flurry of sheets. Bear rolled off the bed in a tangle of white. “Stop the light!” he said.
     
     
    Cassie pointed the flashlight at the white lump. “Hey, I’m the one who hates mornings,” she said lightly, but he continued to conceal himself. “Bear? What’s wrong?”
     
    “You cannot see me.”
     
    She’d never seen him, she realized. The two times he’d transformed—last night and her first night here—she hadn’t seen him. With the flashlight, Cassie climbed over the bed. He was buried on the floor under the covers. Not an inch of skin was visible. “Come on,” she said. “I promise I won’t laugh.”
     
    “You cannot!” There was a blur of sheets as he stood up. He looked like he was wearing a bad ghost costume. He knocked the flashlight out of her hands. It rolled under the bed. “You must never see my human face,” he said. “Promise me you will not try.”
     
    “Why not?”
     
    “Promise me.”
     
    He sounded serious, even desperate. She didn’t think she’d ever heard that in his voice before. “You certainly have your quirks,” Cassie said lightly. “Turning into a giant bear wasn’t unique enough?” He didn’t laugh.
     
    Bear begged her, “Please, beloved. If you care about me at all, do not look.” He hadn’t called her “beloved” since the day they’d met.
     
    She dangled over the bed and retrieved the flashlight. She switched it off, and the room plunged into darkness again. “Happy now?” she said, but her voice shook. His pleading had unnerved her. She felt as if she had violated some sacred taboo. But she hadn’t meant any harm. All she’d wanted to do was look at him.
     
    Bear said nothing.
     
     
    She waited another second. “Bear? Are you all right?”
     
    “I must go,” he said.
     
    He couldn’t be that angry. “I didn’t . . . ,” she