Free His to Bear: Icy Cap Den #1 (Alaskan Den Men) by Jennifer Hilt Page A

dream to a reality is taking a hell of a lot of effort. I devoted most of my thirty-odd years to hockey. When my bear spirit refused to be suppressed any longer, I had to figure out a way to live as a man and an ice bear shifter. Coming back to Icy Cap was the only thing that made sense. Unfortunately, it meant rebuilding the community. That is not something life as a star hockey player prepared me for.
    Times like this, when rotten-egg-smelling dark magic shows up, I miss my ordinary pre-shifter life. Inside me, a growl begins. My bear resents my reminiscing when there’s work to be done.
    When I stand outside my truck, the snow blows in my face. The air smells damp, even with the freezing temperatures. More heavy snow is headed this way. So why am I standing around out here?
    A few kicks and my boot hits metal. I squat, carefully brushing the loose snow aside. An arctic hare’s fine long ears and white fur are almost cut in half by the bear trap’s metal teeth. Only a slight dark stain mars the snow; the hare’s blood froze quickly. Some twisted bastard’s trap has sawed off one of the animal’s legs.
    My bear spirit snarls. The growl escapes my chest into the night. This trap was within my property. All that I hold dear is in my cabin two hundred yards away; I will not let her be harmed. And this isn’t the first time I’ve been faced with an enchanted trap.
    I have to find whoever is setting glamoured bear traps around my Icy Cap community. Hunting is a way of life three hundred miles north of the Artic Circle. But this trap, like the others, was set to cause maximum suffering before death. And for what? To harvest a “lucky” rabbit’s foot? Certainly, from the hare’s perspective nothing good came of it. No, there was some deeper purpose, but I don’t yet know what.
    After separating the victim from its snare, I carry both toward my cabin. Even though it is hidden behind thick clouds, the full moon’s tug on my bear spirit is there. No doubt about it; I want to kill the perpetrator. It’s all I can do not to shift right now and begin my search. But first I have to stop by the cabin. If only to reassure myself of Meg’s safety.
    Around the side of my cabin, I hang the trap on a high hook. Disposing of the hare is a bigger problem. This amount of ill magic is no threat to my bear, but I don’t want small scavengers sickened by the tainted meat. I’ll carry it with me to the sea and dispose of it there. With any luck, the weather will break in the next day or so. My bear spirit strains for release. Keeping it tethered drains me.
    As I round to the front of my cabin, the hair on the back of my neck prickles. Another ice bear charges out of the blizzard, heading straight for me. The bear somersaults forward, shifting from four legs and eight hundred pounds of ice bear to two hundred pounds of my cousin, Tristan.
    With his muscular build and strong jaw, Tristan carries the Barlow family traits of arrogance and impatience. No doubt this is why he’s an excellent law student down in Fairbanks most of the time. Since childhood, his once fair hair has darkened to light brown. Maybe there’s hope for the rest of him to grow up too. Or maybe not.
    Show-off.
    But Tristan wouldn’t be here tonight unless there was trouble. Neither the hare nor I is having any luck today.

2
    Meg
    S etting the last photo in place, I step back to study my work. The lone table in the cabin, a long pine slab, is covered with colored paper debris. It looks like a craft store vomited.
    None of that matters, though. I push the paper, scissors, glue, glitter, and stickers aside to create more space. The final scrapbook page has one picture centered and matted with contrasting shades of blue paper. A blond man, shirtless and wielding an ax, stands grinning next to a woodpile. Ash Barlow, in all his glory, is splitting wood in a blizzard. Crazy shifter.
    The background of the photo is dark, fuzzy with snow. Nothing is clear about the