Jake.

"Bells," He bolted awake and half fell out of his bunk. He shook himself and glanced around. Sunrise. He pressed eyes closed, waiting. Please. His wolf tensed, searching for her, across the bond they'd made. And then he found her warmth.

Jake, come home.

It was haunting echo that warmed his skin. His heart rate slowed and he grabbed his notebook. 270 days and she was still alive. He frowned, glaring at the lines of tally marks. Why was she still alive? "What game are you bastards playing?" he muttered under his breath.

"Hey, kid," a graveled old voice hollered into the bunk house. "Get your lazy Indian ass up."

"Fuck you, Danjo," he growled back.

"Kiss my ass, Sitting Bull."

Jacob tossed aside his notebook and almost grinned. Whoever said Canadians were generally friendly and welcoming had never met Danjo Peters. Or loggers in general. Most days Jake didn't mind it. The work was hard, but the money was fair, and no one gave enough shits to ask him too many questions. He was strong, he didn't get sick, and he kept his mouth shut. He rolled to his feet, yanked on his grimy pair of jeans, his discarded flannel shirt, and his work boots, his stomach growling. He'd earned his right to be there and mostly the other loggers left him alone. All except Danjo.

"Asshat," Jacob shoved past the old man.

"How many days is it today?"

The question slammed into Jacob hard enough to stop him in his tracks. He glanced over his shoulder back at Danjo, who now held the little notebook. Jacob had forgotten to stash it back in his bunk.

"Give me that." It was a low threatening command, laced in a forceful echo that sank into a person's bones.

Danjo raised his eyebrows, his face paling. "Watch your mouth, Squanto."

"Try me, old man," Jacob turned and let the full force of his height and muscle loom down on the older man. He was used to Danjo's slurs and usually he didn't pay him any mind. The man was a mean cuss to everyone. But this was too far. "Say one more word," Jacob growled. "I dare you."

Danjo flinched back, stumbling a little and Jacob snatched the book from the man's hands.

"Who is she?" Danjo tried to sound as if he hadn't almost shit his pants. But his voice shook. "That chick."

"She's my—" But he couldn't finish.

On a good day, Jacob pretended the picture taped inside the front cover wasn't there. It was a half-fuzzy thing he'd found on the Forks Gazette website, and hated himself for printing. On bad days, when the worry and guilt and fear gutted him from the inside out, until he thought he would explode into his wolf form at the slightest irritation, Jacob would sit and stare at her picture. Bells. He would remember her quiet smile, the strawberry-sage scent of her hair, the cold delicate feel of her body against his, and the sad shadow in her eyes. Sometimes that helped. Most of the time it didn't.

Danjo narrowed his eyes. "Your what?"

"Mine." His wolf snarled inside, itching to be let loose from the tight grip Jacob kept him under. mine. mine. mine. His best friend, his heart, his mate, his Bells. "She was mine."

"So she dumped you."

"I guess so."

"She cheat on you?"

Jacob almost smiled at that. But he shook his head slowly. "Not quite."

"Bitch," Danjo snapped and shuffled past him. "Let her go, kid. You're worth ten of her."

mine. His wolf growled, but Jacob said nothing. A year ago he would've said he was worth nothing without her. A stupid, lovestruck idiot kid. He was still stupid, and still an idiot, he just wasn't lovestruck anymore. He wasn't a kid either. That kind of love was for a boy with nothing but time, and hormones to burn, with his whole life ahead of him, with hope and dreams and plans. Jacob had grown up too fast to be that skinny ass teenage boy who was stupid in love with his childhood best friend. He might be barely nineteen but he felt ninety. Ninety-year-old men don't break their hearts or their lives over a woman. But that doesn't mean they stop loving her either. His wolf growled again. mine.

I love you, Bells.