Chapter thirteen
Iheard him before I saw him.
Footsteps crunching through snow. Heavy breathing. The unmistakable sound of someone who'd been pushing too hard for too long, running on fumes and stubbornness.
I turned, and there he was.
James. Climbing the ridge behind me, pack too big for any sane person, face red from cold and exertion, wearing a bright blue jacket that probably cost more than my entire kit.
The hum roared to life.
For one suspended moment, we just stared at each other. Him breathing hard, me frozen in place, the wind whipping between us like it was trying to keep us apart.
Then the shock broke, and fury flooded in.
"What thehellare you doing here?"
He stopped a few feet away, bent over with his hands on his knees, gasping. "Following you."
"I can see that.Why?"
"Because you left." He straightened up, and his eyes found mine—brown and steady and absolutely, infuriatingly calm. "Without telling anyone. Without saying goodbye. You just disappeared."
"I left a note."
"You left two notes. One fake, one real." He pulled something from his pocket—a folded piece of paper, creased and worn. My note to Ivy. The real one. "I found this."
My stomach dropped. "You went through my things?"
"Ivy showed me. After I told her the first note was wrong."
"How would you know—"
"Because I know you." He said it simply, like it was obvious. Like knowing me was the easiest thing in the world. "You don't go to med centers when you're sick. You don't leave casual notes. And you don't disappear without a reason."
The wind picked up, driving ice crystals against my face. I turned away from him, facing north, where the mountains waited.
"Go back, James."
"No."
"This isn't a game. You have no idea what you've walked into."
"Then tell me."
I laughed—harsh, bitter. "I can't."
"Can't or won't?"
"Does it matter?" I spun back to face him, anger and fear and something sharper tangling in my chest. "You shouldn't be here. You're not prepared for this. You don't have the right gear, you don't have the training, you don't have—"
“I have you.”
The words hit like a physical blow.
I stared at him. He stared back, unflinching, that stubborn set to his jaw I’d learned to recognize over weeks of watching him refuse to give up on me.
“That’s not enough,” I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted. “James, people die out here. Experienced climbers with years of training and the best equipment money can buy. They die, and no one finds them until spring, and sometimes not even then.”
