“—needs the kind of temperature that doesn’t involve frostbite.” I zip up our bag and sling it over my shoulder. “We’re going.”
The wind shrieks against the windows as if it wants to argue.
I tighten Violet’s scarf, brush a curl from her face, and try to pretend I’m not silently begging the universe to cut us a break.
Just one.
“Mom?” she asks softly. “Is it safe?”
“As long as we take it slow,” I promise. “And stick to the plowed path.”
She bites her lip. “Do you think he’ll let us in?”
I don’t know. I hate that I don’t know.
“He will,” I say, because she needs me to be certain even when I’m not. “He’s grumpy, not heartless.”
Violet grabs her backpack. “Okay.”
We step outside. The cold slams into us, vicious and immediate, cutting straight through fabric and muscle. Snow blows so thick the porch disappears behind us after three steps.
I grip Violet’s hand tightly.
“Ready?” I ask.
She nods.
And somewhere between the wind and my own reluctant frustration, a single thought pulses through me:
Please be home. Please open the door. Please don’t be the man you were yesterday.
I don’t pray often.
But for this?
I swear under my breath.
“Of all the cabins in Silver Ridge,” I mutter into the storm, “we have to go to his.”
Violet snorts. “Maybe he won’t remember you.”
“Oh, he’ll remember,” I say grimly. “I dragged him out of an avalanche. I think that sticks with people.”
She laughs, just a little.
And we keep walking toward the cabin with the only generator in miles.
The cabin belonging to a man I should never need.
A man I’m about to ask for help. A man who looked at me like he wished he were still buried in the snow.
I swear again, louder this time, letting the wind steal the word away before Violet can hear it.
“Jax,” I mutter bitterly. “This better be worth it.”
Chapter Seven
Jax
