“Mine,” he said with absolute certainty. He was out of breath now, from the taste and the feel of her against him. “I should have done this months ago.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He let out a pained chuckle. “You scared me. I was afraid of what would happen.” His body eased forward, every muscle and cell commandeered by this overpowering attraction, until there was no distance between them, no way to step back and examine this.
“And now?” She sounded like she’d been running.
“Now?” He nudged her head to the side and nuzzled her neck through the fabric again, wishing he could get to her skin and taste her. “I’m terrified.”
* * *
Day 5—219 Miles to Volkov Station—17 Days of Food Remaining
Angel woke up on a shudder, breathing hard, as if she’d run, every hair on her body standing up. She worked hard, in the dark of the sleeping bag, to catch her breath, but something was off.
There. A sound, in the distance, like—
“Ford.” She whispered his name, for some reason, and shook him.
“Yeah.” Though still a scratchy, sandpaper scrape, his voice was immediately awake.
“I heard something.”
He fumbled above their heads and let in the light, along with a good dose of bracing, subzero air. It sent a penetrating shock straight to her lungs.
Their breath was visible now, even in their nest, a conjoined vapor cloud rising out of their mummy tomb. No, not a tomb—abed.
He shifted, cocked his head to the side, and listened, eyes alert.
Nothing.
“Still hear it?”
She shook her head.
“Describe it.”
“A buzzing. Like insects or…”
“An engine?”
“Yeah.” She eyed him, hoping he’d show no signs of worry. Just as she opened her mouth to suggest that it might have been her imagination, he unzipped the bag.
“Let’s get moving.”
Quickly and quietly, they readied themselves, skipping the hot breakfast part of the day, but by necessity warming water for drinking. Angel stretched out her knee, which felt frozen at a ninety-degree angle.
“How is it?”
“Stiff.”
When she’d finished, Ford shoved a stick of butter at her. “Eat it all. We need to hurry.”
“You don’t think they’re—”
“Can’t risk it.” Which meant hedidthink that plane was out there searching for them. “We’re a needle in a haystack out here. They’ve got no idea where we’re headed or which path we’ve taken, so these are random flybys. But they could get lucky.”
And if that happens, we’re as good as dead.
