He nods. He’s still looking outside, at the darkness, like the mountains out there are calling to him. The most descriptive thing I’d found about it was a single footnote in an old article.Francois Montclair’s two sons caught in avalanche accident in the Swiss Alps, claiming the life of one.
That’s it. A footnote, and a tragedy.
My hand brushes down, over the edge of the ragged scar along the side of his torso. The one I noticed during his massage, all those weeks ago, when his eyes told me not to ask.
“You were hurt,” I say.
“I survived.” His muscles shift beneath my cheek. “That’s more than I deserved.”
“Don’t say that.”
He shakes his head again. I don’t think I’ve ever related to him more than I do in this moment. Of that feeling of being strung tight but having nowhere to release it.More than I deserved.Why would he think that?
“Do you dream of that night?” I ask. “Anyone would. I can’t imagine… Were you trapped?”
He makes a small noise of assent. His breathing is slowing beneath my hands. I have no idea if this hug is helping him, but he’s helped me through panic attacks before, and I’m not about to let go.
“For how long?”
“Thirty-five minutes,” he mutters, so low I barely make it out.
My hand brushes over his scar again. I know the feeling of being trapped in my own skin. The idea of being caught beneath a blanket of snow, of being injured and only a child…
“I’m glad you survived,” I say. It’s hard to imagine the fear involved in that experience. Thank God he made it out.
Rafe slowly turns in my arms, damp from the raindrops he’s let in. “Don’t be kind to me. Not right now. I can’t fucking bear it.”
“Then don’t say that you didn’t deserve to survive.”
“It’s the truth,” he mutters, and pulls me against his bare chest. “This chalet used to have such good memories. It’s had some since then, too. But when it’s too quiet here, all I can think of are the days… after.”
“After the avalanche?” I ask.
Maybe I shouldn’t have said the word out loud. But he doesn’t seem to mind, his arms tightening around me. “Yes. Coming back here from the hospital and seeing his room, his stuff. His copy ofThe Lord of the Ringswas lying by his bed. He’d made it to chapter thirty-four. His bookmark was this dumb note I’d passed him in the car a few weeks earlier.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
He shakes his head above me. “Don’t. I was on that mountain too. I should’ve… I could’ve… Just don’t.”
A faint cough racks through me. He immediately takes a step to the side with me in his arms, away from the window. “Shit. You shouldn’t be here, getting cold.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re sick.”
“I’m fine.”
He shakes his head. “Get back to bed.”
“Only if you’re coming, too.” I step out of his arms and close the window behind him, shutting out the dark-clad mountains and rain. Last time he had a nightmare, it wasn’t as bad as this. But it seemed like talking helped. So I keep my voice calm. “Do you want to tell me more about him? What was he like?”
“Perfect,” Rafe says, and there’s dryness in his tone. He’s standing a few feet away. Between the window and the bed, in nothing but a pair of sweats and mussed hair.
“Perfect?”
“Yeah. My parents were preparing him to take over Maison Valmont.” He looks at me, and it seems to shake him from whatever stillness has struck him. He lifts up the covers to the bed. “Come on.”
“Was he funny?”
