The generator casing rattles, angry and unstable, like it’s seconds from exploding.
This is bad.
Really bad.
I reach for the panel, fingers trembling, telling myself I just need to open it, just need to look—a large hand clamps down on my shoulder.
Hard.
I’m yanked backward, spun away from the generator, and I scream—full-throated, panicked, the sound ripped out of me before I can stop it.
“Willow! It’s me!”
The voice cuts through the roar of the wind and my fear at the same time.
Two hands grip my shoulders now, steady, unmovable. I look up, heart slamming so hard it hurts.
For one horrible, gut-wrenching moment, I think it’s Dan.
That he found me.
That he dragged himself all this way just to pull me back into the life I barely escaped.
My vision blurs.
But no.
It’s nothim.
It’s Thatcher.
Snow-dusted.
Breath steaming in the cold.
Eyes wild and focused and furious in a way that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with keeping me alive.
“Oh—thank God,” I sob, the strength draining out of me all at once.
My knees buckle, and he catches me before I hit the ground.
“Shit,” he mutters, already turning me toward the cabin. “I have to put out the fire. Go. Grab a bag—just essentials.”
He doesn’t ask.
He commands.
And I obey.
Not because I’m afraid of him.
Because I trust him.
I run to do as he says.
Inside, my hands are clumsy, numb with cold and adrenaline as I grab my backpack and shove things into it—toothbrush, clothes, phone charger—anything I can get my hands on.
I don’t have much, and that fact punches me right in the chest.
