“Almost there,” she said. “Come on. Just a little further.”
She reached for the door with her free hand and hammered on it with her fist hard enough to sting.
“HENRY!” Her voice rang through the storm. “HENRY, OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR! NOW!”
For a heartbeat nothing happened. The world tilted. Then the door yanked inward, warm air spilling over us like a blessing.
Henry’s frame filled the entryway, eyes going from confusion to horror in half a second when he took in the scene: Chrissy, shaking and wild-eyed; me, drenched in blood down one side; the trail of red on the ice behind us.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “What the fuck?—”
“Help him,” Chrissy snapped, cutting him off. “He’s been stabbed. The other two are in the barn. They’re dead as fuck, and that’s a problem, but help Ben first. Worry about the mess later.”
Henry’s gaze darted to mine.
I saw it in his eyes… the questions, the judgment, the I told you so. He’d warned me about this game. About pushing too far. About thinking I could control every variable and not have it all explode in my face.
I didn’t have the energy to argue.
“Boss?” he asked quietly.
“Later,” I ground out. “Getherwarm. Then… we’ll deal with the rest.”
“Like hell,” she said. “We’re gettingyoupatched up first.”
Henry’s brows shot up at the steel in her tone. He stepped aside to let us in.
As they dragged me over the threshold, the warmth of the house hit my exposed skin and made the pain flare hotter. I sucked in a breath and felt my knees give.
They both grabbed me at once — Henry under one arm, Chrissy under the other — keeping me upright through sheer, furious force of will.
The last thing I saw before my vision started to go fuzzy at the edges was Chrissy’s face, set and determined, curls wild around her shoulders, cheeks flushed with cold and rage and something that looked an awful lot like fear.
Not for herself, but for me.
I didn’t deserve it, didn’t deserve her, didn’t deserve the way she was fighting for me when I was the one who’d put her in the wolves’ path.
The hallway blurred. The floor seemed to tilt. Voices went echoey, like they were coming from the end of a tunnel.
Somewhere far away, I heard her again, shouting my name, shouting for Henry, for towels, for a first aid kit, for something, her voice cracking on curses and commands.
I let my eyes close for a second. Just one.
If I lived through this, I knew one thing with a cold, brutal certainty. The storm outside was nothing compared to what was coming for me, for this game, and for us when Chrissy finally learned the whole, ugly truth, and I had no idea if even bleeding for her like this would be enough to save me when it hit.
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
BEN
December 16, 11:47 AM
I surfacedfrom the dark oblivion of unconsciousness like I was crawling out of a frozen grave. My eyelids were so heavy I didn’t bother trying to open them at first. The first thing I registered was the ache in my side, where Brett had stabbed me.
Pain dragged low on my ribs, dull and stitched tight, tugging every time I breathed too deep. With monumental effort, I forced my eyes open. I was in my bedroom in the west wing, greeted by the familiar slant of the ceiling beams, the heavy pine scent of the old wood, and the faint crackle of the fire Henry must have kept going. Someone — Henry, if I had to guess — had bandaged my side with clean gauze pulled from the medical kit he always kept stocked and ready. The man was nothing if not prepared at all times; he’d had full trauma supplies on hand since the day I came home from the hospital.
The scent of fresh antiseptic hit my nose like a slap. It smelled exactly like the hospital back when I woke up from the coma. I squeezed my eyes shut. My heart stuttered, then pounded hardagainst the stitches. Air felt suddenly thin, impossible. Chest tightening, ribs locking, the old terror clawing up?—
