She’s ten yards back, clutching the strap of the canvas bag I let her carry. I have the heavy stuff—her survival gear, the few clothes she grabbed—slung over my shoulder like it weighs nothing. To me, it does. But she looks like she’s trudging through quicksand.
"I'm barely moving, Avery," I say, dropping my voice an octave to cut under the wind.
"You have legs like tree trunks," she snaps, breathless. She wipes wet hair out of her face, leaving a streak of mud across her pale cheek. "Your casual stroll is a sprint for normal-sized people."
"Normal people don't buy rotted-out shacks on the blind side of a ridge in November."
"It has potential," she argues, though her teeth chatter.
"It has termites and a draft that could freeze a bear. Keep moving."
I turn back around, but I don't speed up. I slow down, senses expanding outward. The woods are dark, the sun long gone behind the peaks. The temperature drops fast. Rain hisses as it hits the ground, turning from liquid to ice pellets.
Perfect.
If we don't get to my cabin in ten minutes, the hypothermia I saw edging into her blue eyes back at her place will set in for real. I adjust the pack on my shoulder. Bringing her was a mistake. Ishould have fixed her door, lit her fire, and left her there with a stern warning.
But the thought of leaving her alone in that fragile box of timber while the storm hammered down refused to sit right. It felt like leaving a gate unlatched in wolf country.
"Ow!"
The cry is sharp. The heavy thud of a body hitting the earth follows immediately.
I spin on my heel, closing the distance before the echo dies. Avery is on the ground, tangled in a mess of exposed roots and mud. She tries to push herself up, but her foot is caught at an awkward angle in the gnarled wood of an old oak.
"Stop thrashing," I command, crouching beside her.
"I slipped," she gasps. Pain etches tight around her eyes. "I'm fine. I just... I can't get my foot loose."
"I said stop moving."
My hands find her before I think about it. I grip her calf, my gloves soaked but my hold sure. Her leg feels fragile beneath the layers of denim, like bird bones wrapped in silk. I stabilize her ankle with one hand and use the other to wrench the root structure apart. Wood groans against my strength until the gap widens enough to free her boot.
"Does it hurt?" I run my hand down to the joint, checking for swelling even through the leather.
"It's just twisted," she says, her voice trembling. "I can walk."
"Doubtful."
"I can," she insists, trying to scramble up.
Her leg buckles the second she puts weight on it.
I don't let her hit the ground this time. I catch her.
My arm hooks around her waist, hauling her upright. The momentum slams her chest against mine. The impact knocks the air out of her, a soft whoosh of breath that ghosts across my neck.
For a second, neither of us moves.
The sleet pecks at our jackets and the wind roars in the canopy, but silence reigns in my head.
Her size hits me first. I knew she was short—the top of her head barely clears my chest—but holding her like this, pressed flush against the wall of my body, the softness of her overwhelms me. She’s compact and resilient, a fierce light wrapped in a fragile frame, molding against my hardness in a way that feels dangerous.
My hand on her waist tightens. Fingers dig into her coat, feeling the dip of her hip bone. She trembles, but the cold isn't the only cause anymore. The frantic thrum of her pulse beats against my ribs.
She looks up at me. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown so huge they swallow the blue.
"Oliver," she whispers. It sounds like a prayer. Or a plea.
