The wind whips against my face as I adjust my goggles. Jake would’ve loved this view. He used to drag me up slopes in Aspen when I was twelve, with me complaining the whole way while he went on and on about proper ski techniques.
“Come on, baby bug,” he’d say, ruffling my hair through my hat. “You think I’m letting my little sister embarrass me on the bunny slopes forever?”
My throat tightens, the memory sharp and sudden, like the bite of the cold air. Back then, I’d hated his bossy older-brother energy, but now I’d give anything to hear his teasing again. To feel that effortless joy he carried, the way he made the world seem lighter just by being in it.
I shift my weight on my skis, glancing over my shoulder at the lodge far below. Leonid and Maksim are down at the lodge, locked in what I’m sure is some intense discussion about whatever envelope Maksim brought. Leonid’s expression when Maksim handed it over earlier was unreadable. Frustratingly so. I shake off the thought, refusing to let it ruin this. Whatever’s in that envelope can wait. Right now, I have snow, skis, and a sliver of freedom.
I unclip at the summit, pushing off with my poles. The first rush of speed hits, and everything else falls away. Wind hisses past my ears. My skis cut through fresh powder, each turn sending up a spray of white.
Freedom tastes like mountain air.
I lean into the next curve, muscle memory taking over despite the years. Left, right, left. The world narrows to just this—speed and snow and sky. No Leonid. No revenge. No dead brother haunting my dreams.
Just me and the mountain.
The snow sprays around me as I lean into a turn, the mountain opening up below like a canvas. Everything is vast, open, endless—a stark contrast to the walls that have been closing in around me lately. Jake’s voice echoes in my head again, his laughter, his teasing, his stubborn belief that I could do anything if I just stopped overthinking.
“Respect the mountain,” he’d said once, serious for a moment, standing with his hands on his hips as he surveyed the endless white. “It’s big, sure. But it’s not bigger than you.”
I hit a stretch of powder so soft it feels like gliding through clouds, my chest tightening again—not from sadness this time, but from something brighter. I wish he were here to see this. To see me now.
As the slope levels out, I let myself slow, savoring the ache in my muscles and the warmth spreading through my body from the effort. Below, the lodge is a speck in the distance, and I know Elijah’s lesson is probably wrapping up. But I can’t stop yet. Not yet.
I glance at the lift and decide on one more run. Just one. A little longer to stay in this moment, this freedom. I head toward the next gondola, the snow crunching under my skis. But as I step into line, something catches my attention—two men standing off to the side, too far from the main area to be casual tourists.
“What the fuck?” I mutter through my mask.
They’re dressed wrong for the mountain, in dark coats instead of ski gear, their stances stiff and deliberate. One of them scans the area, his eyes sharp and calculating. A chill runs through me, colder than the air around me.
I keep my pace steady, casual, pretending not to notice as I step into the gondola. But my stomach knots, my instincts humming with that familiar, unwelcome tension. Whatever they’re here for, it’s not skiing.
The gondola creaks shut, and I force myself to sit calmly, my poles resting across my lap like nothing’s wrong. But when I peek through the small window, it’s clear—they’re not just heading to the lift, they’re tracking me, every movement measured, every glance calculated. It’s like their entire world has narrowed down to a single point, and that point is me.
My stomach churns.
These fuckers are not here to enjoy the mountain.
I tug at my gloves, feigning nonchalance, but every muscle in my body is tense.
Maybe it’s just in my head, right?
Maybe they’re just— Fuck no. I’ve been down this road before. I know when I’m being sized up, when people’s eyes are picking me apart. And it’s fucking clear to me now, these eyes, they’re not friendly. They mean harm, and I’d be a goddamn idiot to ignore them.
The gondola lurches upward, and I glance out again. They’re not waiting in line like normal skiers. They’re bypassing the crowd, talking to a lift operator. One of them gestures toward my gondola. The operator hesitates but eventually nods.
“What the fuck?” I mutter again. My fingers tighten around the poles until they creak under the pressure.
The gondola sways, rising toward the summit, and I shift to look down. The slopes sprawl out below me, quiet and empty this late in the afternoon. Too empty. My chest tightens as I scan for an exit plan. By the time I reach the top, they’ll be behind me.
I need to stay ahead.
Think, Clara.
The gondola bumps to a stop, and I don’t waste a second. As soon as the doors open, I push off, my skis digging into the snow. The slope is steep here, a sharp drop before leveling out, and I lean into it, letting gravity do the work.
Wind tears at my face.
I can’t shake the prickle at the back of my neck. Something feels off. I glance over my shoulder, and my stomach flips.
